We confirmed today that the Nordic ski makes a poor snow shoe. Our outing didn’t start out as a deep snow slog. Aki and I began on a groomed trail that meanders through moraine lands just now being transformed by a young forest. In my father’s lifetime glacial ice covered it all.

On this sunny day, protected from the wind by woods, Aki tears down the trail at a joyful pace. I follow and soon fall into the kick slide kick of ski travel. When a squirrel scolds  her Aki breaks from the trail and plunges neck deep in new snow. She is too shocked to notice the squirrel bragging to its friends in their chittering language.

The beaver population is exploding here and their homesteading efforts brought forth floods that limit access to much of the moraine.  A recent cold snap followed by a generous snowfall opened the door to exploration of these flooded lands so we leave the set ski track and make our way over them to the Mendenhall River. Snow driven by  glacier winds have covered over the boulders lining the river, giving us a rare opportunity to ski along the river to the lake.

A brisk wind blows down the river and my skis break through the thin crust of wind packed snow to the soft stuff below. We struggle to make progress. Aki could dance across the crust but keeps in my wake where the wind can’t reach her.  A rich blue sky and the river frame in beauty the glacier and its mountain escorts.  Another day I wouldn’t turn away but the wind finally drives us up a side slough now choked with deep snow.

It take half an hour and heavy work to break a trail through blueberry meadows and thin forests to reach a series of beaver ponds that lead back to the ski trail.  When I stop to rest Aki paws my leg and shivers. I lift her up and tell her we are almost home.

A firm crust covers the pond ice and we move with less effort. I cross animal tracks and Aki quickly follows them to someone’s front door. She answers my call and in a few minute we reach the packed trail.

Again Aki bursts down the trail with me following. I surrender fatigue to the freeing movement of the ski. Aki dashes along too, stopping only to read the signs left by dogs that passed before.

Aki prefers the house to outside on days when the Taku winds slam down 7th street. From her perch on the couch arm she can watch workers struggle toward the Seward Street Steps against 70 mile per hour gusts. I’d be sitting with her today if not for work.

The Taku winds plague Downtown Juneau when high pressure sets up over the Yukon Territory and a big low moves past British Columbia’s Queen Charlotte Islands. This engine forces already cold winds across the ice fields bordering Canada and Alaska and then down upon my town. They wander in random directions through the downtown streets, much like the tourists of summer.

Last night, dressed in quilted snow machine clothes and beaver hat I climbed the three vertical blocks from Alaska’s capital building to Chicken Ridge. It was 15 degrees but felt more like 10 below thanks the Taku blowing up the hill. One of the young legislative aides passed me wearing only the business casual uniform of his trade. (No hat, coat, boots, gloves, scarf, sweater). Should he be admired for his toughness or pitied as a fool?

The winds let us taste  a northerner’s purgatory but they also bring beauty by stirring Gasteneau Channel with wind spouts and shrouding sunrise in blowing snow.

None of it worked out the way I planned. First there was the Subaru parked next to the Peterson Lake Trailhead, disgorging two women and a spotted dog.  Etiquette prevented me from joining them. Then our car got stuck in new snow at another trailhead. By the time I dug it out the spotted dog had had time to get far up the trail so I backtrack, park the car and strap on snow shoes.

Aki wants to follow the spotted dog because she doesn’t have my need for solitude.  We turn away from the main trail. Being a loyal thing, Aki ploughs along behind as I break trail on the meadow leading to Peterson Creek. Last night’s storm added six or eight more inches of snow to an already well endowed land so its a tough go.

Big gray alders line the meadow, their limbs carrying a heavy load of snow. A stir of wind turns day into night  by lifting clouds of snow from the trees. We reach the creek, only lightly covered with snow. It ran free before last week’s cold snap. Thin gaps in the stream ice reveal open water and we hear it gurgling over gravel under the ice we stand on. Any colder or warmer and I would stick to the meadow but I’ve fished this stream and know we could survive a mild dunking if we broke through.

We move easily at first and spot a water ousel bobbing next to some open water. Aki shoots ahead, trotting carefully around any ice breaks. Sometimes the ice cracks beneath a snow shoe soaking boot and binding. After a good submersion I abandon the ice and start working through the mixed devil’s club and elder berry brush lining the stream. It’s slow going. Seeking easier passage through a spruce thicket I move behind a wall of snow bent limbs wrapped in Spanish moss and backlit to beauty by morning sun. Minutes later Aki throws on the breaks and gives me a hard look and I wonder if she remembers our slog through this same mess last fall. That also ended with wet feet and exhaustion.

Thick, tall spruce now surround Aki. Some are real monsters. A woodpecker pounds out a tattoo on one.  Taking this as a sufficient award, I concede and we retrace our steps to the car, crossing fresh tracks of a small deer on the way.