Category Archives: Dan Branch

Sleeping in the Rain

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After 17 dry days the rain has returned to Southeast Alaska. You can almost hear the forest sigh with relief. I am doing the same. The rain has washed away a thin layer of glacier silt that covered the downtown streets and sidewalks. The rain may have discouraged other hikers from using the Dredge Lakes trail system. Alone, Aki and I move up a trail that parallels the Mendenhall River. On a clear day the trail offer views of the glacier and surrounding mountains. This morning only a sliver of the river of ice appears above the river. 

            Thanks to the recent stint of dry weather, a tributary normally too deep for us to cross has been reduced to a trickle. I take advantage and lead the little dog up a side slough to a section of the river we can rarely reach. Today it’s a hang out for mallards and merganser ducks. As we approach they fly off the beach in twos or threes and land a short ways off in the river. Soon the whole raft follows them. 

            After circling a large beaver den, we cut back through the woods to Moose Lake. While Aki rolls and rubs her face in a soft patch of trail snow I hear a bird with a powerful voice call “ko-hoh.” We move on, after an unsuccessful attempt to locate the caller,and reach the lake. Ice still covers most it. Two trumpeter swans float in a small patch of open water, their long necks stained brown by the muskeg water in which they recently fed. Now they sleep with their black beaks tucked into their back feathers. 

            One of the swans wakes up when my foot slips on some gravel. It looks at the little dog and me, then resumes its nap. I assume that they have just finished a leg of their northward migration. Now they must rest and feed before resuming their flight to the summer breeding grounds. 

            Aki and I meet two humans and their three dogs on our walk back to the car. When I mention the swans, they tell me that two swans were feeding on the lake last week. I wonder if our swans are the same birds, still recovering from the long flight or a newly arrived pair.

Poodle Odyssey

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I feel like Ulysses, Aki—Joyce’s Bloom, not Homer’s hero.  The poodle-mix, who has never shown any interest in literature, ignores me. Two rambunctious Labrador retrievers, rather than the Cyclops force us to take a more circuitous route to the mouth of Fish Creek, sending us on an extended odyssey. 
            Our slow road takes us past a huge beaver dam and around a small, landlocked pond.  Two bufflehead ducks and a tiny raft of mallards paddle nervously across the pond’s surface. One of the beavers pops up and crash dives when I look in its direction. Overhead two kingfishers battle for ownership of the pond. The victorious kingfisher roosts on a limb in the grove of dead spruce trees that surround the beaver’s den. 
            After circumnavigating the kingfisher’s pond, we take the proper path around Fish Creek pond and down to the creek mouth. Hundreds of mallards loaf on the beach and nearby waters. Near the little dog and I, a semipalmated plover darts from rock to rock and then takes flight.  Since my attention is on the little plover, I miss an eagle’s attempt to snatch a mallard from the creek mouth. The predator only manages to flush the mallards into flight. In seconds the ducks form a tight cloud that twists and turns in the air over the creek like a school of mackerel.  Seconds later, the mallards are back at the creek mouth listening to the eagle’s lament. 

Noise

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I wish that those Canada geese would shut up. Aki doesn’t react to my rude comment as she moves down the Boy Scout Beach Trail. The geese, a clutch of at least twenty, occupy a frosty hillside on the other side Eagle River. Most search for food. Several stand guard on the hilltop. They all contribute to the general den, sounding like barking dogs. 

            The sun just managed to clear the mountain ridge to the south. Perhaps the geese are cheering it on. Maybe they are gossiping or giving unnecessary warnings about Aki’s presence. 

             Wrens add to the din, as do two red-breasted sapsuckers hammering an alder with their beaks. The little dog and I leave the woodpeckers behind and use a shaded trail to reach a tidal meadow. No matter how far we walk, we can never escape the dog yard sound of the geese.  

            More Canada geese float on river eddies or rest on exposed gravel bars. They start barking the minute we reach the meadow. The resident flock of Canada geese have spread themselves out on both sides of the river.

 We won’t be free of geese chatter until we walk down Boy Scout Beach, swing back across the meadow, and return to the shaded trail. All the river birds will go silent when we leave the meadow. We will walk in silence, broken only by the roar of the river running over emerging rocks, until we are almost to the car. Men, not birds, will shatter the solitude, sharing their hunting stories. 

Not So Common

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Aki and I have the Outer Point Trail to ourselves this morning. I’m a little surprised given that we are enjoying another warm, sunny day.  I am more surprised by the appearance of a pair of mallards just a few feet away on the beaver pond. Lit up by the early morning sun, the drake looks like it was painted by Michelangelo. Even the hen looks stunning. Aki, why do I take mallards for granted?

            I expect the mallards to take flight but they hold their ground. While the male watches us, the hen stretches and preens her feathers. Maybe they will nest on the pond after the ice melts and opens up the remote parts of the little water body.  The jackhammer sound of a sapsucker draws us away from the mallards. The little woodpecker is as hard to spot as the mallards were not. 

            We work our way out to the beach and are surprised again by ducks. This time it’s harlequins. The little clowns jockey for position on the water, like they are settling in for another summer. I thought that they’d be on the outer coast by now. 

            Aki ignores all the ducks but is quick to react to the arrival of a dog on the beach. She and the new guy sniff and chase each other for a minute and then form a team to case the beach for smells. It takes the other dog’s owner a long time to convince him to rejoin her. 

            Aki’s new friend must have flushed the mallards from the beaver pond. We find them hunting for food on a sluggish stream deep in the forest. Again, they ignore the little dog and I. Rather than take offense, I am pleased at this exhibition of trust. 

A Satisfying Thunk

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Aki and I move south along the shore of Mendenhall Lake. At first I stick to the beach, slipping and sliding on pebbles and old snow that has been compacted into ice. More often than not I walk in sunlight. Aki follows a nearby forest path, which offers shade, soft mossy footing, and more interesting smells. Since I left home without a hat I soon have to join her in the woods. 

            White, fragile ice still covers the lake. We head toward the place where the Mendenhall River leaves the lake for its short journey to the sea. On a warm spring day like this, the river current should be keeping at least part of the lake ice-free. We’ve seen ducks and even geese take advantage of the open water. 

            While we head toward the river, two boys ride their bikes past Skater’s Cabin and onto the beach. They assemble a pile of palm-sized rocks at their feet and begin tossing they onto the ice. On landing each rock makes a satisfying “thunk” sound.

            It has always bothered me to see scatterings of rocks on lake ice. They seem to represent a person’s desire to destroy, to shatter. After today, when I see random rocks on lake ice I will be tempted to add to the pile just to hear the thunk. 

Cross Purposes

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The Juneau Church of Powder and Shot has gathered with their weapons this morning at the gun range. They share a parking lot with users of the Montana Creek cross-country ski trails. Aki and her two humans, unbelievers all, walk away from the gun range. Each shot makes the little dog jump, as if they were aimed at one of us. She will calm down as soon as we start skiing. But I still wonder if it was mistake to bring her along. 

            We have to walk for a quarter of a kilometer on bare pavement or ice before we can ski. Just after clipping in my skis, I spot a man and woman slowly walking towards us. A makeshift sling immobilizes the woman’s left arm. She thinks that she separated her shoulder when her skis slipped and she fell.  The grimace of pain on her face confirms her prognosis. The man holds her close to prevent another fall, like he might escort a wounded soldier from the battlefield. They walk toward the sound of booms and bangs of rifle shots.

            I ski on until we reach a little hill covered with gray ice. Thinking about the woman, I take off my boards and walk to the bottom of the hill. We ski just past the three-kilometer sign and return to the car. The noisy creek obscures the gun sounds, the sun softens the snow. We can relax now that the ice has been turned into corn snow by the day’s growing warmth. But this is definitely the last time we will ski Montana Creek until next winter. 

Little Grump

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I was hoping to spot mountain goats on their daily search for food on the south-facing slope of Mt. Juneau, had to settle for a magic show put on by the sun. Aki didn’t try to console me. The little dog didn’t want make this walk up the Perseverance Trail. She wanted to hang around the house in case some cheese dropped from the breakfast plate of her other human. She didn’t accept my assurance that it was an oatmeal day. 

            Aki exhibited her bad mood by barking the minute I opened the door. She barked at every car, person, or raven that moved as we walked toward the mountains. She tried to drop a pile of scat in someone’s yard rather than wait the seconds it would take to reach a more socially acceptable spot. The little poodle-mix stopped more often than usual to sniff and pee. When I tried to photograph the bright line painted by the rising sun across Mt. Juneau, she jerked at her leash.  Only when we made a turn for home did she show any enthusiasm for the walk or civility toward me. 

Leave Some for the Birds and Bears

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Aki and left the house early today. We wanted to see Gastineau Meadows in the clarifying light that only lasts an hour after sunrise. Thinking, “you never know” I slipped my ice cleats into a jacket pocket. Now I am leaning against a bull pine trunk, attaching the cleats to my boots. Aki, who hasn’t slipped yet looks back at me with impatience. She starts back up the trail after hearing the crunch of my cleats on the dense snow cover. 

            In minutes we reach bare trail. The surrounding meadow is bare as well. I step off the gravel trail and find the meadow still firm from last night’s freeze. The sun has already burned away most of last night’s frost.  I search for little depressions in the grass that still sparkle and find one dotted with wine-red cranberries. They ripened last fall and remained firm in spite of cycles of freeze and thaw. They are unaffected by the heavy snow that just last week covered them. 

            I pick a cranberry, find it firm but without the shinny surface it had just after ripening. It tastes complicated: mostly bitter, a little sweet with a musky base that reminds me of the meadow’s smell in fall time.  I could fill my hand with cranberries and eat them during the meadow crossing but decide to leave them for berry eating birds and just awakening bears. 

Kingfishers, Eagles, Geese, and One Heron

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A harsh, almost equatorial sunlight bounced off the surface of the Treadwell glory hole. I tried to stare across that bay formed by the collapse of a mine tunnel, hoping to spot the belted kingfisher that was squawking out his territorial claim. Above and close, an unseen bald eagle screamed. After checking to make sure Aki was close and safe I spoted the eagle tucked into a crotch of prickly spruce branches. I wondered for the hundredth time at the fierce aggressiveness of the tiny kingfishers and the apparent cowardness of the powerful eagles. 

            Earlier, just after Aki and I dropped onto Sandy Beach from the Treadwell woods, three kingfishers dog fought over Gastineau Channel, their chitterling calls as rapid as machine gun fire. A bald eagle roosting on top of the old mine ventilation shaft watched without concern. Perhaps the eagle knew it was not the kingfisher’s target. 

            Other birds made low flights over the little dog and I today. Early morning sun lit up the white patches on Canada geese as their  “V” shaped formation moved toward the Mendenhall wetlands.  Minutes later we watched the underside of a great blue heron as it flew close to my head, looking more dinosaur than bird.              

Any Excuse

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Aki stops twenty feet behind me. A few days ago she would have been standing on ice. But that is gone, melted by the string of warm, sunny days that followed our last visit. “Why,” she seems to be saying, “are we back on the Fish Creek Delta?”  If she were a human, I’d explain my intent to make many visits here so we can take an informal bird census. Because she would be that kind of human, she would press me until I admitted that I’d take any excuse to return to the rich and beautiful place.

            I was pleased to find the trailhead parking lot empty when we arrived. As if to confirm that we were the day’s first human visitors, two braces of mallard ducks rested on a pond right next to the trail.  They paddled without haste to edge of the pond and stepped onto the meadow grass. 

            The ebb tide provided ducks with exposed grassland for resting. A small raft of mallards slept on a nearby patch of grass, their necks buried into their back feathers. Another gathering of their cousins walked the shallows along the Fritz Cove beach, their heads plunged into the water.  They ignored a gang of American Widgeons that splash down onto nearby water after being spooked by an eagle. 

            The still-hungry eagle screeched out a complaint and flew into the top of a beachside spruce.  It clamped its talons tight around the springy branch, hunched its shoulders, and held on like a rodeo bull rider as the branch bounced up and down. After the movement stopped, the eagle raised its beak into the air and announced victory.