While watching Aki’s exuberant dash about this snowy meadow I wonder at how little we understand each other. She reads smells; I English. Still she has trained me to take her to these white open spaces with repeated displays of apparent happiness—-leaps that end in a shoulder plant leading to a long surface slide then the burying of her doggy face in the snow. This always brings a smile to my human face.

Today I look for signs of the resurrection that is spring; she for clues left by those who have gone before.  She has better chance of success. Fog still softens the near horizon of the Peterson Salt Chuck leaving me with a view of snow retreating from brown dead grass lands. The snow, which with its brother ice brought on the near death of autumn, now takes away the only clues of light and life on it retreat from the sky’s new warmth. Nothing here speaks of Easter, a holiday scheduled too early in the year for Northern places.

We are not alone. There are Canada Geese feeding along a salt chuck edge just exposed by melting ice. They hold their ground apparently aware that we cannot cross the crumbing barrier of ice between them and us. We hear their grumbling long after passing out of their view.

Islands of good sized spruce trees dot the meadow, each offering bare firm ground on which to walk, a welcome relief from the softening meadow snow. Most hold their health but the bark of one tree has almost been removed by porcupines. (An unfortunately tasty victim or willing sacrifice?).  Just past this island Aki dashes ahead. A small dark thing moves across my path at incredible speed. Was this blur a Pine Martin or an evil spirit flushed from sleep by snow melt? Aki puts me at ease on her return, dashing along the same route of the dark presence. Although sometimes she appears to see ghosts, her actions here are those of a dog following freshly laid scent.

This is March at its best—day long sun, long days, little wind, comfortable temperatures. Looking across to Douglas Island from our kitchen window I can see where Aki and I will spend part of it.  Just below the ridge line lies a mountain bowl drained by Kowee Creek, now flooded with afternoon light, that we haven’t visited for some time. That must change today.

In minutes we reach the trailhead and start up a trail packed down by snow machines. I’m carrying snow shoes but soon stash them along side the trail. They are not needed on this well set trail that takes us past dark forests and slanting meadows covered with sensuous mounds of snow crystals that sparkle like rock candy. I grab and hold Aki when two snow machines approach from down trail. They whine as they move towards us driven by riders dressed in sleek jumpsuits, dark goggles, and molded helmets with mouth protectors—-high tech insects passing over old ground.

Aki gives a light hearted chase to the machines as they move up trail. I feel the same way about them on this perfect day; reminded by the sound and smell of their half consumed hydrocarbons of our old life in Western Alaska when we used snow machines to gather food and firewood. As their sound fades I hear for the first time the open waters of Kowee Creek mix with songs of birds sheltering in the belt of trees that hide it from view. Two college aged woman approach and begin gushing about Aki in her bright red wrap. She is such a chick magnet, one that thankfully came into my life after I could use her as a bridge to loveliness.

I am surveying another beaver flooding, crunching over thin ice formed where the raised pond water just covered the trail before freezing, stopping where the trail makes a sudden drop. Its just above freezing but a Taku wind pattern has set in to make walking uncomfortable on more exposed trails.

Clear, windy days are best spent in relatively unmolested spruce forests that touch a beach where looking up offers a view of blue sky crowded with the tops of hundred foot tall Evergreens. Shafts of light radiate small patches of forest green, Wind driven surf sighs while breaking on the nearby beach.  I’d sigh with the surf to release beaver frustration if the ice layer over their newly flooded territory did not glow with beauty where struck by sunbeams.

Its a rare and puzzling thing—this arrival of Taku conditions before forest understory plants could send the last of their summer energy to root or the snow could insulate them.  Most plants look shocked by sudden onset, leaves cringing, surprised by the killing frost while stretching out with confidence that time would allow weeks more to top off the mother’s tank.

Leaving the beavers to their flooded world Aki and I move to the forest edge where   high tide covers most of the beach. Normally a cold weather sanctuary for sea birds and eagles, we find none today. Only two stunning white dots floating the swell between Outer Point and Shaman Island suggest life. They are big enough to be swans.

Deer hunting season starts tomorrow. What do I tell this deer now crossing the road? Do I warn him, wish him well, or say goodbye? I was running through these options when he gave me a quick over the shoulder look and jumped into the woods. Somebody’s dinner meat?

Today isn’t about the deer or hunting or even the amazing wildflowers in full bloom on this rain soaked mountain meadow. I’m here for the bugs and it’s Robert Armstrong’s fault. If he and Kathy Hocker and John Hudson hadn’t written an excellent book on the aquatic insects of Alaska, Aki and I wouldn’t be standing on the edge of this small pond looking for mosquito larva. 

Armstrong promised that if we make a cautious approach we could see the larva hanging just below the water surface with only the tip of their breathing tube exposed to the air. He didn’t mention rain and I never considered how it might discourage mosquito larva. We don’t see any larva. There is a large water strider trying to make his way across the water surface to safe harbor in some pond side grass. 

The strider fights the wind and the concentric waves created by each rain drop hitting the pond. Sometimes these collide with each other to create confusion on the water surface. If the strider hit one of these pockets would the surface tension beneath his feet collapse to sink him to the bottom of pond? Now we have drama that distracts us from the rain until the strider disappears in an undercut running along one side of the pond.

After the pond I return to my cataloging of the songs made by the mountain water courses. It’s a good day for it with heavy constant rainfall charging the rivulets and streams.  I struggle to come up with new terms to replace those that have now become cliches. A small stream draining this field of magenta shooting stars makes a laughing sound moving along side the trail. Others gurgle or slosh or even roar when they pass through culverts under the trail. All the watercourses eventually join Fish Creek. 

The trail takes us to a small bridge crossing the creek, which blocks out the sound of wind and bird song with its violent symphony. The energy of the swollen stream draw me with an implied promise that by standing here long enough I can absorb its power and understand the things it had seen in its short passage from snow fields to here.  It’s a musical rope woven from all the songs of its tributaries. I try without success to tease out the strands of song and find the contributions of at least one song in my catalogue of watercourse sound. 

Aki, who didn’t want to join me on the bridge, cringes at my feet. Does she know she would never survive a dunking in the fast moving stream? More likely the stream noise hurts her ears. Either way she needs to move so we turn and start the climb through the rain soaked meadows to home.  

Gone from Aki and Alaska, I’m eating a perfectly ripe pear along the Snake River where it forms the border between Idaho and Washington.  Pears don’t travel well to Alaska so this one is a treat.  Swallow’s Nest rock, a volcanic outcropping pointing out over the Snake River like a ship’s prow to dominate the view. This and the myriad other volcanic formations that break through the grass covered bluff land along the river give proof that super hot lava once poured over this land then cooled to deep impervious plain. Then the river, following the line of least resistance etched a wandering line that deepened, then widened until the Snake River appeared.

Downriver offered a different history lesson where the Snake and Sweetwater Rivers meet. Here in the early 1800’s a federal survey team led by Lewis and Clark recovered from their crossing of the Rocky Mountains on land of the Nez Pierce Indians

My family lives here and I try to ride this bike path along the river when I visit. The sun can drive the temperature above 100 degrees and the river has been known to flood out the path. But the river level dropped even though it rained last night. Now angry clouds are replacing blue skies above the Idaho side of the river, keeping the temperature down. My presence disturbs the robins who must have nests nearby. They remind me of Juneau and Aki who would be tempted to chase them. The river current brings another reminder of home in the form of a Merganser hen and a large brood if fuzzy checks.

The Swallow’s Nest was my childhood Olympus. It seemed to rise about the river to an impossible height. During every visit I’d dream about climbing it but shed from asking if it was OK. From here seemed with my older eyes, it is only an easy walk up a grassy slope.