Today’s snow provides a welcomed, if temporary makeover for the moraine. It settles in fine lines along the branches of otherwise bare alders to emphasize their strength and grace. It hides mud and decaying leaves under a thinning white blanket. Aki and I walk to the moraine’s edge where it abuts Mendenhall Lake. Each beach pebble is wrapped in a coating of snow that can’t quite reach the underlying sand.
When we first broke through the trees to the beach sunlight muscled through clouds to shine off some of the glacier. It also reached the top of the surrounding mountains. That changed in minutes as a snow squall moved over the lake to block our view.
Back in the thin moraine woods, we slip and slide on a muddy trail and listen to heavy drops of snowmelt plop onto puddles. After a bad muddy stretch the little dog detours through the snow cover woods to clean her paws. The wet trail reminds me that this is just a taste of winter beauty. One storm off the pacific will wash it all away. One from the Bering Sea will bring the cold and more snow to free us from autumn’s purgatory.
As she always does, Aki squeals and fidgets in the car as we approach the glacier trailhead. She flies out of the car when I open the door even though no dogs are near to welcome her. She must always expect wonders at the start of every hike.
We drove through rain, snow, sun and more rain during the 12-mile drive from Chicken Ridge so I only expect confusion from the weather. I hope for a chance to watch mountain goats forage on the rock face above Nugget Falls. I didn’t expect to spot a female white-wing crossbill on some glacier-scrubbed rocks near the trail. The little yellow/gray bird’s bill strands it way out on an evolutionary limb. Overlapping like a broken pair of scissors, the bird’s bill is dynamite for prying seeds from spruce cones, which is why it thrives in the rainforest. The Audubon folks write that the white-winged crossbill can feed on pine seeds and even fruit in a pinch but it’s slim beak evolved to hammer spruce. “Chow down, little bird,” I tell it, “and pray that the spruce forest doesn’t shrink like our glacier.”
Because people are coming over for a holiday dinner, Aki will get a bath today. I hide this from her. The little dog has a love/hate relationship with soap and water. She hates the bath but loves to dash around the house when freshly clean. She also loves to explore tidal meadows—a place she is unlikely to leave without mud and muck imbedded in her poodle fur.
We drop down from a well-used trail to the meadow and hear a series of “rock dropping into a well” sounds. Ducks start migrating over our heads, at first in one and twos, and then in dozens. I blame the Labrador retriever that went down the trail ahead of us for flushing the birds until I spot him heading back to the trailhead with his owner. Do the math Dan. The sound of something being plunked into water followed by ducks in frantic flight equals crab pot placements. Someone just dropped a line of crab pots into a chunk of Smuggler’s Cove covered with waterfowl. We won’t have much to watch when we reach the cove overlook so I snap pictures of fleeing mallards as they pass into front of the Mendenhall Towers and Mount McGinnis.
It’s a day for rain forest dwellers to cash in on an early spring day with sun and temperatures in the 50’s. Some with boats spend this warm Easter Morning dropping crab pots. Others troll for feeder king salmon off False Outer Point. Many, like Aki and I, just look at things.
We run into a group of serious bird watchers with serious spotting scopes and serious tripods for mounting them. Understandably, they are not happy to receive Aki’s happy, if loud greeting. I would have told them where the Smuggler Cove ducks now feed but did not want to intrude.
The little dog and I, we spend this holiday morning with sun on our faces listening to eagle song and duck complaints. I wonder at the beauty so accessible to one with eyes and interest; the little dog rolls in something rich in sea smells that last night’s tide left in the meadow grass. Thank God for the day and that Aki is scheduled for a bath.
Thanks to the fog, Aki and I are alone on the Nugget Falls trail. One couple passed us when we were still near the visitor’s center, disappeared into the grey, reappeared and then melted away as they returned to the parking lot. Aki doesn’t enjoy the solitude brought by the thick blanket. She hunts for other people and dogs, sometimes roaming farther away than normal. But I have an advantage over the little dog. I can imagine the glacier and Mendenhall Towers that rise above the ice. We both can hear the falls but my mind sees its braided courses plunge into the lake. It can also see mountain goats, white fur tinged yellow, feeding above the falls. This requires more faith, given the fickleness of wild animals.
When the fog lift I can see the glacier’s foot, the falls, and three pure white dots that my telephone lens transforms into mountain goats. An adult and kid feed without consideration of the little dog or I. The other adult looks down on us before he too feeds. They know neither dog nor man can climb their steep hillside.
Recently, someone had a picnic dinner at the base of the falls and left the Styrofoam tray that once held his pork tenderloins. I know his initials, W.C., because he also dropped his Alaska Airlines boarding pass for a flight from Seattle. On a sunny day I might get angry while carrying W.C.’s garbage back to the visitor’s center trash can and imagine him as a littering yob who eats unhealthy food in the presence of goat and glacier. But walking through country made indistinct by low clouds, it is easier on my heart to assume that wind had ripped away W.C.’s trash.