The end of the trail

I'm Five miles back, off the trail,and into the varied greens of ferns, shrubs, and mosses--all embroidered among the spruce trees and birch.Here,the granite hills mix with the sounds of water and forest; here time is lived in the borderland, where moose, bear, and birds come to feed. Below, deep in a gorge, the deep sounds of water crash and mix and foam. I eat the sweet and sour blueberries, gathering them in my hand, absorbing their moisture as the sun melts away the dew.The miles that have brought me here are along a broken trail, washed away in places, or grown in from lack of foot pounding by people. I like the bushwhacking, the dead fall, the swamps, and gushing water--separating those who have a passion for the land vs the strangers coming to take and break the delicate outlines of this place. Few get this far and I don't mind. I'm on my own now. Soon, I settle along a ridge until I come to a corner, then I descend to the creek below. From the bottom I'll follow the course down until the current is too strong, skirting the rough and deep stretches on the sand and gravel bars, or along trails of animals on the banks. The alder grows along the stream side,while in some sheltered woods the devils club flourishes.I walk across a small filled in pond of grasses and wild cotton, then through the fringes to the white openness of the stream. How sound seems so welcoming after being inside the green shades and tints of the hills. The waters are of light green-yellow, combined with soft blues of the sky, pouring into a pool nearby. Across the down stream side, a tree lies fallen, creating a deep shadow into the pool. A good place for trout I think. I stand for a moment, looking upstream, downstream, all around, listening and absorbing the impressions.Then it happens...as though timing or accident brings things into each other's orbit. A large black bear over three feet at the shoulder, as judged by the trees and rocks about, and over three hundred pounds. He crosses the downed tree, and softly comes to rest on the tan colored sand. A breeze from upstream gently flows by. The bear knows something is amiss. He lifts his nose into the air and sniffs. He knows another smell occupies the place. I stand still and wait, wondering which way the bear will go.After a few moments of random pacing, the bear turns and walks down stream, rounding a corner and vanishing into the alders. I would like to know more but I want to check the pool for trout. I like the colors of the water, the depths of protective Shadow and limbs. The hook sails across and arcs into the bottom. Then a bite and a trout is caught. I will have food for tomorrow. The day is shortening now, and I clean the fish and set off again, back to the broken trail to bushwhack and feed on berries, getting out by dark.

Webs in the trees

How interesting, that spiders weave such delicate designs, not only beautiful but useful for getting food. I wonder though how the function of such devious ideas can also lead to higher thoughts of things divine. A tiny creature is the maker, but maybe also the blind servant of a greater Law; yet we give a name "instinct", whereby actions and works of beauty are made unconsciously, thinking that this pattern is fully explained. The deeper we look, the more facts and connections we make, only lead us into mazes of layered imaginings.

The Invisible materializes

Morning...soft light after a night's rain, while the fog lays in a vapor, hiding the distance scenes. Here and there, the sun breaks the silence with its light.Like most mornings at this time of year, the coolness has coated the trees, shrubs, and plants with sparkling dew.It has also coated what was unseen before...ovoid shapes more than a foot in diameter glisten in the light; these are spider webs with drops of dew filling the spaces in the lines and nodal points of the web. Each one reflects the world around. Small drops, medium drops; these occupy a common place,with the largest drop in the center of the circle.Once the day advances, the clouds return to cover the sun, and once more the spider designs become invisible again.

Where Past and Present Meet

What minds had dreamed this place, had wandered in search of riches here, and kindled the flame of adventure in arriving in this valley? What manner of men had spent their light in beating back the insects and heat,climbing the hills to investigate?Had the beauty of glacial lakes or u-shaped valley curves gave pause to appreciate the land, or were their minds single in the lure of gold, the only color seen?

We that come later can only guess what was in their hearts, of some who knew the original place. Now roads of dusty past take a thousand people through, who only want a place to get away. Now we come to play and spend the day, well fed with food and drink, without the fear of struggle. The people are softer now, of a race that is supported by the past, who wander about for an hour or two and are gone. But the people who once came here were tough and resolute enough to carve a world from here. I see their ghosts on every hill...

The distant hills

Across the many miles of dusty road we finally arrived at the top, at 3886' of Hatcher's Pass. Still,even here,the hills hemmed us in, inside this gap between the hills.But from this vantage point, far down the valley we saw the overlapping lines of hill, where the waters flowed downward to combine with the main river,gathering force in the hollows at the bottom. And we looked upwards and saw the edge of things. And there the sun and clouds hovered, casting onto the jagged rocks and broken slope small shadow shapes. Then appeared in the the changing light the zig-zag lines of trails hammered out from shale hills, revealing the way up to the tops. Too many people we thought had been here, had dug the hills, and emptied them. tA thousand trips has pounded out flatness into hills and left scars on their brows.

So I said to her that I would be back shortly. I climbed the opposite side instead, one filled with plants and flowers.It was steep here too, but not beaten down. At first the steps were soft, but the higher I climbed the loose remains reappeared. I gripped the hill until I was near the top, among the jagged rocks, along the rust-colored ridge where the snow had lain so deep in May. I had made my own path a pathless way, while my eyes gazed into another place deep within the lower sky, among the clouds that hovered there, in distant colors of shade. From here my view was clear, the air was pure with thought--this moment of reaching the top.

Kennicott and McCarthy area from the Jumbo Mine.

High above the valley a mile up, the copper ore was dug and carried down in buckets, carried on cables connected by wooden towers. The tailings here at Jumbo Mine have filled the hollows of a mountain cirque, and appear from far below as summer snow grow hard. Until 1938, the ore was mined and carried down to be taken by rail to the coast. The logistics of this operation, especially in this remote place, seem incredible for the early 20th century and it's technologies. The men and women were tough, able to adapt to hardships of winter and summer climate in the regions of contrast. Physical hardship paid less for the miners and workers in the mill, but made millionaires even richer in this time.

Kennicott Mill and Buildings

The large build up of glacial morraine makes the works of man seem small. The Kennicott Mine area skirts the vastness of Glaciers, Mountains, and mounds of gravel and ice. Yet here, in austere plain, contained by the walls of stone and ore, the early 20th century civilization of the United States was build on copper. Here vast amounts of this ore were discovered amidst the rugged landscape. The green colored slopes, glinting in the sun, revealed huge amounts of copper. And with rivers and glaciers and mountain barriers, the power of money and reward made possible this remote place to be built.