Poem: Kayaking with our Dog

 

Kayak Time

 

Every day in the summer, when weather is fine,

After I bathe and before we will dine,

I gather up peanuts and milk stout and wine,

For our favorite thing: it is kayaking time!

 

We call to the dog who gets very excited.

He jumps and he squiggles, so clearly delighted.

He trots to the dock, with his eye on the boat,

For an hour or so he will run, swim, and float.

He starts on the bow while we settle in seats,

B pushes off when I unhook the cleat.

We paddle due north to a point near at hand

Where Buddy jumps off to explore lakeside land.

 

He runs like the wind, he is quite energetic

His muscles work out in a run so athletic.

His leaps over tree limbs are graceful, balletic.

We pause in our paddling, the sight’s so magnetic.

 

He urges us on to explore more and more.

He sniffs a hare trail and finds a swan’s feather

He grabs it, then drops it, he doesn’t know whether

To carry the trophy or deign to ignore

It, when he spies several ducks round the bend on the shore.

 

He races full speed but the ducks are too fast.

They dive off the land which he reaches at last.

Dejected, he watches them leave him, aghast.

 

Like Wiley Coyote, our dog always loses.

I know he feels bad, but it always amuses

Us watching his efforts when he so enthuses

 

But fails every time to catch birds in the past.

He is too optimistic to ever forecast

That a bird can go any which way that it chooses.

 

When younger, our Buddy ran all the way home,

Exploring the bog and the hills as he roamed.

But older, he tires before he gets back,

So, we give him a rest; we cut him some slack.

 

He jumps in the kayak to rest for a bit.

Then, we paddle toward places where shore plants have split.

He can choose to jump off or can kayak with us,

We feel like we’re driving a maritime bus

With stops on the route of his well-worn dirt track.

 

Once home, he is hungry, and so, too, are we.

I warm up the soup; today’s entrée: split pea

With carrots and onion, some orange peel and ham

Maybe serve with a salad, potatoes or yams?

To go with the soup, I made a French boule,

Its crispy crust shatters, it is warm, not yet cool,

We slather on butter or layer with cheese

The dog begs for meat when his mouth starts to drool.

 

We sit on the porch in a light little breeze

The setting’s so lovely, we really are pleased

To enjoy such a place every day that we can

We admire two swans with their five foot wing span

Til Buddy jumps up with a shake and a sneeze

To run round in Zoomies, all movement, no plan.

Poem: Winter at our Cabin in Bush Alaska

 

With freezeup upon us we watch winter brew.

The leaves are all falling, the temperature too.

Leaves from stout birches and thin saskatoons

Are yellow by day and the light of the moon.

We harvest our veggies – some lots and some few

So the gardens can rest here on in until June.

 

A hundred potatoes will feed us for weeks

In recipes varied from Chinese to Greek,

Gratins and pancakes and mashes galore

Baking and frying and salads and more

These spuds are so versatile, tasty, and filling

For several dinners they warrant first billing.

 

The firewood cut every day for an hour

Will warm us and bathe us in weather most dour

Snow storms and dark days and temperatures chill

‘Til solstice arrives to ramp up springy power

When much welcomed sunlight appears on the hill.

 

Cranes have gone south and the geese leave as well

Careening, cavorting and turning, pell-mell.

They honk and cajole their companions to hurry

In flocks large and small before the first flurry

Of snow on the meadows and ice on the lakes

Incrementally formed, bit by bit, flake by flake.

 

When the afternoon light casts its shadows on snow,

We trace tracks of hares to see where they will go.

Under spruce trees and birch roots these critters have lined

Many nests soft and warm where they’re safe, if confined

Until hunger compels them to go fast, never slow

Seeking berries and grasses while arctic winds blow.

 

The wolverine tracks are especially distressing.

Their viciousness known, when their hunger is pressing.

We follow the tracks, going forth and regressing.

We intimate weight by the print depth impressing.

Will they linger long term?  We don’t know – only guessing.

 

We lock up the chickens and let out the dog.

Bud trots along lake shore, woods, meadow and bog.

He sniffs along game trails and leaves his own scent

Where the bent grass suggests that the wolverine went.

 

In a fight we know well that our Buddy would lose.

A wolverine kills as it bites, gnaws, and chews.

Our dog marks the land with his scent and his pee

Will the creature consider the option to flee?

For a dinner that’ elsewhere, like hare vindaloo?

 

The moose tracks are heavy and deep where they lead

From thickets to bushes to branches that feed

These ungainly creatures that weigh half a ton.

I cannot imagine the time that they need

To eat enough forage until they are done.

 

For eight months of winter they struggle to find

High calorie munchies on which they can dine.

The effort’s enormous; the stresses are great.

By springtime the bulls lose a third of their weight.

 

Meanwhile the cows suffer winters far worse.

They are pregnant all season which seems so perverse

To lumber about seeking food is enough.

To do so with calves is especially tough.

The good news is that there‘s no worry of bears

That hibernate, snoring, no doubt, in their lairs.

In spring, end of May, cows deliver a pair

Of long legged calves in our woods where they dare

To hunker down safely to sleep and to nurse

‘Til all three are ready.  And then they disperse.

Poem: Float Plane Commute from Bush Alaska

 

On a lake by Big Su,

Lives a gentleman who

Moved from a high-rise in Texas.

Now this is a choice that many would rue,

Indeed, they’d consider it reckless.

 

But he loves the setting – the greens and the blues –

The weather that always directs us

For flying or staying

or working or playing

or planting or haying

And other things, too.

 

In summer, he flies

In his Piper through skies

That are bounded by mountains so vast

That they dwarf meager hills

Where he first learned the skills

Of a pilot, in Texas, long past.

 

To pre-flight his plane

On a day without rain,

He walks to the dock ‘cross the grass.

He pumps out the floats

 and then loads up the totes

After checking his oil and gas.

 

When packed up and ready,

The wind holding steady

The dog and I come to say bye.

I loosen the tow ropes and hold the plane fast

While Bryan assesses the sky.

 

With a shout of “all clear”

His voice full of cheer,

He is happy to lift off and fly.

After checking conditions,

He presses ignition

To taxi toward Willow on-high.

 

At first, he goes slow so the oil will heat

He toggles the pedals and shifts in his seat.

He watches the oil temp rise as it should,

Considering options of wind shear that could

Derail well laid plans while he lays out Plan B.

 

He reaches the end of the lake; turns to lea.

Then raises his rudders and looks to the trees.

He assesses humidity, temperature, thrust.

He determines that take off is ready and just.

 

His feet to the pedals, his hands on the yoke

He pulls on the throttle with light little strokes.

He taxis so smoothly that when he lifts off

A viewer can’t tell when he first gets aloft.

 

He reaches to pull up the lever for flaps

Adjusting the yoke to avoid his kneecaps

He rises up steeply,

Which pulls on his straps

As he turns to the east, toward the goal on his maps.       

 

He scans the horizon for all other fliers

While watching the landscape for wind, fog, and fires

Admiring mountains and rivers and woods.

Instruments fine, avionics look good.

 

At Trail Ridge and Yentna and Deshka, he calls

His location to pilots in planes big and small.

He vectors towards Willow - the lake, not the town.

It is 22 minutes until he’ll touch down.

 

He lands on the lake, takes a turn to the right.

He taxis toward Stanger’s, soon greeted by Phil

And all of his wonderful family, but still…

Where is sweet Kyra – ah, there by the grill

Awaiting a morsel, a tidbit, a spill.

 

“Join us for dinner!” They call in delight.
We have plenty of food here, would you like a bite?”

“I’d love to come join you,”

He says, to the cue.

“If you have the meat there, then I’ll bring the brew.”

 Bryan walks toward them with beer, not in cans,

But a growler of lager made by his two hands.

 

Joey finds glasses while Chrissy brings slaw.

Phil flips the meat, less a piece for a paw.

Libations pour quickly around the small table,

In friendship so warm, and enduring, and stable.

 

The laughter is lively; the stories are varied.

Through soft, evening hours the picnickers tarry.

In summer, no sunset impedes any flow,

The revelers linger, the sun still aglow

Honeybees sparkle and ducks grace the lake

While they finish their lager, and coleslaw, and steak.

 

“My, my, what a meal” observes Bryan, with smiles.

“I haven’t enjoyed such a feast in a while.”

“Don’t tell that to Laura; she’d chide me for sure.

She’d make me start cooking , I know; I adjure.

Her cooking is great; her cookies are bliss.

No critic am I – I just want to say this:

 

You’ve created a haven, and I’d be remiss

To neglect to say thank you for dinner and your,

Kindness and friendship.  I’ll soon reminisce.

 

In a week, I’ll return to Trail Lake for the winter.

I’ve finished wood splitting – no gash, cut, or splinter.

The logs are all stacked.

The lager is racked.

What supplies we may lack

We’ll discover and tinker.

 

I don’t mind seclusion ‘til May, I admit.

With, Laura, companionship’s still a good fit.

The quiet, the beauty, the solitude – nice.

We are surrounded by forest, and meadow, and ice.

We’re both well prepared with our cold weather kit.

 

We read and we play, and we cut down dead trees.

We turn from the wind in below zero breeze.

We bathe in our wood fired hot tub outdoors

Until the temp drops down to those we abhor.

 

But I’ll think of our joking and chatting today.

I’ll think of your jests and the things that you say.

I’ll reflect on your talents and all our horseplay.

I value your friendship and wish you all well

As we separate through the long winter ahead. 

I hope you do well both at home and away.

 

They hug and shake hands and depart to their beds.

In houses or campers or hangers, all said.

B walks to his camper, climbs into the loft

Eager to fall on the mattress so soft.

As he looks out the window, he sees on the lake

A family of ducks paddle by with a drake.

Further back, graceful swans  begin to glide by

‘Til they migrate in pairs with their honks amplified.

 

“What a magical place,” he thinks, as he rests.

I could live elsewhere, but Alaska is best.