Aki is banned from the house. She isn’t being punished for a sin. All she did was lower herself into a muskeg mudhole on a very warm morning. She and I were hot, exposed on an open berry picking meadow. Our bodies had been generating heat by helping us bounce over the soggy surface of the meadow.

Before she sought relief in the mud, I tried to cool Aki off by feeding her cloudberries. I chose the overripe ones because they dissolved easily on her tongue.

Juneau is enjoying our annual mid-summer sun spell. The clouds broke early in the week, after dumping near-record levels of rain on us. The weather folks are threatening a return of rain tonight. I’d have welcomed a brief rain shower when the little dog and I were picking cloudberries. Aki’s glad that we still have clear skies. After trying to sneak into the house, she curled herself on a patch of sun-warmed bricks and fell asleep.

Cloudberries struggle to grow in this Southern Alaskan meadow. When Aki’s other human and I lived on the Tundra in Western Alaska, the locals called named them, “salmonberries.” Harvested by Yup’ik families, salmonberries provided essential vitamins and nutrients all winter long. We pick them this morning, to enjoy their tundra flavors in our rain forest home.

            Aki trots between his humans, stopping long enough for one of us to feed her before moving over to the other one. Sometimes, she harvests one herself. Yesterday, after eating lots of blueberries, her poop turned blue. Tonight, it may take on the yellow tundra colors of cloudberries.

Aki and I are driving north to the end of the Juneau highway system. It’s a holiday weekend so the side of the road is lined with parked cars at each beach. I hadn’t intended on driving far. But each trailhead parking lot is jammed. Thirty-eight miles out, we reach the Cowee Meadows trailhead. Even though the trail leads to three forest service cabins, there are only two cars in the parking area. 

            After pulling on my mosquito repelling shirt, I lead Aki onto the boardwalk trail. Not wanting to overstress her injured leg, I tell myself that we will only walk a mile or so, to where the trail swings out of the forest and onto a flower-covered meadow. The little dog seems fine when we reach the meadow so I continue on, hoping to reach the section dominated by will iris. While there, I think about the marmots. 

            Just a mile more and we will reach the mouth of Cowee Creek where a colony of marmots hang out. Looking like oversized Guinea pigs, the marmots stand as rigid as bowling pins on the tops of glacier erratics (boulders) to watch us pass. 

            No clouds block the sun and its calm. The little dog starts to pant. I divert over to a small stream so she can help herself to water. She wades in chest deep, letting the stream cool her down. I forgot to bring a water bottle and could use a drink. But the marmot village is only a kilometer away. 

            A shrill warning whistle lets us know the marmots are near. But they don’t show themselves. I search each time we hear another whistle, but see nothing but wild flowers and sparrows trying to draw us away from their nests. 

            On the return trip to the car, I carry Aki over awkward sections of the trail. She acts surprised at first but then stops and waits to be picked up each time the trail is complicated by exposed tree roots and mud.