It’s been a few days since it snowed on Gastineau Meadow—long enough for the wind to sculpt sharp-edged scallops at the top of drifts and for animals, wild and domestic, to dimple it with their tracks. Aki isn’t interested in adding her little raccoon-sized paw prints to the mix. To do that would require her to leave the packed trail and plunging into the soft, deep stuff that covers the meadow.

You can almost always tell dog tracks from those left by their wild cousins. The no nonsense wolves and coyotes seem to always walk in a straight line. If their tracks are any indication, dogs are goofballs. They might charge off the trail into deep snow, circle a tree and charge back, leaving a “U” shaped design on the meadow. They might leap and roll and zigzag around. They never pound out a straight track that crosses a human trail and disappears into the woods. Aki and I stop to contemplate such a trail. The little poodle-mix cautiously sniffs a yellow spot on the wolf trail but does not cover it with her own pee.

A few meters away from the wolf trail, we spot the tiny tracks of a mouse or vole that had walked across the south facing side of a snowdrift. Maybe because the sun is throwing cast shadows inside each of the tiny tracks, I find the pocked drift as beautiful as the snow covered Mount Juneau rising like a wall above the meadow.

I am nervous. Aki just charged ahead and out of sight. Usually she stays close on our walks. I wouldn’t worry if we were not using a snow machine trail to reach the Dan Mollar bowl. One could smash the little dog flat without the driver ever seeing her.

I almost wish I had a snow machine today. The sun is shinning, the temperature is moderate, and deep, firm snow covers all the bumps. The same conditions favor Aki, which is why she keeps charging away from me down the trail.

Aki’s exuberance doesn’t last. She throws on the brakes where the Dan Mollar trail splits off from the Treadwell Ditch trail. Knowing that she won’t hold out after she can no longer see me, I push on up the trail. One hundred meters later I reach a meadow spotted with shore pines. Aki is behind, frozen in place at the top of a rise just at the edge of my view shed. She gives me her “are you crazy” look.

The meadow opens up after I start back up the trail and I can see Mounts Juneau and Roberts rising above the shore pines. A hundred meters later, Aki slips by me and takes up her usual station several meters ahead of foot hardy human.

On the return trip, Aki hesitates at the beginning of the 200-meter stretch where she exhibited so much caution on our way up the trail. She hangs right by my side until we drop down onto the ditch trail. Then it is back to normal. Since it is too early for the bears to awake, I think she might have smelled the Douglas Island wolf pack. Sometimes I wonder if she sees ghosts.

Aki and I walk with an old friend along the Auk Village beach. Yielding to her herding instinct, the little poodle works to keep us together. Our friend is gentle and has spent his life helping others. I sometimes wonder if Aki senses this and it makes her protective.

Remnants of yesterday’s storm move toward us from across Lynn Canal. But for the moment there are blue rents in the gray skies over Stephens’ Passage. The sun, trying to burn through the marine layer, spotlights a rocky island sometimes used as a haul out by marine mammals. Near shore a loon pops up, gives us a look, and slides beneath the surface.

The loon appears to follow us down the beach, moving quickly underwater then popping like a cork near our position. When we reach the canoe haul out area of the old Auk Village my friend wonders out loud if the loon is a spirit animal. I’ve learned not to discount these things but think it is more likely that the loon is just following the fish it hunts in the waters of the bay. That’s when the clouds of the squall block out sun and blue skies and the first of its snow load begins to fall on the little dog and her charges.