Gray sky, gray light, gray ice, gray dog breaking the monochrome monopoly with her bright red jacket. I’m carrying a fishing rod and hope to try for trout or maybe one of the young king salmon Fish and Game released into the moraine pocket lakes.

I’d be meaning to try the lakes since mid-summer but left it too late. Today translucent ice covers the lakes. Water moving into the lake from the inlet stream and that outbound over the beaver dams keeps two small lake sections ice free that I fish without success.

This morning’s low clouds block views of the glacier and its mountain companions until Thunder Mountain manages to break out of the grey, showing off its new snow white coat. Turning into the Troll Woods we immerse ourselves in its world of glowing yellow-green moss. The stuff wraps every tree and branch, covers upright sticks as if it’s cotton candy, blankets the ground to the depth of five inches. Aki bounces over the mossy forest floor, ears flapping, after a scent only she can smell.

Near forest edge we hear a raven fly overhead, each wing beat producing a drumming sound. I see the big black bird often after that until we come upon a grizzly scene. A headless male mallard duck lays on its back, chest feathers scattered behind it along a faint forest trail. The messy eaters who produced this still life sulk above us in a tree. What, I wonder, would Raven do if I carried off his half eaten treasure? Best not tempt fate or the birds. 

I should be writing but an unexpected shaft of sunlight striking the lush green meadows of Douglas Island won’t let me. Even when the light strike fades I am distracted by a pale blue sky showing through breaks in the marine layer of clouds. It wasn’t like this this morning when Aki and I viewed Shaman Island hunkering beneath a Paynes Gray sky. The yellows of dying beach grass and oranges of seaweed drifts provided the only relief from the gloom. Aki doesn’t miss the sun for she is all about the scent. I’ve grown to find comfort in days dominated by fog and cloud as long the rain and wind hold off. They offer calm if you accept it.

Later we meet friends from Sitka at the mushroom hunter’s house for an Italian midday meal. The Sitka folk took the ferry here for the shopping and companionship. After dinner and conversation we head over the moraine country for a hike.

In their usual preparation for winter the beavers have once again flooded out many of our favorite moraine trails so we returned to the troll woods and a trail decorated with recently deposited bear scat. A sign near the trailhead warns of a bear showing aggression toward dogs. We have three with us, including Aki.

Believing the bears to be at a nearby salmon stream, we transit through the woods where yellowing devil’s club leaves provided a nice counterpoint for the thick yellow-green moss. We find mushrooms aplenty but none choice for eating. We also find lakes lined with yellowing cottonwoods. These trees were in summer green just days ago. 

Now, while looking down channel from our house on Chicken Ridge I can almost see the snow fields growing toward sea level on the shoulders of Douglas Island. It makes me smile.

A human friend joins us today in the Troll Woods. Invited for companionship. he repays with a mushroom hunter’s knowledge. Born in America of Sicilian immigrants, he brings an enthusiast’s excitement to the gathering of wild food.

We hadn’t started on a mushroom hunt but rather a morning walk under the newly appeared sun. Water backed up from a growing beaver dam flooded our chosen trail to force us into the Troll Woods where he discovers a Porcini mushroom (Boletus edulis) standing above the mossy ground.  Nearby we find tipped over Porcini look a likes that have gills that mark them as a different genus. Another hunter passed this way before us to grab the choicest mushrooms.

With a strong morning sun muscling its way to the forest floor I decide to take my friend home over a trackless section of the woods.  We can’t get lost as long as we keep the sun in our faces.

We move slowly over the soft moss covered ground, sometimes following faint deer trails or the heavy worn paths made by beavers. Other times its a ballet over and around tree trunks and branches. Aki stays with the mushroom hunter to show him the way when I move out of his sight. A gentleman, he thanks her each time.

It’s a slow, peace bringing task to follow the sun through these thick woods. We pass an indentation in the moss still steaming from the heat of the deer that just left it. This brings stories from my friend of other hikes and shared kayak trips.  An hour and more passes without notice until we regain the man made trail. It takes us to a burned area where a spider web of sinister beauty, backlit by the climbing sun, is the sole decoration in a fire blackened alder tree.  Nearby two huge Russula mushrooms, encouraged by the warming sun, push skyward. One wears a mossy cap.

Here we also find more Boletus mushrooms — enough for a lunch— and gather them up. Arriving at my friend’s home, we examine our find and discover blue dots forming in the mushroom flesh. They aren’t the delectable Porcini after all but a cousin not worth cooking. He shrugs and delivers a salad rich in fresh greens, olives and tomatoes. Tall bottles of oil and vinegar arrive next along with chunks of hard Italian cheese and a thin dried salami. Then he brings us thick brown hard bread. I smile for now there is no room on the table or stomachs for mushrooms.

The sun left us a few days ago, after I finished eating blueberries along the Eagle River. Rain dominated Juneau since. With a promise of sun after this sorrow Aki and head take an early departure for the moraine. Low clouds begin lifting when we arrive and find every tree, bush, and flower carrying a heavy burden of rain water. 

Aki charges alone into the trail side woods to run after a squirrel over mossy ground and then bursts onto the trail ten feet in front of me. Apparently assuming that I didn’t wait for her return, she charges at full speed down the trail. When I whistle she stops on a dime and races back toward me. A few feet before reaching my feet she breaks back into the woods for a quick lap through the moss and then heads back to the car. Another whistle brings a dog panting with happiness to my side. Such a drama queen.

Life in a rain forest gives us a chance to be present for the moments when sudden sun light drives away the storm. Then the water drops that just minutes before depressed the forest’s beauty become vibrant bags of light. Shafts  break through the dying cover of grey to paint lakes in silver. Today, this is our morning.

Wanting to catch the beaver lands before the new sun brings wind to ripple the lakes, I lead Aki over the beaver dam bridge to the trail that circles Norton Lake. Aki cringes when we hear a series of slaps of a beaver tail. I find this a bit odd as she only showed fascination when we watched a beaver perform a series of tail slaps in the past. I listen for something scary but only hear the slaps and the boom of high caliber rifles of the early bird shooters at the gun range.

We watch a Greater Yellowlegs (Sandpiper) approach the water’s edge to stare at the water. He is only searching for food but appears to be admiring his reflection in the still calm pond. Overhead a trio of tourist filled helicopters fly overhead on the way to the sled dog camp on a nearby glacier. They fly over the beavers’ lands all summer without bothering the sandpiper or the beavers or even the bears who left so much scat on this trail.  They live and apparently thrive in a pocket of wilderness surrounded by our suburbs and the agents of industrial tourism. Aki and I are the only ones to mind the noise.

Rice, smoked salmon and ripe avocado rolled up in nori (dried seaweed)— comfort  food in our Southeast Alaska home especially when taken with dark Swedish coffee. Aki watches me eat it from her perch on the sofa arm. She doesn’t mind. She had her smoked salmon for breakfast before our passage through the Troll Woods.  

The morning sun made a surprise appearance on the moraine trail leading to the woods. We see blue sky reflected in calm lake waters and sunlight gathered on the rain soak plants growing along the trail. Wanting solitude more than sun this morning I take Aki into the Troll Woods, which is still as cold as the previous night. We move down the moss covered trail in silence and peace until Aki stops to inspect a scene of small devastation. Shattered pieces of Broomrape lay on the trail, its roots dug from the ground by a passing bear.  We find more dig sites further up the trail. Aki takes it all calmly so I know the bear isn’t near.  Our relationship is like that. She relies on me to pick the right path while I expect her to warn of danger. Each have expectations for the other and most are fulfilled.

I take out the camera while approaching the young beaver’s lake in hope of a photo of him near the shore. That plan is shattered by the splash of a large bird dog and the loud voices of it’s owners. We wait at the edge of the woods for them to move on. They do but the beaver does not reappear.

We take a seldom used side trail to the flooded beaver lands but high water cuts off the path. Aki barks a greeting to a noisy gang of dog walkers moving along a parallel path.  I want to tell her not to reveal our location to the enemy. It’s time to back track to the car.

We could secure solitude by taking the Troll Woods path but now sunshine floods the open moraine trail so I forgo silence for light. Aki should be pleases as it increases her chances of running into other dogs. One does appear — a black lab plunges into one of the beaver lakes. Aki must have heard the commotion but stays quietly at my side. Together we walk in the sun to the car.   

It’s day two of sun. Tomorrow they forecast rain so Aki are crossing through the troll woods with plans to skirt around the flooded beaver lands while they are still in high summer.

A sad and desperate call dominates the woods when we pass beyond reach of the road noise. The simple song could be sung by a loon but it lacks the erie complexity of their music. Again and again the bird calls out as if keening his dead — a jarring contrast to warming sun on my face and the happy work songs of their other birds.

There is no one to ask about the sorrowful bird song. We are alone on this windless morning. Something crashes out of the water just as we reach the shore of one of the moraine lakes. It’s the noisy beaver we watched cruise back and forth across the lake a few weeks ago. There is a small causeway, maybe half a meter across, that we must cross to get to the main trail. It separates the lake from a small outlet stream. The beaver stops on the causeway long enough for me to realize he is small and maybe only a year old. Then he slips into the water to begin his swim back and forth across the narrow foot of the lake. Like the last time on each lap he slaps his tail and dives just before reaching the lake shore. 

After watching the beaver for a bit Aki and return to the causeway to figure out the deal. The beaver has been busy hauling mud from the lake to a small dam he has started on the outlet stream. The dam is not needed to maintain the lake level. Maybe the beaver doesn’t know that. Maybe he needs the damn to mark this as his territory.  That would explain all the overt swimming and tail slapping behavior, which could be designed to keep away other beavers looking for territory. Whatever the reason, the beaver’s dam building is a dangerous activity for this section of the trail gets heavy use by dog walkers, some accompanied by beasts big enough to do in the beaver.

Not wishing to cause the beaver more stress we move down trail to where an old beaver dam offers access to high ground surrounding Norton Lake. It’s our only option as beavers have flooded out the main trail. Here we find newly hatched dragon flies glittering in the sun. I love the electric blue ones that some call darning needles. Mine might be the last generation to know what inspired the nickname. Out of the lake ducks drift without much effort. I find an oddly passive huddle of ducks in some nearby reeds. 

At first I think the stationary ducks are someone’s decoys that ended up tangled together in the reeds. Then I noticed that they were covered with tuffs of white down, which along with the piercing gaze of one of the ducks suggests they are alive but molting. Later I checked some reference books and realized that they must be escaped decoys.

After circumnavigating the lake on the beaver’s logging trails we return to the Troll  Woods for the trip home. The wind is up now, erasing all the beautiful reflections I enjoyed on the Troll Wood lakes. We pass a little pocket lake — the one where I can only find one drake duck. We saw him this morning and I wondered if he sang the keening song we heard at the beginning of the hike.  On this return trip we find he has no cause to cry. A hen with 7 or 8 chicks swims on his lake. 

I didn’t expect beauty on this dull grey day. We walk through an older section of moraine forest. The glacier retreated from it 100 years ago. Since then a series of plant pioneers filled the open gravely space. First came the alders and willows, God’s Band-Aids. Slower growing majesties like the Sitka Spruce eventually forced them out after enough shed willow and alder leaves had built up a soil like medium for growth. Man threw nature a monkey wrench by mining the area for gravel. They left behind shallow lakes that attracted beavers and scared land for more willows and alders to grow. Now we have a wonderful mix of lakes, hardwood plains, and moss covered spruce forests.

Back to unexpected beauty. It shows mostly in reflections — some in the lakes and others in the parts of trails flooded by beavers. My favorite reflections may be those in tense rain spheres holding on the tops of spreading ferns.

The area borders a bedroom neighborhood and Aki soon has many opportunities to make new dog friends. A brace of basset hounds and a husky mix answer her barking call and charge down the trail to us. Aki ducks behind me but is soon chasing about with the bigger dogs. If they get too rough she is back between my legs. One of the basset hounds plants his front paws on my chest and smiles like a used car salesman.

Hoping for a little more solitude I lead us away from the main trail and onto a barely used one that follows the undulates of a rise of gravel that snakes through the forest between two beaver ponds. It’s quiet enough for me to think of the morning bike ride in the rain. Even though I took a road that runs along Gasteneau Channel for miles, the ride was for exercise, not beauty. Then I saw the Orcas (Killer Whales).

Five or six whales formed a pod moving up channel toward town. They must be hunting the king salmon now returning to the hatchery. By rubbing my glasses free of rain I just make them out. A mature male, with a massive dorsal fin was the easiest to follow as he rolled to the surface, exhaled and then immediately dipped below the water. Soon I saw the others, their dorsal fins moving up out the water and then down like so many saw blade teeth. Earlier in the ride someone told me about the whales. I figured that I had ridden right by them on the way out of town and wouldn’t see them on my return trip. Did it matter? The amazement should come from the whales’ presence in my home waters. It should be enough to know that they are there but it is not. I found that out when I saw them. That’s when you get the connection, the affirmation that they are swimming in local waters and breathing the same air as you.