Aki is a lover, not a fighter; otherwise, I would be pulling porcupine quills from her muzzle. She found the porcupine, a silverback, after we passed through an old growth forest with burl-deformed spruce trees. One was swollen by a burl the size of a small boulder near its base as if a women in her 40^th week. Dozens of burls colonized another spruce before it died. Now it stands in a forest opening like a PSA billboard for safe sex. I don’t know why so many burls deform these trees or even what causes them to form. I can guess why Aki charged down the trail, broke into the woods, and sniffed the noise of the porcupine while she wagged her tail. She sees every creature as a future playmate. I am just thankful that she sniffs, not bites at the porcupine. Its cousins live all around us.

Only Aki and I walk among the Treadwell ruins today. The forest of cottonwoods and alders that overgrow the ruins provide scant protection from rain that has already wiped out the snow cover. Only thin skins of ice over drains survive the deluge, each holding little shinny bubbles that looked to have captured winter sunlight. Unless the temperature drops they will be gone soon.

Without beauty to distract me, I think about the women who lived above ground here while their men pushed their mining tunnels further under Gastineau Channel. What did they think of days like this that would have been made more miserable for them by the nonstop “boom, boom, boom” of the ore stamp mills. At night, what did they talk about with their husbands or sons? How could they come up with stories worth the effort of telling over the stamp mill noise?

I climb up from sea level, surprised to find my boots sinking deep into the water soaked, formerly firm gravel trail. Turning left, I head for the Glory Hole overlook where we can watch the storm move up channel. Aki doesn’t follow but waits where the trail forks toward the car. Even she finds little reason today to stay in this monochromatic world being washed clean by rain.

From the car, the forestland drained by Eagle River looks like it is posing for a Christmas card. Snow clings to the spruce to weigh down the dark green boughs. But appearances are misleading thanks to the above-freezing temperature and light rain. Inside the woods, the trees shed their snowy frosting in drips and the occasional cascade. We try not to stop under any overhanging branches. The big drops of snow startle Aki.

Gray pools of wet snow grow beneath the larger spruce trees and will soon transform into bare ice. Our warm, wet weather is killing the ski trail, which adds spice to our visit. I feel that same mixture of excitement and anxiety that hits in life drawing class as I try to nail down the geometry of a human face before the model flinches. In class, the tension brings energy to the drawing. Today, in these woods, I wonder if it heightens my senses. Deep in the forest I spell the perfume of Balm of Gilead that cottonwoods released on warm spring days. Has the weight of a cottonwood’s snowy jacket cracked open one of next spring’s leaf buds or am I enjoying the sweetest hallucination?

Fall winds and winter cold stripped the Gold Creek cottonwoods down to the bones. Thanks to the snowstorm that hit last night they look dramatic in front of the white flanks of Mt. Juneau. Enjoying the soft, new snow, Aki charges up and down the trail. The 30-knot wind gusts that fly overhead seem to energize her. The little dog enjoys the soft side of winter.

A wall of stalactites has formed from water seeping through a rock wall. On a sunny day, I’d find the season’s hard edge in the ice. But in today’s mild light, they glow as soft as the wind and cottonwood skeletons are harsh.

Mud frozen to a clean walking surface, dog sign, full sun, ice-lined river—these things drew me to this open stretch of wetlands. The openness scented with dog scat and pee keeps Aki happy. She dashes over the flatness until stopped by smells left by previous canine users of the trail.

Airplane noise, construction cranes and cell phone towers photo-bombing pictures of glacial mountains, airport light standards, subzero wind chill—these are today’s negatives. I ignore them all for a chance to watch the sun break over the Douglas Island’s mountain spine.

It’s Christmas Eve in Sweden. I wonder if they have snow. We don’t except on the ice field and the mountains that separate us from it. The weather is balmy but a stiff wind blows across Chicken ridge toward the state capitol building downtown. From the old Perseverance Basin mining road I watch long white plumes of snow fly from the top of Mount Roberts, reaching like baby’s fists for the blue sky above town. Aki, who cares naught about baby fists of snow, plays grab ass with the other dogs as their minders exchange holiday greetings. In Sweden they already feel the joy of Christmas. I hope that all our friends will feel a similar joy, no matter which book contains their spiritual rules.