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.