Category Archives: Dan Branch

Nest Fights

Leave a reply

This morning we have wind-driven rain and a sky full of swarming scavengers. Just a few meters above the tree tops ravens and eagles juke away from and dive on each other. The ravens are making all the noise. Hampered by my rain-spotted glasses I first assume that a raven gang is trying to drive one eagle away from the forest and the river beach it fronts.  After wiping the glasses down with a handkerchief, I can see more than one eagle.

In less than a month, king salmon will rest in nearby river eddies before making their final push to the spawning grounds. Pink, chum, and silver salmons will follow. For most of the summer, the nutrient-rich carcasses of spawned out salmon will drift up onto the beach. Ravens and eagles tough enough to establish nests along the beach will have more than enough food for their chicks.

Eagles are doing most of the nest building. One eagle tries to keep a clump of old man’s beard lichen in its beak as it barrel rolls to escape two ravens. A third eagles takes advantage of the distraction to carry a cottonwood twig to its nest site. The members of the two bird clans are having a free-for-all fight over nest building materials. 

Mellow Swans

Leave a reply

Aki stands staring at two trumpeter swans that feed in a sliver of open water on Moose Lake. Her tail is up but she doesn’t bark. The swans, only a meter away from her, continue to search for food in the calm manner they showed when we first spotted them.

            A screen of alders prevented me from seeing Aki approach the swans or I would never have let her go so close to the tired looking birds. I would have kept closer tabs on the little poodle-mix if not distracted by a stream of water drops pouring off the beak of a third swan that swam a few meters away from Aki’s brace.  

            Because of their massive size, few animals prey on swans. Trumpeters are the largest waterfowl in North America. Their wingspan exceeds two meters. Humans could bring them down with a well-aimed shotgun but that would break federal law. This might explain why the much-hunted mallards usually fly off in a panic when we approach but swans just ignore us. 

            This morning a brace of mallards paddle tight circles around one of the feeding swans. The mallard hen gives me a hard stare, then returns her attention to the swan. The ducks must be feeding on scraps that fall from the swans’ beaks or eating food stirred up as the swans dredge the lake bottom with their massive beaks. 

One Last Ski to the River

Leave a reply

Wondering if we can ski all the way to the river, I lead Aki past Skater’s Cabin and onto the still-snow-covered beach of Mendenhall Lake. The snow is softer than yesterday but still firm enough for skiing. Like yesterday, we have the place to ourselves. 

            Aki rolls in the snow and then plants her face in it. Holding a handful of the coarse-grained stuff is like holding a handful of cold sand. Crush it and you have an ice cube rather than a snow ball. 

            I ski parallel to yesterday’s tracks, surprised to see the tops of rocks poking up through them. On the way to the river, my skis break through a snow bridge over a narrow stream. Thanks to expanding bare spots along the river, I will have to carry my skis a longer distance than yesterday.  

            We pass divots in the snow formed by light, fallen objects rather than rocks. Sun heated things leaves, feathers, and tangles of tree lichen have melted the snow where they came to rest. I remember visit I made this time of year to Grayling on the Alaskan portion of the Yukon River. An Athabaskan man was scattering wood stove ash onto a bulldozer sized patch of snow. When I asked him why, he dug down until he struck the yellow-colored cab of a small Caterpillar earth mover. 

Safe Social Distancing

Leave a reply

It’s already 10 degrees Celsius and the sun’s been up for hours. Good thing I can hike in these ski boots, little dog. Aki, who knows she will get in a walk one way or another, doesn’t care what kind of boots I pull on this morning. After securing her in the car and fasten skis and poles on the roof top carrier, I drive out to Mendenhall Lake.  A lot of snow covered the shore two days ago. Maybe we can still ski along the beach. 

            The warm, sunny weather has drawn people away from their home shelters. Cars fill the Fred Meyers parking lot. More head out Glacier Highway to drive thirty miles to the end of the road system and return. I expect to find the lake shore crowded with people escaping quarantine. But the Skater’s Cabin lot is empty as is the lake. This is almost as surprising as trail conditions. The temperature dropped below freezing last night long enough for a thick crust to form on the beach snow. 

            The little dog trots behind as I sneak onto the lake ice to skirt a bare spot in the beach. It holds, even offers good skiing. I think, for a few seconds, of leaving the safe, solid shore for the freedom offered on the lake ice. We could ski all the way to the glacier free from people and virus worries—establishing a social distance of six kilometers rather than the two meters we must struggle to maintain at the grocery store. But breaking through the lake ice far from help could create a social distance I could not close without becoming a ghost. 

            We return to shore and ski again to the river where mallards sunbathe on the snowy banks. Some fly further downstream when we approach. Most just ignore the little dog and I. The even ignore the martial sound of an avalanche crashing down the flank of Bullard Mountain.

Soft Beauty

Leave a reply

Wanting at least one more chance to ski, I drive through the rain to Mendenhall Lake. We have it to ourselves. Fog and clouds obscure the glacier and mountains. Spruce covered peninsulas appear and disappear in the moving gloam. Aki breaks through the snow crust every fourth step while my skis keep me on top of it. For the first time all winter, I have it easier than the little dog. 

            At first, I am disappointed with the views. Then the glacier ghosts into view for a moment. The ice color deepens then fades. The glacier disappears. I can briefly make out the silhouette of a Canada goose and those of a raft of Canada geese. Then the soft power of the day returns. 

            We ski over to the river and follow it to a section broken into channels by rocky islands. It’s a place of eddies that trap food for mallards and swans. I count 9 trumpeter and (I think) 2 tundra swans.  They must be new arrivals, taking a break from their northern migration. The trumpeters have formed a community on one of the islands. Resident mallard ducks crowd up close to them. Downriver, the two tundra swans cuddle off a snowy point. 

Turquoise Ice

Leave a reply

Yesterday, after the fog burned off, Aki’s other human and I rode our bicycles to Sheep Creek. We enjoyed blue skies and a summer time temperature of 16 degrees Celsius. After his one-day visit, summer left with the sun, driven south by rain. The temperature dropped 12 degrees. We are back on skis with Aki in tow. 

            Only one car occupies the Skater’s Cabin parking lot when we arrive. It belongs to a dog walker that leaves as we carry our skis to the lake. We felt lucky to find a parking place on our last visit. We find Mendenhall Lake covered with turquoise colored ice. Snow, in some places more than 30 cm thick, still blankets the beach. Made just soft enough by the rain, the snow provides us great skiing. 

            After taking a few snow baths, Aki falls in behind me as we head toward the river. We visited with a family of swans several times on the river this spring. As I search for them, a northern harrier drops from the top of a spruce and glides across the river. Other than the resident mallards, the harrier will be the only bird we will see until just before we leave the river for the woods. Then our thee swans will appear from behind a downriver bend and fly away to the north.

Lifting Fog

1 Reply

Thick fog slowed our drive to the Fish Creek trailhead. But I am not hurry.I want to arrive at the creek mouth just as the fog lifts like a curtain. I’d settle for a chance to watch it tear itself apart on the spruce-covered Douglas Island Ridge. 

            Through a screen of alders, we can hear mallards cackling on meadow of dead grass. Wisps of fog rise up from around the ducks. A large raft of male golden-eye duck have taken over the pond. The most aggressive drakes try to drive the others away from a huddle of hens. On a quieter edge of the pond, two other golden-eyes paddle with the tranquility of an old married couple. 

            The fog thickens when we leave the pond. I start slow-walking my way toward the mouth, doddling often, seeing little. Several song sparrows cheer us with their short, but sweet melodies. Aki shows me the patience of a care giver at a senior citizen center. 

            The fog defeats my attempts to photograph with its gray cloak. Two eagles appear out of the muck, then disappear into a tangle of spruce limbs. Then the wind rises, stirring the occluding ground layer as the sun burns away fog that seconds before had blocked out view of the Mendenhall Towers.  

April is the Cruelest Month

Leave a reply
The meadow before the April Thaw

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape—the loneliness of it—the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it—the whole story doesn’t show.

                                                                        American painter Andrew Wyeth

For winter lovers like Wyeth and I, April can be the cruelest month. Not, as T.S. Elliot suggests, because we feel out of sync with the joyful explosion of spring. Elliot’s spirits apparently fell as the sap rose in the English countryside. It is because April begins by melting the simplifying snow and ends by hiding the bone structure of the land with new leaves.

This morning, while I struggle across softening snow on Gastineau Meadow, Aki stops often to discover smells hidden all winter. The whole meadow has become an antique store of smells. She stops, sniffs, digs a bit with her right paw, sniffs again, pees. Just yesterday I could have strolled across the meadow on frozen crust. No clouds would have complicated the simple lines of the surrounding mountains. No rain collected in the tracks of deer that crossed just before we arrived. We were free to move across the uncomplicated landscape over snow that protected the cores of wildflowers, berries, and sun dews from winter winds. 

Easter Meadow

Leave a reply

This post describes a walk yesterday, Easter Sunday.

            This meadow was not my first venue choice. I wanted to walk with the dog along a beach offering views of the Chilkat Mountains and maybe the Mendenhall Glacier. But cars overflowed the beach trails parking lots. On a normal Easter Sunday, many trail users would be sitting in church, looking pretty in pastel ties or dresses. The pandemic closed our churches. This morning broke with springtime blue skies and strong sun. Are people worshipping with families under open skies? 

            Now we walk alone on an unnamed meadow. It offers mountain views. From the top of  a mound of glacial erratics (large boulders dropped haphazardly by a retreating glacier) I can make out the tips of the Chilkats poking above a line of spruce trees. The meadows also offers solitude. At first we only share it with eagles, ravens, and blue jays. Then the sound of squealing children floats over the snow-covered ground from the eastern edge of the meadow. 

Aki is searching for her Frisbee, which, thanks to an errant throw, is hiding in a tangle of pines. The children must be searching for Easter eggs hidden by parents. I hope they find them all before the ravens do. 

Debating the Value of Traffic Noise

1 Reply

This meadow would be almost quiet if not for a nearby Glacier Highway. During breaks in traffic, Aki and I can hear siskins and junkos busy hunting in alders and damaged pines. A jagged line of mountain peaks show above the tops of a spruce forest that starts on the other side of the highway.

Dense snow covers the muskeg even though the temperature is already well above freezing. Aki rolls in the sugary snow as I study a straight line of tracks left by a large canine this morning. Should we follow what could be wolf tracks or pass through a screen of alders to visit a watercourse controlled by beavers? 

            Remembering the large beaver dam on the other side of the alders, I lead the little dog to a narrow but deep creek. Upstream is otter country. But recent warm weather has destroyed the otter’s slides. 

A few meters downstream is a beaver lodge mostly hidden by snow. Water cascading over the beaver dam blocks the road noise. I’m struck with the parallel of this meadow visit to a walk across land bordering a train line. When on trains in Europe, Britain, Scandinavia, or Japan, I find myself staring at these waste lands. Some look wild enough to shelter otters or badgers. On a ride through the Sami country of Sweden, a small herd of reindeer raced my train. Around cities, the railroad border lands have been divided into garden allotments. I imagine siting in the doorway of one of the little allotment shacks, sipping coffee from a thermos mug, watching tomatoes swell in the summer sun. 

Does the noise of rushing trains annoy an allotment gardener like today’s traffic noise bothered me, or does it carry away urban stress like a river, like spring melt rushing over a beaver dam?