I hadn’t meant to climb so far and fast up this mountain service road. Aki had animal signs to read and I wanted to study the emerging high country flowers, enjoy surprising mixes of magenta dwarf fireweed and white daisy, stand of  shooting stars rising above yellow butter cups. Noise drove us on —- in the form of a lecture about a 1960’s US presidential election given by a man to two woman as they kept pace just behind me on the road.  Finding a gear not used for some time I pressed ahead until no human voice could be heard above bird song and the occasional warning whistle of a marmot to it’s younger kin.

Once in gear I moved up without thought, like a Tour de France cyclist climbing in the Alps. Up we moved until only old wind battered spruce broke the horizon line.  Soon we even rose above them to where carpets of flowering heather cover the ground. I tried leading Aki across snow fields linked by a heavily damaged wood planked trail to a ridge line promising views of Admiralty Island.  Aki loved the snow, sliding and digging in it like a puppy as I struggled to stay upright. We turned around before having to cross a steeply sloped snow field that ended just above a steep drop.

I hoped to see snowflakes melting into the sea; was willing to suffer the clinging weight of wet dungarees; was surprised to find Outer Point a dry, gray place. We left behind a squall at Chicken Ridge, fat flakes forming blankets over parked cars, trimming bare limbs of our apple tree. Here away from the storm catching mountains backing Juneau, rocks revealed by the retreating tide slowly dry in the wind.

Scanning for whales or even ducks, I find an empty channel. With the exception of a nervous cloud of chickadees we see nothing on the crescent shaped beach that forms the approach to False Outer Point.  Around the point a bald eagle scans the same water but flies off when we approach his observation point.  Later I see him streak low over the water targeting something hidden behind a toothy rock formation.

A stony arm thrown seaward then abandoned by nature, False Outer Point must be seen at ebbing tide low enough to open a level path around the line of steep cliffs that form the point’s headlands.  Composed of hard and soft layers of rock twisted 180 degrees by geological forces, the point is most interesting where most exposed to the sea. Wave action breaks away to nothing the soft then sculpts the hard into aggressive teeth.  Around the corner, small dunes of mussel shells collect at the high water mark.  Rounded stones animated by the tide carve impressions into softer rock.

Down beach we find only a lone black crow to share the beauty. He flies away after spotting us. There is a raven in the woods making almost conversational sounds to himself. Great mimics, our ravens copy the sounds of dripping water, cats, and even electrical transformers. This one appears to be practicing lines for the part of Raven in the Tlingit creation story, “The Box of Daylight.” (Here is a link for a video telling of the story:  http://vimeo.com/5221802)  He reminds me of the time my daughter, when at Sunday School, told her teachers and four year old classmates the Box of Daylight story when asked who created the world.

Leaving raven to rehearse, we move down to a portion of beach offering a good view of Shaman Island from which a cloud of black birds erupts — northwest crows. At first they move toward us but then turn to drop out of our sight behind Outer Point. Instead of the expected wall of snowy white we receive briefly this black specked sky.

 

Cold and the Taku winds bring a harsh beauty to the rain forest and I want to experience it by seeing False Outer Point at first light. Aki is slow to join me at the door this morning where I wait dressed in full winter regalia—insulated overalls, heavy coat, the wool hat with ear flaps that I only put on in times of wind driven cold.

The road takes us through a mixed spruce and hemlock forest then runs along Lynn Canal where the sun, still below our horizon paints the glacier in pink alpine glow but leaves the sea gap between it and Douglas Island in darkness. Sunrise colors dominate breaking clouds to the east at the trail head. Slick compacted snow and ice cover the trail and I’ve left the ice grippers at home.

While Aki charges ahead I move slowly through old growth woods ignoring the beauty being revealed by a rising sun to concentrate on where boots meet ice. It’s 10 degrees but seems colder because of the breeze reaching us here in the forest. With feet already numbing and my right camera hand losing feeling I can’t afford a debilitating slip on the ice.  Reverting to the careful tundra walk I learned up north I safely follow Aki to the beach where thick ice covers tide pools and spray delivered in a series of high tides has frozen thick on any rock of size. Little chunks of ice ride ashore on waves, their still sharp angles providing counterpoint to the icy roundness of the beach’s permanent residents.

Rounding a point we find a gang of gulls and two ravens. The gulls ride waves just offshore while the ravens huddle nearby. They and all the beach are in a gloom made darker by the bright whiteness of the glacier and its consort mountains now standing in full sun.  This is one of the few places the birds find food during the winter famine.

I

n days the world of man will indulge in the wonderful excess of Christmas while these birds, like the eagles and deer will continue their annual search for survival scraps. The thought deepens my appreciation of family and the gifts given and my admiration for the creature of sea and forest so well equipped to thrive in this place of cold beauty. I call Aki into the woods, leaving them peace and space to get on with making a living.