I am suppose to be practicing guitar or preparing a lunch to take to work but I was seduced by steam floating off the neighbors’ roof shingles. It grabbed me while I opened the window shade in our front room. Now I’m walking down Chicken Ridge in half fasten sandals and no coat in this strong spring light — a welcome surprise on a day that promises only clouds and afternoon rain.  It’s just me, an inpatient dog walker and robins singing as if energized by the light. Aki, immune to the bright and shinning, hasn’t left her bed. 

On an evening walk with Aki I carry a camera, photographing grazing mountain goats, hard woods with a just a fuzz of new leafs, and a small course of water soaking green moss. There are smells too like the perfume of bursting balsam popular buds and the cleansing  sounds of water runoff from recent avalanches and robin sound. Returning to Chicken Ridge we see the sunset reflected orange, red and gray in a neighbor’s craftsman window.

April is poetry month in America even though early spring must inspire bad verse.  On days like today, when a patient person could watch wild trees leaf out and robins sing I want to gush. Wordsworth got away with Daffodils 200 years ago but would be savaged if he published it today.

Good thing Wordsworth isn’t with me today. He would be stunned by Gasteneau Channel now animated by strong northern light except where crowded over by feeding  scooters. I ride a bicycle out to Sheep Creek at noon and find hundreds of gulls and ducks crowding sand bars diminished by a high tide. One Canada goose paddles between islands of gulls while I eat a sandwich. The wind is up but it is comfortable enough if I take shelter behind a sun warmed boulder. Sunlight reflecting off the gulls’ feather cloaks makes me look away down channel and then up to appreciate the lights and darks on snow colored mountain peaks. Behind me mountain goats feed far down the mountain on the first burst of sweet leafs. When the wind drops I hear robin song.

Yesterday I rode with an eagle. Today Aki and I morn the death of winter. Yesterday, with the sun shining and a strong wind blowing down channel I approach the Douglas Bridge on my bicycle. A mature bald eagle rose on the currents to my eye level and floated along with me for a few meters before taking station over the bike path at the bridge’s apex. It just hung there as if suspended by strong string before moving a few feet away from the bridge where the air current dropped it straight down toward Gasteneau Channel. It didn’t move its wings until necessary to pull out of its free fall. With that sunny memory in mind I join Aki today at winter’s wake in the rain.

The heavy snow load on this meadow just a week ago promised at least one more ski in the spring sun. It lied then died leaving most of the meadow bare. We could have pieced together enough skiable ground for a fair outing if firm ice still covered the watercourses. They run free.

It was a good winter, blessing us with much useable snow without sending too many days of punishing Taku winds. Rather than cling to an unhappy life under clouds and rain this winter enjoyed a quick but happy death during a week of warm and sunny weather. Now spring has a chance to raise up flowers and arctic cotton from this meadow and feed the robins building nests in the bordering trees.

The hike starts with wind rushing over two sets of raven wings followed by an eagle’s complaint. We are feet from the trail head, far away from the big birds’ feeding ground which makes it a strange place for them to roost. The ravens flew low over my head. Maybe I should have recognized it as a warning but was too taken by the lovely whooshing sound they made with their wings.

Aki dashes down the trail to wait with patience where the forest gives way to beach. Together we parallel the river and head toward its mouth. It’s in the mid-fifties so I left my coat in the car. The tide’s out but we hug some bluffs lining the opposite side of the beach from water to give feeding waterfowl some space. 

These bluffs are scalloped with a series of dry bays and topped with a heavily wooded slope. When we find someone’s abandoned campsite in the back of one of the bays I get out the picnic I packed in and sit down for a meal. We can see the river from here and watch a line of ravens dig for food in the waterside mud. Halfway through my sandwich a chorus of raven calls erupt from the trees above us. As if responding the riverside ravens fly straight at us and then veer  sharply into the trees.

The new arrivals join the other ravens in casting what sounds like foul abuse at Aki and I. Quickly finishing our meal we move away from the bluffs to see who is making all the noise. Here and there purple black raven feathers show through the green wall of trees above the bluffs but I can only see the face of one bird. Their sound rises like a chimpanzee opera as we walk further along the bluff. Is this their holy place — so sacred the we profaned it with our presence? It could be a nesting site but most of the raven nests I’ve seen have been stand alone affairs. 

The ravens quiet down after driving us from their place. Down the beach a bald eagle flies over our head toward a huge raft of surf scoters. Already moving away from the beach in a nervous “v” shaped formation, the scoters panic into flight as the eagle flies over them and then returns with empty talons to the trees.

Apparently shaken by being cruised by the eagle the scoters break formation and sing our their hysterical song of warning. We find another, calmer raft of scoters near the river mouth where we start to retrace our steps. Something in the water spooks this raft and most of the scoters burst into flight and join the upriver group. We stop when reaching the raft that is now several hundred birds strong.

We have a choice now –do we walk back alone the bluffs, disturbing the raven’s temple or hang near the river and make the scoters uncomfortable. Since the scoters don’t seem to react to our presence I chose the river route where we can water the surf scoters dive and splash and feed. The sun breaks the overcast to sparkle on the water and shine on their orange and white beaks.    

I use my camera for taking notes.  Today the media card failed rendering the camera useless. Instead of snapping pictures without discrimination I have to stop and memorize things of interest on the trail.

With the snow pack failing in this part of the forest this might be the last chance to walk the breadline trail before it melts into a boggy mess. After pulling on ice cleats I head down the steep but short drop to “U” shaped creek valley that is still in darkness on this sunny day.  Aki halts at the near edge of a rough hewn bridge with a six inch wide strip of snow rising one foot above its wooden deck. I must cross first to convince her of its safety.

After the bridge it is a short climb up to a muskeg meadow now flooded with sunlight. Snow covers most of it so Aki lightly paws my leg in hopes that I have brought her frisbee. She would settle for a stick to chase but snow covers all. In seconds she dashes down the faint trail and follows it into a grove of old growth hemlock trees. I join her and wonder how nature crammed three such different ecosystems in the short distance from trailhead to ocean bluffs.

The hemlocks flourish in a large protected swale that ends where the bluffs drop vertically to the beach. To survive the trees send out their tough roots up and down the hill.  They form  spiderweb like tangles on the steepest portions of the trail.  Even small boulders wear a mesh of their roots. Large spruce and alder trees grip the edge of the bluffs by sending roots into the hillside and bluff face.

Thanks to a complex of cliff side alders we find safe passage down the bluff to the beach. The tide recently turned from ebb to flow so we have lots of area to explore.  I am drawn to a flat section that extends far enough away from the bluff face to escape its shadow.  Most of the rocks in this sunny space offer nice places to sit. Unfortunately tiny periwinkle snails, just formed, cover the surface of them. I do find one snail free perch near the water.

Offshore a sea lion slides it’s head sideways out of the water at a 30 degree angle then slides back into the water. He repeats this several times until another sea lion head rises with his. Then a third one joins the spy ring. With Aki leaning up against me I wait for more.  These are young sea lions — the teenagers of their kind. Like human teenagers they get bored, take chances, and quickly change their minds. I am counting on these traits to bring them closer to the beach.

While the tide rises closer and closer to our resting rock the sea lions continue their cautious closing on our position. Just before we have to move to drier ground one of the lions breaks the surface 50 feet away, stretches out his body and swims by on his side before diving.   That is last we see of any of them.