Summer Notes

As I wander in a glacial valley on an old dirt road, the Fireweed was alive in burning pinks along its sides. Here, long rows become a forest of flowers for the bees. And in the stillness, the sounds of insects fill the air in the closing Summer days, spinning out the final hours in the heat. My eyes roam down the corridors of pink, glide across the silvery lakes, until I reach the furthest distance where the blues materialize. They form in shapes above the water courses, in places dimly known. Nearby, a giant hill of rock stands between an opening, broken with all sides steep, and serves as the keeper of the gate. And along the bordered sides of glacial ice that lay beyond, and upon the valley floor beneath, are more tints of painted pinks. The sharpened cuts and terraced sides blaze bright. But still, I wonder why such thoughts live inside this scene, and have connected with everything. Have other eyes found the same pathways as mine or felt the same as me? Maybe, but this much I know, as the light fades, that one can't ignore the music and its notes, or a song of ten-thousand years.

Arriving

In my wandering mind, a sense of incompleteness remains, where new unopened doors of yearning wait. Looking across the valley, I see the trails of ridgelines, and the steep ascents, my eyes climbing up to passes on the tops. What is there to see? Only sights that frame another mystery; a hint of other doorways to the east. But somewhere, high above the valley floor, a place no one's been, waits for me. Getting nearer now, a new excitement brews, while another summit comes into view. The sense of fatigue melts in the heat as I lockstep up to another edge. Here, looking across the soft blue space, another wall of rock blocks the sky. And again, I search for a way to wander around the jagged tops, dark against the clouds. The moment opens up and a crowd of imaginings spring from seeds of new beginnings: as gentle murmurings in the wind, spiraling on the thermals like a hawk in flight. So, in this reverie of arriving, with melodies of sunlight and approaching storm playing in my head, the taste of the rain on my lips is sweet as life. I feel an urge to know what lies beyond, never looking back at things already found, and continue the endless quest.

First Light

Morning...new and mysterious, when the soft light touches the flowers with gentle accents, bringing together the revealed forms of petal and leaf and stem. And during this fleeting time, when the things of nature are refreshed, wet with lines and shapes of restless night, I peer through small windows of wakefullness. With rested clarity, my mind's eye welcomes the fugitive light entering my brain. Impressions come like schools of fish swimming in a dark tide, swept up in a rolling surf, and carried off to unknown shores. There, I live a thousand times in the Dawn's shattered rays, while the colors play on the waters edge, rising and falling again and again, mixing in the light and shadows of the morning tide. And within the net of my gaze, I catch a glimpse of gold and precious stone, of winged life against the vast unknown of dreams, until the moment stiffens in forgetfullness, while the last color fades into the noise of day...

A Trail Through the Forest

When I look into country where few footsteps have gone, I think of ways to get inside those places. Undisturbed, these hills and forests and streams lie outside the busy approaches of man. They have a different feeling from overworked trails and scenic routes. Here, only a slight hint of human activity survives in the fullness of the vegetation, but pathways do exist here and even in the thickest of woods: animals make trails that bring them to places of water and food, of shelter and safety; they make their way without a lot of struggle too, generation after generation. I shall follow the animal ways, and once I enter the green-lit forest, steer around the bands of alder, following clearings of grasses and fern fields instead. Even so, in order to get across the hollows and draws, thick with alder, means bending and crawling, bumps and bruises. As I peer through the rolling terrain I imagine that the shapes of the dense areas of alder might be a line or a shape drawn over the shifting topography of hills. Even along the stream are fringe areas of thick alder. So, instead of fighting my way through the barrier of shrubbery, I head up onto the ridges, looking for clearings of ferns and plants. This is also where the animal trails can be found. Here, the view is more open, where I can see the way ahead, as well as a means to descend to the stream. On the ridges the it is more airy, more open, more safe in travel, and better than stumbling through the alder and deadfall of the lower areas. Meanwhile, the trail climbs as the ridge lines get higher, deeper into the enfolded hills that surround the stream. Today the sky is a thin veil of forest fire smoke and the blue shapes of distant hills are colored in haze. I can even smell the smoke as it is carried on the breeze. So far, the wind has kept the worst of the smoke away from here. I just hope the wind stays in the right direction. As I work my way further up the hill, I find in places more open to the light, patches of ripe blueberries. Stopping and bending down, always mindfull of what is happening around me, I gobble up handfulls of the tart tasting fruit. Other patches, deeper in the woods, are still green-white. No wonder the trail leads here. Soon, I reach a point where I decide to descend to the stream, mostly because the ridge is leading away from where I want to go. This means some alder exerise, while looking for openings through the trees and shrubbery leading to the stream. But once I get passed this gauntlet of narrowed spaces, the next trail is in or along stream. I like this part of the trip ( but not the slippery rocks), because the coolness of the water keeps both man and beast from overheating. I feel like I'm in a continual state of bathing, water lapping up to my thighs, massaging the tired muscles. I know later, on the return, that some bushwhacking waits me too. But the future is hardly in my mind as I fish and continue upwards to the large pools of greens and light browns. I find on the granite bars flowers blooming in radiant pinks and yellows and blues. Here I stop, take off pack and gear, and have lunch. Above me is a small pool where a family of Merganzers paddle away; below, another view of a corner leading into small drop pools of bubbling foam and sound. For the moment, the sound and coolness of water spreads across my mind like a reverie; and as I move in this trail of water, around each turn in the stream, I feel even more that a new trail of meaning has opened up inside of me.

Winner Creek Trail

The Winner Creek trail has been manicured to match the sensibilities of tourists and local bicycle enthusiasts. At least on the side that comes from the Alyeska Hotel in Girdwood. Through the coastal forest of hemlock, the trail winds a mile-and-a-half to a T. I turn left here and continue down and around a hill. Here, the creek crashes through a small gorge, over which passes a bridge. A huge cleft in the dark rock walls amplifies the sound of the cascade of water. And here the rumbling waters swirl downwards, crashing and spitting up water, till it vanishes around a dark corner. A small distance from here, not too far down the trail, another point of interest waits me. Meanwhile, the light is fading in the summer night, so I move a little faster to see the sight beyond. Only a few people wander along the trail at this hour; perhaps a couple of local adventurers or maybe a biker or two. It is quiet now as I go downhill. Finally I round a corner and see what has brought me here. The trail ends at the edge of another abyss with the tumbling waters 50-60 feet below. The only way across is on a tramway. By riding over inside a steel cage ( attached by a steel cable), while pulling on a loop of rope, a few minutes of effort gives access to the other side of the creek. However, somebody has locked the cage on the far side, so now nobody on this side can go any further. Two girls are on the deck of the tramway, pulling without any effect on the rope. We can go no further, but I store the sight of this part of Winner Creek for another day. This way is the most scenic route to travel. Coming from this direction, the hiker could continue up to the T, keep going straight into the upper reaches of Winner Creek. Now, a gentle darkness hangs over the forest and I walk faster to return to the beginning near the Alyeska Hotel. While on the return, I see a large tumor on a tree. On it is a face. It seems kind of bizarre and maybe the person who did this had a strange sense of humor. But in the semi-darkness, as I depart the Winner Creek area, the wierdness of the face gives me the creeps. I wonder how many other strange faces are hiding along the trail or in the woods.

Trails Lost and Found

UPPER TRAIL IS CLOSED DUE TO RECENT FLOODING. WE RECOMMEND NOT TRAVELING AT THIS TIME. WILL BE CLOSED TILL LATE 2009. As I read the warning, great floods also happened to me, of happiness, and not having to be bothered by trail happy hikers. Not that this is really a problem; most of the time the trailhead is empty. I'm not sure why this place keeps the regulars out, other than it's bear country and thick as a jungle in some places. Anyway, the recent flooding was merely a follow up to the one(a few years back) that gouged out the canyon and lower sweep of Troublesome Creek. That one was a flood, almost knocking out the bridge by the road with large cottonwoods and debris. This second flood only finished off what the original didn't do: it removed more of the bedrock and collapsed already loose walls of the hills; Rotten granite walls, peeling and dissoving into the current; trees and brush collapsing in mud flows over the edges; and a 10-12 foot wall of water to wash it all through the narrow canyon into the lower reaches. Nothing like rushing water, unstoppable and frightening to watch, scooping out hillsides with terrible power. Even large boulders were tossed about, yanked from their anchored niches on the weak slopes of mud. Most of all, and sadly so, the floods have erased all the pools where once the trout and salmon gathered. The results are filled-in channels and loss of breeding grounds for the fish, and beginning over again the process of stream fashioning for the surviving salmon to return to. I find only small trout now and no King Salmon at all, but that is another story, from far out in the ocean and in the main rivers, leading back to the birth places here in the smaller streams. Even the sign of black and grizzly bear is absent here along the banks of the stream. Still, with all this catastrophe, I still come and fill these hours with my wanderings, entering the forest by other means: on fallen logs, over the dry open ground where the water has receded, and along parts of the surviving trail. It makes for a full day, but that is what makes the challenge: following new pathways by Nature made. It's like the Year Zero where I can see the blank canvas upon which will be written a new story.