This is supposed to be a fishing trip. With the trees now bare of leaves, clouds blocking the mountains, and rain discouraging the use of a digital camera, fishing seemed to be the best use of the day. Since it is small, I slipped the camera into the day back at the last minute.

Aki is wet in minutes. My gear holds up better but she doesn’t appear to care. We have the place to ourselves until we run into the volunteer beaver patrol. Armed with sturdy, three-pronged rakes, they are opening up a key waterway so late run coho salmon can reach their gravel spawning beds. This involves deconstructing beaver dams. Since they concentrate on building up their winter woodpile, the beavers won’t undo the patrol’s work until the salmon have moved through.

The patrol’s efforts also allow recently submerged human trails to dry out. Aki and I take several to various fishing spots around the moraine. We are too early or too late for catching dolly vardens. At two of the lakes I watch trout rise in the center of lake. I was tempted to wait for them to swim to us but Aki looks bored and, since she is wet, a little pathetic.

The clouds rise during our walk to reveal Thunder Mountain and the sharp peaks that surround the glacier. Standing on a still intact beaver dam, I watch the wake of a bufflehead duck and two companions ripple the image of mountains, clouds, and fog enriched by lake waters. This time of year, the surfaces of lakes provide the richest beauty.

Aki must be getting used to gunshots. She trots down the trail toward booms that grow louder as we near the moraine lake. Most sound like they were fired by shotguns pointed up at passing ducks. A few had that lingering echo of a gun discharged over water.

The shots stop a few minutes before we reach the lake where the wakes of three Bufflehead ducks move toward its center. A newly stripped log bobs on the lake like a corpse—the remains of a beaver’s meal eaten in last night’s fog.

We head toward the Mendenhall River, thankful that the guns are gone and there is no rain. Aki leads me over to a beaver pond that has captured the top of Mt. Stroller White. If Aki and I could walk on water, the pond would be an avenue to Mendenhall Lake. We can’t, so we continue down a muddy trail to the river. Fog moves with surprising speed through the riverside forest, hiding, then revealing the glacier and surrounding mountains. I wish I had my old Nikon loaded with Pan X and the patience I once used to take analog black and white photos. It’s all here for a master like Ansel Adams—the hard and soft textures, shades of white, black and gray; rock-river-ice.