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The bear slips out of the willows a few yards away and eases into the creek. It glances our way, this cluster of strong-smelling objects huddled together along the gravel bank. The animal grabs a

I must have passed this tree dozens of times over the years while hiking this trail in Chugach State Park. Maybe I’m walking a little slower these days, but today I pause to appreciate him—the

Net jacket, mosquito repellent, headlamp. I’m ready. Ten of us follow Juan, our native Amazonian guide, over the stone path, past the tool shed, through the orchid greenhouse, into the night. Leaves crunch beneath our

I try to settle into winter, but it won’t settle. Forty inches of snow last week, another nine inches two days ago. Yesterday turned cold, a chilling fog settling down on the city. Then, last

The boat scraped the rocks and halted with a thud. Wedescended the ladder and jumped to shore. I’d been looking forward to this hike for weeks, but the day was all wrong. Wind, rain, choppy

Fifteen of us, of various ages and levels of bird knowledge, face into an icy wind on Glacier Spit across the bay from Homer, Alaska. I’m bundled in three layers of clothing below the waist,

Give me the light—five more minutes a day. Spring in Alaska. It’s a seduction game. Frozen nights, thawing days, another snowfall, and the cycle starts it all over again. I love/hate this time of year.

Brilliant sun, mostly calm, temperature in the twenties. Nine of us, including my granddaughter Carly, home from college for the holidays, follow the ridge above Furrow Creek as it flows beneath the ice into the

Late November. Gray sky, chance of snow, high twenties. We lose four minutes of precious daylight a day. Two voices argue inside my head. One says: stay inside, read, eat cookies, and take a nap.

September. Boots, raingear, gloves, old clothes. We’re ready. Four women. Trish, the arborist, is our leader. She’s already dug shallow holes for planting. Small pots with spruce and birch samplings wait in the bed of