The sun warms my back as I walk the ridge line, my dog, Howie, hard on my heels. The air is filled with bird songs and the rich scent of damp earth is carried on the breeze. The great awakening of spring has begun; the spruce trees have cast off their winter shroud, the ptarmigan and ermine exchanged their winter whites for earthy brown coats, green leaves are appearing on the alders and blueberry bushes. After the long, quiet winter, spring seems to buzz with excitement and energy.

I find a nice big rock to sit on, and pull out my binoculars as Howie noses around in the alders, sending up a few startled ptarmigan. He runs over proud of his work and flops down beside me. I sit and glass, searching eagerly for the ambling form of a bear on the distant hillside. In a strange way, it feels like welcoming back old friends when we catch sight of our first spring bear.

Across the lake I can see the lodge nestled at the base of Blueberry Hill, and in the distance the Alaska Range like apparitions rising above the drifting clouds. No matter how many times I see it, the sight of Denali still leaves me awestruck.

Howie starts getting restless, pushing his nose at my hands and ends up entangled in the straps of my binoculars. I decide I have taxed his patience long enough and we head down the trail.

As we round the end of the lake a huge beaver lodge sits at the water’s edge. Howie and I climb up on top of it and wait…in a few minutes we see bubbles on the surface of the lake as the resident beaver pair swim out from the dam. They glide through the water, slapping their tails, irritated by our intrusion. They begin drifting closer to their lodge as we turn and head up the hill.

We hike down toward the outlet of the lake, the sound of trickling water joins in chorus with the lapping water at the lake’s edge. A few large rocks provide stepping stones as I work my way across the stream. Howie splashes through, stopping to take a drink and pull at a partially submerged stick. He emerges on the other side, his trophy in hand, and promptly shakes off right beside me. The ground is marshy, so I step on clumps of hummocks until I get to the trail. The next two hills provide expansive views in all directions, to the east Boomerang Lake and the Talkeetna Mountains, to the northwest the Alaska Range. I close my eyes for a moment and as I reopen them I imagine seeing the landscape for the very first time. This summer and fall we will guide hikers from all over the world, sharing with them our love of the Alaska wilderness. Together we will discover the wonders of the seasons, summer’s wild flowers and wildlife, and fall’s blazing tundra and bountiful berries, but for a moment, it is mine alone to enjoy.

Howie and I head toward Blueberry Hill, passing the spot marked with small wooden crosses where Mike laid to rest the last of his aging sled dogs, his faithful companions. I subconsciously reach down to rest my hand on Howie’s head, savoring his company. As we walk lazily down the hill with the lodge sprawled before us, I am reminded of all the history wrapped up in this place. Everywhere I look is the story of the lives lived here, as I walk the paths I become a part of the legacy. It’s just the beginning of our journey here, like the new beginnings of spring, built on the glories of seasons passed. As I step onto the deck, I am overwhelmed by the sense of belonging, of coming home.