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.

Chitina and Copper Rivers

Here at the junction of the Chitina and Copper Rivers, the history of man's ambitions is writ in the places like Chitina, McCarthy, Kennicott--all fitted into the historical fabric which brought the hoards of adventurers and seekers of fortune. Now, the main sights are fish wheels, crowds of tourists, and local people living in place of extremes. The Copper Bonanza has long past, the old times now gone, the roads now for common passage--all of the former dreams only dreams, while a new race brings their own sense of history.

The Kuskulana Bridge

Here, in three sections, in the early decades of the 20th century, the Kuskulana Bridge was built. The reason for this immense enterprise was this: the discovery of copper deposits in the Wrangel-St Elias Mountains. During a cold winter this bridge was built for the railroad to connect from the Copper River to the Kennicottt area, in order to bring the ore to Cordova hundreds of miles away. The bridge is 238' above the river, while a dirt road of 61 miles passes through this area, where exists a rugged country of mountains, lakes, and rivers feeding off glaciers near the mines.

Flight of the Butterfly

When on a walk inside the deepness of the Park, I moved slowly through it's circuit of trails, each leading one leading off to other places. The day was peaceful, except for the hungry mosquitoes had, but I didn't stop too long to feed their taste for blood. Nearby, a butterfly landed on a Dandelion; it was yellow and dark with tints of blue over the wings. I stepped closer, bent down, and fixed the insect in the center of my lens. The butterfly danced around the golden center of the flower, sometimes sideways or flattened out in shape. The pictures clicked in succession the different steps within the dance. I knew somewhere along this path, a freshness of sight would find that moment's view. Afterward, I left with the hope that other secret moments still were there along the trail, when all was silent in the flight of a butterfly--perhaps a gift for someone else to see.

Geraniums

The Geraniums lay within the thickness of Horse Tails near the fence. They glowed in lavender colors. Closer inspection of them revealed a wealth of details--of smaller, but still unopened buds in the busy spaces between the flowers. The lighting had superimposed the shapes of stars around the petaled structures. From here, the exploration of angles and positions was movement into unknown country, inside a small area alongside the busy road.

The Lake in June

The day started out with a cast of gray, but I didn't mind. Here at Ptarmigan Lake, the fullness of Mountains held it like two giant hands. The four miles to the back of the lake traveled around cliffs, over the rolling shapes of hills, alongside rocky south slopes, where snow slides had hurled down their loads from a mile above. But now a cool breeze and humid heat interplayed as the day advanced. The sun rolled through the thick layers of cloud, and by afternoon danced in a million points on the lake. And here in the shady coves, on the edges between the water and woods, the small enclaves of flowers stood, so colorful against the gray clouds that mixed with the swirling waves that rolled up upon the shore. The purples of Lupine, reds of Columbine, and greens of Cow Parsnip made this place a garden by the lake. The beauty was an outpouring in June,when the light was near maximum in length. And in other small coves and even on the cliffs, the colors appeared, and only I alone was here to share this moment by that distant shore.

The small flowers, especially the ones that lie deeper in the woods, are often overlooked. Yet in their simplicity, the white flowers have a delicacy--a feeling of softness against the wall of green grass and plants. In their tiny habitation, the scale of size only makes them a center of interest. Move in closer, observe the minute spaces of less than 1/10th of a foot. Even here the detail is intense and the wonders only now make themselves known to the eye.

The Columbine

Along the cool and sequestered trail, with the morning light touching the tops of foliage, in this fringe-land are accents of red, of Columbine. On tall and slender stalks the Red-Yellow flower bends as though in prayer. Looking closer, I see the star of Red, and composed of yellow, the center hovers above the ground. And from below the insect must ascend one of the five yellow chambers of the flower. The Columbine comes early to the woods, and sprinkles the wayside with her colors. Each plant brings a gift of time, and shows to the world a fashion statement of this land.

The World of Flowers

They appear in yellows, then soft pinks and blues, and as the summer moves along, the whites and reds burst into view. This succession has a worked out design. Nature allows for a time and place for her creatures. In each phase of late May, June, and in the high part of July ( When the building light now fades), the flowers of many colors have come and gone, given place to other ones to shine. If they all came in June, then the world would not support the explosion at once, and the seasons would not be.

Red House, Birch Tree, and Black Cat

My friend Josh likes old houses, historical types that have integrity about them. Sunday came and we drove around the older parts of Anchorage, from Government Hill to the area near the bay and downtown. I begin to realize I had passed these areas many times without a thought of how the architecture combined with the natural setting. The terminology was scant and nebulous in my mind.Josh explained and described the pieces and the parts, the historical time lines for the houses we passed by. I realized that that to know another kind of beauty was to learn another language in the musical movements of form.

The Upper Class View

Even in the urban landscape, windows of far-off vistas peek into this everyday human world. What can make the picture speak in a language of artistic sensibility? The city has mirrored the patterns of growth through human hands, recreating Nature's plan. Trees are trimmed,pots are planted, and architecture built along the bay. Through the empty spaces, the wide stretch of inlet and cloud banks lie. These people here, I think, are blessed with a view that others cannot share, except in passing through. They feel the ownership that others only dream of--they are the upper class whose long work days pay for this claim. Manicured lawns and alder mix, of city and Nature combined. I catch the view of a sunny afternoon, then return to my neighborhood filled with houses and only the sky above.

The Turning Point

Silence and airy chill; yet the beauty lay in that feeling of noiseless wonder. Some traffic passed by, people on their way elsewhere, hoping to catch a glimpse of another painted dream beyond the mountain--the world of Prince William Sound. They moved by and vanished. I wondered how this frame of nature had escaped their minds-- Earthen tones and delicate blues in sharp relief.

I wandered on the overlook, gazing at the fine shale beach and budding shrubbery, and circling my eyes around the lake and icy hills until I had fed the images into a whole. It was more a feeling on where to see that instance of light and morning mood. Reflections appeared on the open surfaces, blending in with the floating ice and melting sheets. And within this morning mirror the darks collided with the growing light. Here was a cusp of change, when like a tide has not yet turned too much. Here was the transition point between Winter and Summer. I would have to wait again until next year to see this once again.

The Passing of Spring

The glory is all around us, in the deepest woods, or even inside the greenbelts of the city, waiting the curious eye to find. In motions of life, through the very fabric of time, are the expressions unfolded for those who wish to see. In the small things of interest we seek to name, but the very treasures are in the expressions of change, when each day brings a new awakening from the house of Nature.

The geese had gathered after a long migration through the frigid sky, guided by a road map inside themselves; not spoken or even learned, but known by the many generations who have come and gone, arrowing their way over the planet's curve. Many of these birds will not make the journey back, but others will take their places, and the species of new geese will fly the hidden track across the sky.

The Snow Line

A light mist filled the upper valley, dimming the features of the mountain peak, while behind from the sea, the sun advanced up the slopes as it broke through the clouds. The trail had recently cleared of snow, but the remnants of snow had melted here below. But as I climbed higher, the return of frozen land now crept up below my feet.

Soon the snow was deeper in the narrow ravine; each foot step sinking deeper. Only another set of feet had come here before the last snow, and the surface held my weight. Further up, I was sinking now knee deep, hip deep if I wandered too far from the path. But the mist now cleared and the sun now lit the rocky face of the mountain. Once out of the alder and ravine, I stood in the empty corridor of the avalanche chute.

Along the edges or in the hollows the snow was soft and deep. Up the chute the broken remains of avalanche formed a wall. The birthplace of this massive fall was still, yet still the possibility of more snow remained. Outwards, looking to the south were valleys, and the bay where low tide now showed the reefs. Up here the brightness of the sun and cloud shadows mixed. I drank in the view, looking along the white margins below. Then over the lip of the avalanche two dogs came up, moving at a easy pace, effortlessly floating on the surface of the snow. Others were coming to join me here in this silent place. It was easy to get up but the return downwards would be harder as the sun had softened the snow.

To Skilak Lake and beyond

The evening slowly drew a deep shadow over the low lying places in Skilak Lake. The sense of excitement, of the light at dusk moved me to find a place to see the changes come. Sometimes though, the reason for setting out changes, when something else draws the imagination off the track.

I struggled up the trail, fording a run-off, which cut a pathway through the melting ice. On this side of the hill, the snow still hung in view. So I moved as quickly as I could, since the light was dimming. How much I wanted to view the Lake beyond, to view the turquoise waters and snow gathered mountains, within which it hung. Soon I was in the open. Here the remnants of an old burn, of blackened trees, naked of limb, formed a screen between the lake and me. But something else caught my attention.

To the East was the Pass from where we'd come. A new vantage of sight filled in my lack of understanding. Now I had a reference point of sight from which to make new plans for wandering here. A new world of possibilities tumbled through layer after layer of wonder. A feeling now issued forth from some hidden source of desire, making my hopes grow brighter as to the path I'd take. The big view was a map of future hikes and views. I couldn't guess what other things now lay in store. The days reveal themselves in ways we can't always know. Still, I know the element of surprise can always open new doors.

The view beyond

Down here I watch the mountain tops. And here in this swamp my mind sleeps, buried deep,in sunken ground. And around this place the pathways seem like spider webs of wandering.But above the gloom, in the frozen mountain tops, there is the openness of sky and unencumbered views. As In life, it's all the same: some find themselves trapped in swamps of ignorance, when outside their tiny rounds, a larger and grandeur look is waiting to be found.

Yesterday's Dream

Now each new snowfall no longer stayed, leaving its freshness for but an hour or a day. Around the trees dark circles formed, and from their bases outwards melted the snow. Now areas of earth did form, while the snow decayed. It was not the snow of the colder times, not even the type found in thaw and freeze-- it was the kind that told of Winter's end, of melting by heat.

Then one Noon time, following a flurry of snow, I walked through the forest again. Everywhere I saw the signs, lodged in the limbs or lying in the depths, the freshness of new snow. But the sun was at work, melting all it touched. In other places it was the same.

Further within the woods I saw a spectral sight: Here the sun had revealed the remnants of soft fresh snow. The fluffy masses of white seemed a fountain emerging from the earth, flowing out across the ground. For a moment I remembered when such effects were common in the darkness of a wintry day.

But I gazed at this passing scene, as when the last wave of foam had lighted upon the beach, but had lost its power to remain, and now was drawn back into the depths from where it came.

The Naked View

Spring Light, dazzling on the snowy slopes, fills now the niches with delicate strokes. I found such a place, and I wander here on most days. I found a place where small spruce have made a home. Their textured limbs play out against the softness of the snow, and the light brings them out from the darkness. Even the sky above with a wisp of cloud, echoes back the movements of sun-lit strokes; and earth and sky become a window joining up the intervening space of upper hill. Along the edges of this frame, limbless trees, combine with the street lights on the hill top above, forming a larger shape through which the eye scans the distance view. In time, if left alone this place will fill itself with a forest of spruce, and the view shall be lost.

The Mountains of Reveries

They lie there, a cold and pristine sanctuary, where lakes hide inside the hollow spaces beneath the peaks. My eyes dwell there but can't see the hidden things around the corners or beyond. On ridge or top the details are known to those who venture off the trails. When summer returns the colors of meadow flowers, of shrubbery and trees, shall once again paint the scenery there. And I imagine I'll be also upon the alpine carpet and talus slopes, gathering height to see further and beyond what I've seen today. So I find a way to travel, to know and feel, what new glory waits inside the Mountains of Reverie.

The Hidden Order

The hidden order likes to echo in shapes and forms. Curves and lines combine to give variety in trees and stream beds. The bent and dried stalks of cow parsnips bend to make triangles in the snow. Then on sunny days the shadows describe the forms in shadowed lines, running along the surfaces, into cracks like piano keys, playing with intervals of visual music. The eye takes in these sights, but the objects only blind the mind to the relationships--where the deeper voice is heard.

The Call of the Geese

High above the roof tops, against the very sky itself, a long thread of geese fly north across the city. How uncanny, I thought, how a large number of birds could keep this line intact. A deeper force of Nature holds them to a pattern, guiding them over mountains and open gulfs, on a long distance journey back to their birth places. I hear the call of the geese as the days roll into the faint beginnings of summer. Some things in this world are not tied to human will, but serve a higher power that is linked to the ages, moving in cycles and the turning of the world.

The Highway North

I cruise north on the road, heading back from a day by the sea. The white lines of the road sharply vanish down a narrow view of perspective. Above, in a blue lake of sky, a group of clouds drift in a lazy line. It's Saturday. Ahead of me lies only empty pavement. A few cars pass. So I too, like the clouds drift in thought as I move along the asphalt track, lost in reverie, or just gazing at the scenes that come along as I move north.

But the fact remains--I am alone with myself, here and now along the road going north. Others, who ever they may be, will come here later, when the summer sun is higher in the sky. Crowds of drivers cannot be found today. I feel lucky at my fate, not being rushed or pressured to move along. This is an opening when the road and hills and sky belong to the few.

The empty spaces

I was in motion, roaming, soaking up the sun on a early Spring day. The thing that seems so special at this time of year is the glare. Without the snow and ice, I suppose this effect would be lessened in the mind. In any case, I had no plan or particular direction to go. I just walked along the perimeter of the city, away from the noise. Soon I cam to the lake that was fronted by condominiums on one side, while a dark hill to the south, the High School. The lake was mostly a slushy surface, like ice creme. So I moved along, passing lawyers jogging, talking about their briefs, and moving aside for women Walking their dogs. Soon I was near where a lake emptied into the bay.

Here I found an open stretch of water, just off from shore. Nature does not always work in lines, but melts in geometrical fashion, and in curves. I found there an S-Curved shape of openness. It seemed to wander into the icy flatness of the lake. Why? I do not know, but the beauty of curving paths makes a shapely picture. Up in the S-shaped pathway two ducks found a place of solitude. Here they rested, protected from people's dogs and close intrusion. I watched awhile and wondered. People passed in disinterested groups, too busy, running or talking on cell phones.

Unlike the ducks, most of the runners,walkers, talkers weren't aware of the world about them. They didn't stop to watch or reflect--too busy with schedules and cares. Even five minutes would have made them see the wonders that lay all about them. They would have seen the clouds, brilliant and penetrated by the sun, forming and dissolving in a few minutes time. They would have seen the young mother playing with her 15 month baby girl;if they had bothered to stop and inquire. This seemed strange to me, that all these runners, walkers, and talkers sped along under a Spring sky, so oblivious to what begged their attention. They were strangers to all this, and strangers to others, but more so, they were trapped in a S-curve of time, down which they wandered.

The view from the rocks

Two hours of climbing, angles steep along a narrow line of rock, with lichens and dead grass, but at last I made it to the top. The view of the bay on a Sunday afternoon breaks the tension of thinking about the next day, returning to the cycles of work. For a brief moment my mind is free from the grip of obligations, of demands, of human time.

For now, I reveled in the stark beauty of the mountain, a single speck against the white cover, or hidden among the cliffs and sheep trail, which wound upwards to a pass high above the bay. The ground had thawed; the snow cover was still thin of hardness, but I wanted to see the greater scenes that only the heights can bring. Going up was easy. Coming down was a different thing.

At the top I found a bare rock to sit upon, like a island among the white, pulled out my water and drank to my thirst. The taste was sweet. My eyes roved over the bay and mountains and through out the sky from near to far, wandering as far as they could see. The chill in the air cooled my sweat while I sat in wonder. The cold brightness combined with the wind, yet I stayed a bit longer to feel the afternoon, a be a part of something bigger. Then it was time to go.

A steep snow slope curved downwards to the lower cliffs; in some places ( along the sides or where the sun warmed the slope at 45 degrees) hard enough to walk upon. The long stretch of snow would save me wear and tear. The lichens and dead grasses were slippery, while the loose rock meant spills or needless struggle. I needed a plan. In order not to sink in the less crusted areas, where the hill sloped away from the south-side sun, I elected to slide down using my heels as brakes. In the flatter areas, I could walk in the shallower snow, avoiding the slippery rocks and plants. I saw a place where someone else decided to the snow, but had stopped because they had lacked a plan.

Hundreds of yards of white slope waited my slide. I punched through a few areas to get to a open area, lowered myself onto the snow, and slid down....among the shrubbery and clustered islands of trees, picking up speed as I slid. Small pieces of ice rolled down ahead of me, tumbling

over edges. Soon I was among the trees below, having to slow down and weave a pathway between them. Sometimes it is better to take a risk of lesser degree than the normal approach, guaranteed to inflict some bruises by the nature of the terrain. Besides, I had saved myself a lot of time to enjoy the rest of the day.

The Coming of Spring

When the Sun shines through the woods, where the stands of birch cluster or spread, the dance of light and shadow creates small windows of surprise. Each narrow view is like a long corridor, leading the eye along a vertical view. For most people, the trees merely block the eye from seeing the places beyond. But for me,a hundred windows can be peeked through with different results: a lonely twig which gracefully accepts its place among the trees;a sinuous line of shadow disclosing the rolling form of the hill; and even the circles of melting snow are shapes that connect the many lines across the snow. Each passing day brings new things, new effects--and so I see a natural drama unfold, like waves that crest,but seldom repeating themselves in the coming of Spring.

The Wings of Afternoon

Saturday, sweet interlude, when at last I can breath the mountain air again. I climbed my thousand feet, found a place to lay and watch the day, with not a worry to disturb the peace. I suppose I could have gone higher, seen more and more of the waters and land, but here was enough for me, to pass the afternoon watching the clouds move in. The ravens were in flight, while the sandbars in the bay opened to the sky. A slight chill of wind reminded me that Winter still had teeth, but still I laid there and scanned the view. Below my perch of rock and slope, an eagle flapped his wings, passing less than thirty feet from me, not knowing I was there. He spun a circle in the air, passing in front of the mountain face, with sharp-pointed wings and perfect poise. His presence accented the afternoon like a point of light, balance against the passing clouds.

Storm Curtains

The sky was tossed in waves of gray; a curtain for locking in the light, while a tiny sun sailed forth into the center of the storm. The mountains below seemed so small, and deep within the valley mouth, another front was coming through. All about the wind swirled around, carrying sound and shout through the air of afternoon. And along the ledges of the cliffs, I crouched, battered by the wind from the south , and pressed into the rock while descending there. Yet the terrible beauty that buffeted me, rolling and tossing like an angry sea, made me feel most alive. I looked up once more and glanced through the window of the sky, where a space of soft rays blended with the sun. The curtains of cloud folded around the light; a hungry mouth shutting like a giant clam around the earth and sky.

Spin Drift on the Ridges

I laid back on the slopes, listening to the gusting winds overhead, feeling the cold touch that bent the dry grasses about me. I closed my eyes and heard the circling and tossing going on, while the clouds zig-zagged in furrowed waves. Then, I opened my eyes to the movements across the bay. There, the sun slowly glided into the fuzzy edges of a cloud, where the disk of the sun appeared, now unveiled like the face of God.

As my glance followed this silvery track of light, I noticed the wind on the ridges below the cloud. Here, the spin drift of wind and snow resulted in plumes of light streaming up along the various levels leading to a pass below the mountain's crest--each like a flame burning a visual trail upwards to the sky. The wind would circle in to tease the exposed tops, then would vanish into dormant silence, but soon would return again as puffs of air-born light whirling in the air.

The Avalanche

A strange February Warmth, not like the usual weather of snow drifts, of freeze, or of sharpness in the air. The warmth is disarming and dangerous to those who can't read the signs on the hills. I hear the artillery sounding against the tops of the mountains to the south, where the snow is being pounded and loosened from it's precarious hold. Here the wetness has gathered in the thick top layer, lying on top of another layer beneath. All along the bay the south side slopes are groaning with movement today-- too warm and quiet and tense, like a coiled force ready to strike. So, I stay away from the steeper areas, going instead to the protected cliff tops and ridges, keeping my ears open to sounds from the south. Tomorrow someone will die over there, buried in the crush by tons of avalanche. In those last moments, perhaps in disbelief, while the sound and it's roar buries him, knows immediately what we can only guess, entombed under the glare of a impersonal sun. This day has a dangerous look.

The Alley Way at Dawn

Dawn was coming to the Alley, as night was slipping away--a divide between two tides, where still the mind could find a place to hide; the moon was sinking through the leafless woods just above the houses, but the streetlights still had the power to illuminate in rows along the icy road. But now a hurried feeling was in the air-- a fading of the islands of pooled light,once cradled in the arms of night, now just a blending with all the rest, quickly hidden by the day.

Waiting for deliverance

The somber tones of the forest, hard-edged like claws, bids me to walk more carefully with each step. By following the well-worn routes only invites bruises. So I avoid the icy places, finding instead the grainy crusted snow off trail. No one is there to follow, only quiet hollows and ledges, drained of snow. The mood here is like a water color wash in fog, where a mystic thought might suddenly intrude. I am no longer dissecting the reasons behind the delicate dance of change--just letting the scenery tell it's own story in it's own time. By forcing the mood only results in carving up the experience, killing the original impulse of joy. Therefore, each traveler takes away only what is given by chance; perhaps with a gift of awakening: feeling the way, expecting wonder and surprise, waiting the moment's unfolding-- for the experience has an uncanny substance of magic to it, whereby the deeper meanings can populate the mind. I wait for deliverance from a hidden source, while always traveling with an open heart.

The loss of Self

The silent merging of form and light brings a sleep of detail, giving birth to gentle forgetfulness. Wandering here in such a place brings a fullness to it all: The vision shrinks, while the imagination explodes out like a inner sun, through the half-closed shutters of day. I embrace it like a beam of light, releasing all thought of coming or going, adding or taking away--simply being the breath that embraces the fog.

Under Cover of Fog

The Street lights gleam in soft repose, while silence shouts in glitter on the snow,

Or draped in strands of tiny lights, enclose these island Worlds.

Where snow drifts and fog conceal,the city seems no longer real--

A place of simple shapes in colors not of day,these en capsuled dreams which hide away,

But sometimes seen when wandered through, sometimes known by just a few.

Warm-Up in the Winter

Warm-ups allow the streams to open, snow to melt, and prepare the Winter canvas for a new scene. Then a chill comes again, building up new ice images. With a few faint traces of snow dusting the rocks, the greens of mosses add a touch of color to the shadows. Wet, icy, frozen, layered--the Ice Terraces are being rebuilt by the invisible hand of air and temperature.

In a carapace of ice nearby, the music of water reverberates within; sounding through crevices, reemerging and splashing over polished rocks, downwards carrying it's tune.

The ravine is a staircase of wonders, steeply laid against the mountain; the world of ice revealing once again it's jeweled structures-- from crystal growths to frozen waves, slowly forming walls and berms.

Winter in such a place is still alive with a language pure as music, and universal in shape and form.

A Winter's Afternoon

The southern slopes of Turnagan arm were bare on the lower areas, gradually turning into snow higher up. And the day was warm, the view expansive, all the way up and down the length of the bay. After a climb of around 700 ft, I had reached a flat ledge. Here was a view of mountains and lowlands, ice drifting in the tide, and projections of rock and islets along the sides. The cloud stream above was made of waves with chinks of blue in-between, casting a yellowish glow on the waters of the bay.

All along the sides of the ranges, to include the valleys that wandered back into the interiors, the ancient curve joined the hills, forming concavities on the upper slopes where grass and rosebush framed the scene. A line of smoke, originating from the valley across bay, drifted up the arm and filled the lower regions in soft blues. I was now in a place of steepness, climbing around the cliffs, and following a sheep track on the bare but frozen ground. In places where the ice mixed with the rock, I kicked holds into the hardened snow, proceeding from one dry area to the next one.

Such was the experience, high above the road. The shortness of afternoon in Winter time brings intensity of mood and moment. But going back down was the hardest part, where each step on the edge only sharpened the senses with being alive. The air was filled with a glow now. The land had a ascetic look, of muted color and hibernation. Yet this world vibrated in a way of constant motion, with freeze and thaw, producing effects a little different from the previous day. I lived, I felt, and merged in the flow of a Winter's Afternoon.

The Lonely Sun

The people looked so tiny, like specks on the road far below--watching sheep wandering along a steep and icy precipice against the towering cliffs. I suppose the fear that brings wonder is like a jolt of life, when the senses work at a fever pitch. Yet the sheep seemed calm and preoccupied by the search for winter food.

The real dangers for me were the black ice strips along the upper trail, where foot steps had pounded the snow into a slippery trap. Warming and freezing conspired in making the snow granular and hard. By this I knew, that the way up and around the rock barriers would be on these cakes of hardened snow. The gritty white surface held, while my steps crunched out noise. Around a rock corner a sheep peered down at me. But the animals presence went unheeded, and I continued up through the rocky outcrops that encircled the woods below.

But I was drawn to something else. Off the main trail, my movements had created a new uncharted one. Sometimes trails are more than permanent lines on maps; they may come and go during the winter season--on freeze ups on the rivers, on the hard packed snow in the woods. Sometimes they may be a soft line of cloud, carrying the curious mind's eye into a sunset sea. So, I remain a searcher of fugitive moments, of conditions hidden in the shadows of the cliffs or made visible in the waning light -- where an inner way has it's own rhythms, connecting to a thousand other faces in nature; from wind and storm to the tidal actions along the bay and beyond.

Yet it was the disk of the sun, floating listlessly in a sea of fog, that mirrored my thoughts, bringing me closer to the edge of silence. That bright burning sun, now reduced to a small circle, sputtered in the swirling mist of a winter's afternoon. And like a weakened moon, it cast only an arctic shadow over the bay below. Yet, somehow, through a hidden gate of cloud, its presence was felt in copper glare upon the tide. My mood swirled and danced like the sun in the cloud, while the gallery of ice and frost and rock remained unmoved by my passing here.