Out of Sync

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I am wearing my winter coat, which makes me out of sync with the place where Aki and I walk. The crows and eagles are gathering nesting material. They know it is spring. So do the robins and their cousin thrush staking out territory with their sweet, sweet songs. Already the mallards have formed a nesting colony above the high tide line. 

            Aki reluctantly follows me onto tidelands exposed by the ebbing tide. We can hear eagles bickering while they watch us from their spruce top nest. At water’s edge, plovers and other waders walk stiffly on sticky mud. I almost step on a sea anemone. Exposed to the air, it has to keep its green tendril tucked up tight. In a hour, as the flooding tide washes over it, the anemone will release its tendrils. They will flutter like a tart’s skirt, seducing small fish to their deaths. 

            A large raft of feeding mallards panic into light when a bald eagle flies near and lands. The ducks dither in the air for a few seconds and then return to the ground to feed a few meters from the predator. 

Bending Down to the Rain

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Aki barely stirs when I walk up to her, harness and rain coat in hand. She raises up her head when I call her name then curls up on the bed where she spent the night. I know she can hear me. The sound of heavy rain drops hitting the house’s metal roof isn’t loud enough to block the sound of my voice. I ask her to get up. With some reluctance the little poodle-mix stands, does a downward dog yoga stretch, and lets me dress her. 

            I’m not looking forward to this walk in the rain. But I know that Aki will be squealing with anticipation when I park the car near the Treadwell Woods trailhead. After she leaps out of the car, I’ll climb out to join her, pull up the hood on my rain parka, and realize that it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. 

            We will walk into woods full of bird song, including the sweet-as-candy call of the American robin. Thrush and flycatchers, grown tame by the absence of other dog walkers, will ignore us as they go about their business. 

            Aki will investigate seductive smells. I will look down, not up for things to photograph, find an iron mine car railing emerging from the bell of a spruce tree. I will be surprised by other things that I passed by in the past without recognizing their beauty. It’s an unexpected benefit of having to bend down to the rain. 

Nest Fights

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This morning we have wind-driven rain and a sky full of swarming scavengers. Just a few meters above the tree tops ravens and eagles juke away from and dive on each other. The ravens are making all the noise. Hampered by my rain-spotted glasses I first assume that a raven gang is trying to drive one eagle away from the forest and the river beach it fronts.  After wiping the glasses down with a handkerchief, I can see more than one eagle.

In less than a month, king salmon will rest in nearby river eddies before making their final push to the spawning grounds. Pink, chum, and silver salmons will follow. For most of the summer, the nutrient-rich carcasses of spawned out salmon will drift up onto the beach. Ravens and eagles tough enough to establish nests along the beach will have more than enough food for their chicks.

Eagles are doing most of the nest building. One eagle tries to keep a clump of old man’s beard lichen in its beak as it barrel rolls to escape two ravens. A third eagles takes advantage of the distraction to carry a cottonwood twig to its nest site. The members of the two bird clans are having a free-for-all fight over nest building materials. 

Mellow Swans

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Aki stands staring at two trumpeter swans that feed in a sliver of open water on Moose Lake. Her tail is up but she doesn’t bark. The swans, only a meter away from her, continue to search for food in the calm manner they showed when we first spotted them.

            A screen of alders prevented me from seeing Aki approach the swans or I would never have let her go so close to the tired looking birds. I would have kept closer tabs on the little poodle-mix if not distracted by a stream of water drops pouring off the beak of a third swan that swam a few meters away from Aki’s brace.  

            Because of their massive size, few animals prey on swans. Trumpeters are the largest waterfowl in North America. Their wingspan exceeds two meters. Humans could bring them down with a well-aimed shotgun but that would break federal law. This might explain why the much-hunted mallards usually fly off in a panic when we approach but swans just ignore us. 

            This morning a brace of mallards paddle tight circles around one of the feeding swans. The mallard hen gives me a hard stare, then returns her attention to the swan. The ducks must be feeding on scraps that fall from the swans’ beaks or eating food stirred up as the swans dredge the lake bottom with their massive beaks. 

One Last Ski to the River

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Wondering if we can ski all the way to the river, I lead Aki past Skater’s Cabin and onto the still-snow-covered beach of Mendenhall Lake. The snow is softer than yesterday but still firm enough for skiing. Like yesterday, we have the place to ourselves. 

            Aki rolls in the snow and then plants her face in it. Holding a handful of the coarse-grained stuff is like holding a handful of cold sand. Crush it and you have an ice cube rather than a snow ball. 

            I ski parallel to yesterday’s tracks, surprised to see the tops of rocks poking up through them. On the way to the river, my skis break through a snow bridge over a narrow stream. Thanks to expanding bare spots along the river, I will have to carry my skis a longer distance than yesterday.  

            We pass divots in the snow formed by light, fallen objects rather than rocks. Sun heated things leaves, feathers, and tangles of tree lichen have melted the snow where they came to rest. I remember visit I made this time of year to Grayling on the Alaskan portion of the Yukon River. An Athabaskan man was scattering wood stove ash onto a bulldozer sized patch of snow. When I asked him why, he dug down until he struck the yellow-colored cab of a small Caterpillar earth mover. 

Safe Social Distancing

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It’s already 10 degrees Celsius and the sun’s been up for hours. Good thing I can hike in these ski boots, little dog. Aki, who knows she will get in a walk one way or another, doesn’t care what kind of boots I pull on this morning. After securing her in the car and fasten skis and poles on the roof top carrier, I drive out to Mendenhall Lake.  A lot of snow covered the shore two days ago. Maybe we can still ski along the beach. 

            The warm, sunny weather has drawn people away from their home shelters. Cars fill the Fred Meyers parking lot. More head out Glacier Highway to drive thirty miles to the end of the road system and return. I expect to find the lake shore crowded with people escaping quarantine. But the Skater’s Cabin lot is empty as is the lake. This is almost as surprising as trail conditions. The temperature dropped below freezing last night long enough for a thick crust to form on the beach snow. 

            The little dog trots behind as I sneak onto the lake ice to skirt a bare spot in the beach. It holds, even offers good skiing. I think, for a few seconds, of leaving the safe, solid shore for the freedom offered on the lake ice. We could ski all the way to the glacier free from people and virus worries—establishing a social distance of six kilometers rather than the two meters we must struggle to maintain at the grocery store. But breaking through the lake ice far from help could create a social distance I could not close without becoming a ghost. 

            We return to shore and ski again to the river where mallards sunbathe on the snowy banks. Some fly further downstream when we approach. Most just ignore the little dog and I. The even ignore the martial sound of an avalanche crashing down the flank of Bullard Mountain.

Temperate Jungle

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There are no other humans or dogs in the forest but we are not alone. Like a lost explorer about to be snake bit in a equatorial jungle, I am almost deafened by the racket made by unseen birds. Varied thrush whistle, three-toed woodpeckers tap, Stellar’s jays and kingfishers scold. I search for a glimpse of a bird but have to settle for a spider web weighed down with rain.

            Aki leads me around the now ice-free beaver pond. Was it just last week that we walked on ice across it to the beavers’ lodge?  Rotting ice still covers parts of the pond but it will be gone soon. The green cones of skunk cabbage places poke up from the waters of a nearby stream. New blossoms hang like Japanese lanterns from blue berry plants. Spring has finally arrived in the woods. 

            I have better bird watching when we reach the beach. Mallards feed, heads plunged under the water, near the mouth of Peterson Creek. A raft of frisky golden eye ducks work water further off shore. I almost missed the American robin searching for food among dried stalks of beach grass.  Aki never spotted the robin even though the bird and I stared at each other for more than a minute. I’m the first to look away.  

Soft Beauty

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Wanting at least one more chance to ski, I drive through the rain to Mendenhall Lake. We have it to ourselves. Fog and clouds obscure the glacier and mountains. Spruce covered peninsulas appear and disappear in the moving gloam. Aki breaks through the snow crust every fourth step while my skis keep me on top of it. For the first time all winter, I have it easier than the little dog. 

            At first, I am disappointed with the views. Then the glacier ghosts into view for a moment. The ice color deepens then fades. The glacier disappears. I can briefly make out the silhouette of a Canada goose and those of a raft of Canada geese. Then the soft power of the day returns. 

            We ski over to the river and follow it to a section broken into channels by rocky islands. It’s a place of eddies that trap food for mallards and swans. I count 9 trumpeter and (I think) 2 tundra swans.  They must be new arrivals, taking a break from their northern migration. The trumpeters have formed a community on one of the islands. Resident mallard ducks crowd up close to them. Downriver, the two tundra swans cuddle off a snowy point. 

Turquoise Ice

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Yesterday, after the fog burned off, Aki’s other human and I rode our bicycles to Sheep Creek. We enjoyed blue skies and a summer time temperature of 16 degrees Celsius. After his one-day visit, summer left with the sun, driven south by rain. The temperature dropped 12 degrees. We are back on skis with Aki in tow. 

            Only one car occupies the Skater’s Cabin parking lot when we arrive. It belongs to a dog walker that leaves as we carry our skis to the lake. We felt lucky to find a parking place on our last visit. We find Mendenhall Lake covered with turquoise colored ice. Snow, in some places more than 30 cm thick, still blankets the beach. Made just soft enough by the rain, the snow provides us great skiing. 

            After taking a few snow baths, Aki falls in behind me as we head toward the river. We visited with a family of swans several times on the river this spring. As I search for them, a northern harrier drops from the top of a spruce and glides across the river. Other than the resident mallards, the harrier will be the only bird we will see until just before we leave the river for the woods. Then our thee swans will appear from behind a downriver bend and fly away to the north.

Lifting Fog

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Thick fog slowed our drive to the Fish Creek trailhead. But I am not hurry.I want to arrive at the creek mouth just as the fog lifts like a curtain. I’d settle for a chance to watch it tear itself apart on the spruce-covered Douglas Island Ridge. 

            Through a screen of alders, we can hear mallards cackling on meadow of dead grass. Wisps of fog rise up from around the ducks. A large raft of male golden-eye duck have taken over the pond. The most aggressive drakes try to drive the others away from a huddle of hens. On a quieter edge of the pond, two other golden-eyes paddle with the tranquility of an old married couple. 

            The fog thickens when we leave the pond. I start slow-walking my way toward the mouth, doddling often, seeing little. Several song sparrows cheer us with their short, but sweet melodies. Aki shows me the patience of a care giver at a senior citizen center. 

            The fog defeats my attempts to photograph with its gray cloak. Two eagles appear out of the muck, then disappear into a tangle of spruce limbs. Then the wind rises, stirring the occluding ground layer as the sun burns away fog that seconds before had blocked out view of the Mendenhall Towers.