Porcupines on the Trail

In Spring time the woods are in full activity: budding of plants, awakening of the bear, the warming of the air, and porcupines. The two dogs, Pancho and Sheba, are with me as I hike up Indian Pass Trail. The coolness and muddiness of the bottom land in the valley gives way to hills at the north end. Within the lower area, four avalanche chutes have created openings in the lower parts of the valley; four areas of grass, small plants, and willows along the creek that cuts between. Up ahead on the trail, Pancho runs ahead and my eyes follow his movements--a porcupine; not what I want to do today, take quills out of a dog's face. I call him back and he returns. Sheba dog has already an experience with porcupines and quill pulling. She looked very strange with a mouthful of quills in her face. That was a year ago, so I wonder if she has learned her lesson. Anyway, we go on up the trail and start to ascend the first hill before reaching the open slopes above the valley. Half way up I stop for a drink at a rest area; here is a good view of the lower valley, the bay, and the valleys and mountains on the other side. Nice--pastel colors of blues and greens, as well as patches of white. A few timbers, aged by the sun, lay in the rest site, and I unsling my shotgun, take off my pack, lay both down, and then sit for the view. The dogs lay down by me, probably expecting scraps of my food. Lazy dogs. So, I sip on water and gaze over the awakening land, looking from far to near, up the slopes and down the hill. Then a movement fifteen feet away catches my attention; a porcupine is slowly moving up through the nearby alder and among the cow parsnips plants. The dogs lazily watch. The little porcupine watches too. Slowly, I gather my camera for a shot, get up and approach my little visitor and get some pictures. He isn't afraid, but slowly shifts about. Like some photo shoot he poses and I click away. Soon both he and I tire of our meeting; he turns and slowly wanders off down the trail while we get ready to head up. I wonder how other people's dogs will do with the porcupines on the trail? At least Sheba dog passed the test this time and I'm not picking quills out of her mouth.

Nettles

Within the foliage cover, a space of air, framed by the jagged, teeth edges of leaves, shouts out a malignant warning not to touch. Like some vibratory dance which inflames the hidden stingers, the leaves of the Nettles are clearly things to avoid. How had they come to be this way? Thorns are easier to understand; armored rows of claws that protect the succulent Rose; but the Nettles have invisible stingers hidden on the leaf, and even a brush against the plant leads to welts and pain. Besides, the leaves have a scary look, as though to say with a visual tongue, "Do not touch me..." While other plants, more benign, seem to cope without a need to arm Themselves; so why does the Nettle seek to protect itself? What sweet secret is denied the predatory taste? But I am reminded of how the forest is place of life forms which consume and are also consuming, as though directed by some unseen Will to live or perish in the struggle for existence. Beautiful dangers lurk in the plant world.

Things Small

The Road Home

I drove 500 miles of road from Anchorage to Cantwell and back today. That was the easy part: after flying around Mt. McKinley, then across to Denali National Park, over d Wonder Lake, the plane finally stopped in an old mining town called Kantishna. Once there, I hiked uphill to a old mine 2.5 miles away. Whew! Meanwhile, the pilot was returmomg to pick up my wife. So, I have three hours of solitude for quiet and peace in the hills above Kantishna. Here, in a dry land of beautiful tundra, of unforested hills,and bare ridges that run for long empty miles, the sense of unhurried time settles over everything. But still, I can't drink the water; it seems the locals have to use a spring nearby. It must be the arsenic and other metals in this gold mine area where the hills have colors of iron oxide and white quartz. Between all this, the ravines are filled with willows, barely leafed out. As I walk, I also see a few song birds I'm not familiar with . The good thing is that no mosquitoes or tourists are out yet; I have it all to myself. Further up the hill on the dry rocky hills, I find beautiful clusters of moss campion in bright pinks. This is arid country, still transitioning into summer, so I can imagine it's harshness in a few weeks to come. Meanwhile, most of the shrubbery and lower tree stands are just budding. Further up and around, I find a dip in the road and go down to the mine buildings. As I approach the location, a few thunder heads peek over the rise and start to boom. This means rain. I turn down an old trail to the dilapidated houses, pushing aside the alder, and finally make shelter as the rain starts to pelt the earth. With sun and rain, the shimmering effects of light, both from sun and cloud, I wait in the darkness of an old house, once the home to gold seekers. Finally the rain stops. I walk on...then comes another shower, and I run to the lower part of the mine building and wait again. Inside, partially collapsed, roof propped by timbers, I stay near the door frame just in case. Not much inside. Seems like most of the equipment is now gone. The afternoon passes in the flaming brightness over the rolling hills. Below is a steep valley that feeds into the main valley of Kantishna. The plane returns, flying above me, heading for the air strip. Time to return and rejoin everyone. Once again, into the cockpit, back across the length of the Park, where the thin line of the road heads east, to the beginning, to Cantwell. Once back in Cantwell, we say our goodbyes and drive through the late afternoon light. My wife just snores away. I am one of the few drivers on the road but the hours of daylight have grown and the light barely fades. Far off, the delicate shape of Mt. Mckinley, and the smaller hills about it's base, form a long stretch on the west side of Broad Pass. It's five hours to home, and signs of sleep are digging into my thoughts, but I keep moving, stopping in places to take pictures along the way. Then, when I feel the fatigue, I stop and rest, sinking into reverie, where layers of consciousness slide and slip sideways in my mind. The day settles into a twilight of slow crawling miles ,while the highway curves and climbs and straightens, on and on until morning, until I reach home.

Climbers On Mt. Mckinley

At 13,000 feet, the icy terrain and higher walls of rock seem so daunting; while the human sense of scale and importance is like a speck of dust. Even the distant hills, much lower in height, shrink in the thin air; their details and forms fade in the intervening mists. The pilots' perspective, circling around McKinley's base, sailing over the Ruth Amphitheater, and turning by the Wickersham Wall is filled with sights which makes me pause to what human life, with all its' ambitions, can really be: a story of humanity's short stay on earth as compared to the vast changes of geological time. Here, in this perpetual place of biting cold, humans think their struggles-- climbing the ridges, walls, and ice falls-- are a greater glory than the giant rock faces they climb. The ranges and gorges, glaciers and naked ribs of rock, carved and shaped by wind and cold, are more than just places to climb; they are the beginnings of the rivers far below, the source of life for the animals and fish and peoples of the land; they are the a frozen gift from the high places. And the climbers, tiny visitors who can stay but a moment on the mountain, experience new wonders; and some feel a deep abiding love that brings them back again in their dreams. Perhaps, it is the mountain, not them, that has conquered the human spirit, though each person will bring back a memory of ice and snow, rock and void, and the blaze of sun in the zone of death .

Bears Meet Man

At the trail head, a hiker slowly stretched his legs, readying himself for the steep climb up Falls Creek. On his back was one those water packs from which to draw water while moving and sweating. He was a physical type, aiming for the peaks high above. I doubt he and I would have much contact, for I slowly made my way, examined the ground and early flowers while I walked; he would move without pause, blood pumping, heart racing, gasping for air until he stood on the top of the mountain. He lived in time; I just lived in the moment. I waited for him to go on , for I wanted some space and solitude, in order to feel the colors, sounds, and sweet aroma of Nature's awakening. Unlike the hiker, this adventure would not reach it's burning pitch at the top; each step was a moment of desire where I connected to the world at different levels: insect, plant, tree, rock, bird, animal, water, and cloud. And Surprises could happen at the very beginning too. It seemed that when the hurried hiker plodded through the woods, a ripple of sound moved ahead of him and alerted the birds or squirrels and even a bear or two. I moved slowly along the trail, kneeled down to view the underside of a plant, when something happened, as things do--rapidly and without pause--the presence of two black bears broke the silence; they had been hiding behind a boulder, but now rushed out and away from me. They were as surprised as I was surprised by them; one went down and the other went up; but I kept walking to increase my distance. Then, once I was safely above on a small hill, I turned and watched the mother bear below. She paced back and forth, smelled the ground and looked for the cub. They had probably been foraging for food, waiting for the fish to return to the streams. The hiker, unknowingly had driven the bears behind the boulder, where they waited for him to pass. Then I had come along quietly, slowly, giving the bears a sense that danger had passed. My timing had been perfect for this meeting, although a little too close for comfort. And interestingly, the climax for this experience had come at the beginning of the walk. The top of the mountain would have to wait.

Leaf Dreams and the Kingdom

Like butterflies, the leaves in clustered hope, hover above the forest floor, aligned in passages of light, leading through the spaces where other kingdoms meet. They flatten themselves to capture the available light, floating on the spectral seas of emptiness. And other fragments of vegetable life contend to capture places of rest near the ground or high up in the opaque canopy. But the middle ground of existence is filled with possibility; and here the clustered leaf family finds a place of rest, weaving pathways around and through the woody tracts of unguarded airy realms. And from gentle light to the dim gulfs of dream time, these islands of leafy thoughts lead on and on among the other nations, gathering the energy of the sun.

Up The Ravine

Once in the forest, I am gathered in the dim light, among a subtle diffusion of yellow greens and reddish tones of the floor. Here, large stands of Hemlock, high branches hung with club moss, cover the steep inclines, packed tightly together. The mountain on which this forest is fashioned, is a series of steps, ravines, draws, slides, meadows, and cliffs up to the far timberline 2000' above. What distinguishes this place is the wetness of rot and decay. This is a rain forest where large amounts of moisture continually feed the land. The ravines are filled with fallen trees, choked in places with shrubbery; the draws advance up the mountain, lined with berry brush; the slopes and benches are cut by angled trails that lead up to where the deer sit and watch the hunters climb; the slides are shaled breaks from the cliffs high on the crest; and the meadows, open to the clouds and sun and sky, are filled with thickets and thorns. But I like being here nevertheless, and the zig-zag movements, around obstacles of slippery rock or brush, helps the climb, preserves the energy while keeping a good view of the land above. Here is the world of the deer,who on the upper levels, watch for danger below. Any touch of wind can bring my smell to them, causing a stir in the brush, or up on the cliffs, their sudden departure. Humans smell of death. I am here as a hunter, as a killer, as dark drama in the lime green woods, slowly creeping from level to level; as a hungry predator. Perhaps these solitary hours of wandering, have awakened primeval yearnings; somewhere at the base of the brain, primitive center of the survival mode, slowly taking hold of my appetites. I feel the civilized comforts melt away; leaving in place, a savage taste for blood. The instincts of predatory imagination stir like a wind within me; the legacy of human history gone into reverse. I am at the top of the food chain, with only the bear in close second; and death is always near. The deer know I am here in their woods.

Old Growth Forest

Before I left the beach for the twilight of the forest, I gazed out into Seymour Canal; islands, reefs, and distant hills softened into bright morning light. I stood on the shale beach and watched the dark silhouette of the skiff vanish down the open side of the Cove. Then, I turned and entered the forest, where silence and solitude would accompany me through the thick, primeval jungle of old growth forest. This was not a place for those who fear being alone, nor was it a place for those not awake to the murmuring voices that moved about, watching each intruder enter or leave. The Indians had certain feelings about these old forests; they believed in ancient spirits called Kushtaka; shape shifters that were part man and part otter, and who lured hunters deeper into unknown places, where they vanished and lost their way, wandering in thickening circles of confusion. A place like this, untouched by human commerce, talks to the mind through an ancient tongue; a language both musical and strange.

The Inner Garden

Behind the walls of foliage, around the trunks of trees, and inside the sheltered canopy are doorways, pathways, pleasant journeys inside the vegetative mind. Within the gloom, a canvas of painted melodies is continually being created: of plants, accented with soft dabs of the flower; and of illuminated fern gardens offering sanctuary from the heat. In the lower regions, the elusive, cool and soft reflections from the sky, sink downward, adding a glaze of depth. In the deeper tones beneath the hurried surface, on the forest floor, the lives of the blind molds work in the mines of rotting wood. On the fringes, delicate forms of Horsetail minarets call out in prayer with the morning sun; the architecture of a master hand, unseen but felt, is generous to the smallest detail. This is a place of dreams too; silent whispers of air and humid wrappings of heat, where the air is criss-crossed by flights of insects, floating on a sea of air, on humming wings that play a song of gladness and Life. Here too, are Leaves in many shapes and sizes; guided by a higher order, and streamlined to take advantage of the dim light. Every plant fills the spaces, but not with wasteful envy. And in the forest, nothing is wasted; and the various tribes of plants know their place in this Inner Garden.

Swan Island and Beyond

Looking back in time, through the lens of memory, the distance has grown in years. Pictures reawaken the sense that the past still lives and guides us. Each view fills the puzzle of meaning. The view of Seymour Canal is one such view: a body of water contained by islands, mountain ranges, and coves. Crab fisherman and hunters have come here for a long time. Stan Price, the homesteader, once lived down on Pack Creek alone. People come here for different reasons; some to escape; others to stay a few weeks; a few to search their thoughts. The mystery is found in solitude; the turning inwards to strange dreams or awakenings. But up here in the high country, the panorama of discovery lays bare the terrain of the inland areas and the hilly,inscrutable islands. Swan Island, at the entrance to Swan Cove, is a difficult place to hunt; filled with muskeg area, berrybrush, and steep ravines. And brown bears can be found there too. The sense of height is not found on the island; only rough, rolling terrain, and steep slopes of timber. The southern end is meadow land, flat up to the north and west side hills. The deer can hide very easily here, but to me that is the challenge. Beyond are other islands,other adventures,other things in the picture I have not seen.

A Brief Interlude

The chill of morning soon heated up by afternoon along Ptarmigan Lake. I hiked up through the spruce and hemlock forests along the south slope where the curve of hill opened into the frozen view of lake and steep mountains beyond. The ice had begun to melt along the edges of the lake and cracks formed in its margins. As the sun climbed higher, the brightness reflected off the frozen Lake and hurt my eyes. The view was a piercing effect of reflective blindness to the sight. I stood a moment and breathed in the clean air of the back country.The light wind still felt cold, but once I was again in the shelter of trees, a warmth radiated from the ground. In the distance, outside the valley and above other mountains to the west, anvil shaped clouds sucked up moisture from the earth. It would be a hot day and possibility of danger from above. The two dogs were having fun, chasing a squirrel here and there along the trail, although I thought that watching for the occasional bear might be better for all of us. However, it was quiet and I had not seen much sign of any other movements in the area. Half way down the
Ptarmigan Lake ( four-and-a-half by three-quarter miles of a long narrow shape), the first in a series of Avalanche chutes had spilled tons of compressed snow onto the lake. The trail was blocked. At the base of the snow slide a deep green opening of water formed. Forty-five to fifty feet of avalanche lay above it. The top of the mountain, the source of this spillage of loose snow pack, was over four thousand feet straight up. I couldn't see the condition of the upper slopes, but I had to cross to continue along the trail. Across the lake, the mountains were even steeper and higher ( six-thousand feet), lost in the shadow of a north face. Avalanches became more vocal as the sun warmed the land; at first they sounded like jet noise in the sky, but lasted longer and didn't fade in the distance. The dogs and I began our climb up the rounded piles of solid snow. My foot couldn't kick too deep in the surface for holds, so by grabbing the alder, we finally reached the top of the slide. The piles of icy debris were like huge dirty snowballs of two to three feet in diameter. First the release of slabs of snow; then down the chutes in rapid collision;next the flowing in a large mass of smaller rounded material to the region below--a avalanche is born. The one I was on wasn't the biggest in the valley; in fact, acrosss the lake, the huge fans of avalanches were much larger in width and length. I had only to traverse a little less than one-hundred feet. Nice view of the valley though. More steeper slopes, more difficult traverses ahead. But not today. I'll be back again in June when the wild flowers are blooming on the steep south slopes near the end of the lake.