Category Archives: Nature

Magical Thinking

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Something has drawn a cabal of ravens to Sandy Beach. A dozen of the grouchy birds sulk on the sand or on top of broken wharf pilings. The usual eagle sits on its perch on the roof of the old ventilation shaft. The eagle isn’t watching the ravens. It stares down the beach toward Marmion Island. 

I follow the eagle’s gaze and spot what looks like a giant bald eagle walking along the edge of the collapsed glory hole. In the rainforest, ravens are credited in legend with having magical powers, not eagles. Are the little dog and I witnessing the start of a new legend. 

As we approach a dog climbs out of the water and runs up to the big eagle. The “eagle” is only a white-haired woman wearing a coat that hangs off her body like a bell. For some reason I don’t want to approach any further. Maybe it is because with each step the woman becomes more human than bird-like. Feeling foolish, I lead Aki back into the Treadwell Woods. Then I wonder if the real eagle, sitting on top of the ventilator shaft, was also fooled. 

Taking Sides

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Aki was angry with me this morning. It was my fault. I slipped out of the house for an early coffee date with a friend. She stayed behind. My sin only postponed our walk for 90 minutes but, for her, it was unpardonable. Aki’s other human had to pull her out of her kennel so we could leave for the Outer Point Trail. 

            Aki’s anger gave way to excitement by the time we pulled into the empty trailhead parking area. I am pleased to know no one will be in front of us. Aki might feel disappointment by the lack of possible dog encounters.  The forest is a silent place until a pair of Stellar’s jays scold us. Then an eagle, perched just above in an old growth spruce, screams. 

            I wonder why the eagle is here when salmon are staging at the mouth of nearby Peterson Creek. Then we see the duck. It’s the same mallard hen that weeks ago had defended her chicks from an eagle and a heron. She’s alone this morning, paddling near an elevated walkway. There is no sign of her chicks. 

            Normally I don’t take sides in the violent encounters that happen in the woods. Animals have to die so that others can live. But I find myself hoping that the at least some of the mallard’s kids survive. 

I Should Have Listened to the Dog

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Aki stares at me while I stare at the empty surface of a lake. We are deep in the Troll Woods, a place that the little dog loves to investigate using her nose. She has already catalogued all the smells within her reach. Her patience must be about to run out. But I am not ready to leave until I get a photograph of the dragonflies.

            Two of the big, four-winged insects are flying up and down the lakefront. One hovered right in front of me for a few seconds. It was gone by the time I turned on my camera. I am determined to use my camera to freeze its wings. Aki knows that I am wasting my time. I’ve tried before, without success, to photography a dragonfly in flight. 

            After adjusting the camera so that it will focus on quickly moving objects I turn on the “burst” feature and wait. When I spot the pair approaching, I point the camera at the lake and depress the shutter button and listen to the click-click-click-click of the shutter. 

            At home I will sort through forty or fifty photographs, most will show empty lake water. A few will feature blurry versions of the dragonflies.  Only one will capture with some clarity, one the patrolling pair. I will be relieved that I spent a few minutes in the woods photographing high bush cranberries dripping rain. 

Rare Summer Crossing

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“Life is not all beer and skittles, little dog.” My words fail to convince Aki to follow me onto the meadow. I should not be surprised. This most stubborn dog has never tasted beer or played skittles. I backtrack and carry her thirty or forty meters away from the graveled path. She looks perturbed as I set her down. When her legs don’t sink into the muskeg she relaxes and begins to follow her nose. 

            Mountains surround us, now summer green. Usually by now the summer rain has turned the meadow into a wet sponge. So, we don’t step onto it until winter has frozen it and whitened the mountains. But little rain has fallen since last winter’s snow melted. 

Normally the mountains draw all my attention when we cross this meadow. This morning my eyes are draw to the little plants and berries that glisten with dew.  It is going to be a good year for bog cranberries, which won’t ripen for another month. Now they are pale and hard spheres lying on wine-colored moss. Insect eating sundews grow between the cranberries, their mouths open to capture flying bugs. The sundews have taken over the meadow like an occupying army. I wonder if this is their long established territory or a recent invasion. 

Two snowshoe hares will cross our path. Each will freeze at the edge of the trail long enough for me to appreciate their chestnut coats. Distracted by pee mail, Aki will see neither. When we will near the place where one crossed the trail, I will have to wait for the little poodle-mix to study the scent left by the hare’s feet.   

The King of Sheep Creek

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The dog salmon have returned home to Sheep Creek. They each were hatched here. They all will die here. Before that, they will scrabble for spawning space in the stream gravel. Eagles have already gathered to feed on the salmon’s expired bodies. 

            I put Aki on a lead this foggy morning after spotting a bald eagle, as indistinct as a ghost in the gloom, flying a circle around us. Creek and tidal currents have formed a gravel causeway above the delta’s marshy wetlands. I am about walk onto the causeway when I spot an eagle in the middle of it perched on a driftwood root wad. Five or six other eagles stand on the beach or other driftwood logs but they all have to look up to see the eagle on the causeway. 

            I expect the elevated eagle to fly off but it holds to its throne as we approach. Before we invade the eagle’s personal space, I walk the little dog in a wide circle around it.  The big bird is still on its perch when we return to the car. 

Being Taken By Surprised

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Even though it is only five meters thick, a fog smothering Fritz Cove totally obscures the water. There could be a pod of killer whales fining up the cove and we would never see them. Without a compass a kayaker would be lost in the soup. But fog is a fickle thing, quick to blind, quick to disappear. No fog will block our view of Lynn Canal when we reach the North Douglas Island beach this morning. 

            As we walk down the Rain Forest Trail, I think about my times being trapped in fog. Fear was always involved, even when I had a compass and enough time to take bearings before occlusion. The fog took away my ability to identify the direction of sound. It made the air smell like atomized seawater. The relief felt when I suddenly broke into the open almost made it worth it.  The worse thing was to be taken by surprise by fog. 

            The beach path we take after leaving the forest is just wide enough for us to pass without rubbing against the grass lining both sides of it. Rain drops, looking like tiny snow globes, cling to the grass blades. Down beach the low causeway connecting Shaman and Douglas Islands is being buried by the incoming tide. Two hikers, taken by surprise by the flood hesitate at the Shaman side of the causeway. If they delay too long they will be wading through waist-deep waters.  Facing facts they start mincing their way toward Douglas Island. 

Fishing the Morraine

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There is something unsettling about the golden eye hen, the only duck on this moraine lake. It hunts for food with the aggression of a belted kingfisher. Rather than slip into the lake in search of fish, the golden eye slams its head into the water, pulling its plump body after it. 

            I’m trying Aki’s patience with my attempts to catch a trout.  Just as I am about to give in to her whining, a cut throat trout leaps out of the water with my lure lodged in its jaw. It is free of the lure a second later. I am not surprised since I use barbless hooks. Responding to all the splashing, the golden eye cruises towards the little dog and I. 

            I think of a friend who once hooked a gull while trolling for salmon. The seabird flew into the air and floated like a kite above the boat. With much effort my friend managed to pull in the gull and free it from his hook. I reel in my lure until the golden eye paddles away. 

In the Wet

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Usually, when Aki and I take this trail into the Treadwell Woods a gaggle of domestic geese give an alarm. This morning they are quiet. A pathetic looking eagle might be the cause for their silence. It sulks in a spruce tree above the geese yard. I wonder if it has designs on a plump gander. It’s tough to raise poultry in this town unless you protect your birds with an electrified enclosure. Last week our neighborhood bear chomped down on a free-range chicken. 

            Low clouds hide most of the Gastineau Channel and the mountains that line it when we drop onto the beach. The rainstorm that soaked the woods last night continues to drop much needed rain. My pants and Aki’s fur were soaked when we passed through a grassy verge to reach Sandy Beach.             

A waterlogged eagle grooms itself while perched on top of the old ventilation tower. With its fierce gaze and feathers all ahoo, it looks like an awakening dragon. But a puff of down sticking to its beak shatters its tough guy image. 

It’s low tide. Down the beach three ravens search the recently exposed sand for snacks. One flies to the top of an gnarled wharf piling and pretends to dig a feast out of the top of it. Then it balances on one leg and kicks the other one up like a can can dancer. 

Feisty Birds

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Even though we are at the height of summer, Fritz Cove and the beach seemed empty of life. Next winter, when cold, wet rain will slicken the shore rocks, eagles will roost in nearby trees and sea ducks and scoters will fish the offshore waters. Today they were elsewhere. Rounding False Outer Point Aki and I only saw a small murder of crows fighting over scraps. That’s why the kingfisher was such a welcome surprise            

            The feisty bird skimmed a few feet above the water and then crashed into a shallow dive. After repeating this three times, it flew out of our sight. I doubt if Aki ever saw the kingfisher. I know the little dog never saw the bald eagle even though we walked within a few feet of its roost. 

            If the eagle were a human I would have said that it looked bored. It spent more time looking at its chest than at the little dog or I. After the eagle we worked our way to a forest trail and used it to return to the car. As we approached a murder of crows started dive-bombing the eagle. When it flew, the crows started going after each other. 

Looking for Scraps

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Aki and I passed just one cruise ship on our way to the glacier. It was just tying up at the old steamship dock. In a few hours five more of the floating hotels will be docked and disgorging over 20,000 passengers onto Juneau’s downtown streets. Many of those visitors will take buses out to the Mendenhall Glacier. Some will clog the trail to Nugget Falls. We should be early enough to have the trail to ourselves this morning.

             Two ravens scrabbling over a discarded sandwich roll take little notice of Aki and I as we leave the visitor center area for the falls. After one of grouchy birds chases off his competitor we stop to watch the winner tear into the roll. It gives me the stink eye, encouraging us to move on. 

            Glacial runoff has swollen the lake. It covers low-lying parts of the trail and encroaches on the nesting grounds of arctic terns. Some of the fork-tailed little birds hover like helicopters over the lake. A raven invades the nesting area of spotted sandpipers looking for an easy meal. The peeping birds are too quick to be caught. 

            An iceberg recently calved by the glacier has grounded out a few meters off shore of the nesting grounds. Two kittiwakes, taking a break from their paternal duties at the rookery, sulk like bored teenagers on the little berg.