A down channel wind threatens to sweep Aki and I off the wetlands. I wonder if it blew off all the birds. Only a flyby of gulls provides evidence of life on the grasslands. We move to a broad expanse of compact sand exposed by the low tide. With the sea in retreat, we could walk on it to North Douglas Island without getting too wet. But it is only regrouping. In eight hours, 12 feet of water will cover where we stand.

Earlier in the day, a lone canine walked over the sand to a shallow depression now dotted by a series of recently dug holes. He moved in a straight line like most wild animals while domestic dogs leave behind a squiggly track line. I don’t see any human prints. Was the track layer a coyote hunting for clams? Is the wild dog hunkered down in the spruce on a nearby spruce-topped island? It’s probably on Douglass Island. Aki trots off in that direction and seems disappointed when I call her back.

A raven clucks and dives on Aki after we return to the grasslands. While she chases after the tease, I find three rare flashes of color on the dun color wetlands—a bouquet of bright yellow shotgun shells. Now empty of shot and powder, they mimic the tight swirls of yellow pedals pushed up through spring snow by skunk cabbage plants. But the shells have no future and I wonder if they ended the future of some of the wetland ducks.

I wanted to spend this morning re-writing an essay but Aki had other plans. She hopped into my lap and demanded attention. It was either cuddle or head out to the moraine. While petting the little dog is fun, we are both happy with the choice I made to take a walk. Snow falls on the open sections of trail and even manages to invade the troll woods. Flakes dampen the electric green moss that grows on tree trunks and branches. Aki finally has snow soft enough for sliding. Low clouds obscure the mountains and snow already covers reflecting ice so I hunt for beauty where snow clings to bare alders and the tips of hemlock branches. In this faint light, the white snow diminishes rather than brightens the green of hemlock needles. A painter might create the same effect by applying a white/gray color to soften the deep hemlock green.

I was ready for a gray day—low clouds, almost white frost feathers on wheat straw colored grass, dull-green mountainsides—a day when even the wickedly thin frost flowers that cling to sea grass look gray.

Aki and I have a subtle morning at first. A narrow trail through crust-covered snow crosses small, but deep streams still channeling water to the sea. To keep the little dog’s paws and legs dry in the sub-freezing weather I carefully throw her across the channels. She accepts the indignity and waits at each crossing for the toss.

The snow edge marks last night’s high tide line. Fog clouds form above the channel as this morning’s flood tide creeps over grasslands now covered with paper-thin gray ice. Made from salt water rather than free, the ice sheet bends around tussocks and the individual blades of grass. Even Aki’s tiny paws punch through, making a loud, crunching sound. With each step she shatters a frying pan sized circle of surrounding ice.

The sun does rise but so does a bank of clouds that partially blocks the light. When sunlight can break free it brightens the snow, flooding water, and surrounding mountains; making it almost painful to look at them. Then I can see how fast the tide covers the wetlands and backfills the channels we must cross to reach high ground. Time to retreat.

This morning we drive out the road, passing through Juneau and by its glacier. We move beyond Auk Bay, the Alaska Marine Highway Terminal, Lena Cove, Tee Harbor, and The Shrine of St Teresa. Aki whines and squirms a bit each time we fail to stop of one of the trailheads along the way. She becomes almost pathetic when I slow to take the gravel road toward Amalga Meadows. The hysterics end when we move onto a little meadow covered with tall blades of died-back grass bent toward the ground by frost.

Last night North Lights filled the sky and frost feathers thickened into dense crystalline rods. The latter rise up from the glass blades and radiate out from the otherwise naked willow branches. With her short legs, Aki has to perform a series of foot high leaps to move across the meadow. Each leap knocks loose a cascade of frost crystals that sounds like the warning of a rattlesnake. I have to stop several times for her to catch up.

After crossing an ice-covered slough, we follow a series of otter trails up and over a forested hill. Now the little dog has the advantage. Like the short-legged otters, she can slip under fallen trees and barriers of devil’s club and blue berry bushes. She scampers while I struggle but is polite enough to wait for me at the bottom of the hill. Our roles reverse again when we drop onto another meadow. This times she walks in my wake. I break trail through knee-deep grass, sending frost rods flying with every step. Anyone could trace our progress by the strip of dead-tan grass we leave in our wake.

We destroy beauty by simply moving through the country. I tell myself that it is silly to worry about it; that man’s presence always transforms. The key is to keep down the damage. Unless the wind and temperature rise tonight, more frost will form to cover our tracks. We are heading for the waterfall that releases water from the slough pond into salt water when a shotgun blast sounds. Aki cringes a little and oddly enough, so do I. She gives me her “why can’t you read my mind” look. “Well little dog, has my kind done enough damage for the day?” She doesn’t answer. Hey, she is just a dog. But she does break back down the brown trail we made through the grass.