A muskeg can be a very quiet place. Crossing through, all of the noise seems to be sucked into the mossy mire and I am sunk into thought. These places feel ancient. I am walking in an old basin, once a shallow lake, filled in by thousands of years’ worth of organic matter and sediment, built up, saturated, and compressed into peat under its own weight. The plants of past centuries give way under my own weight, a slight but noticeable spring to the wet ground. Here in southeast Alaska and throughout the northlands where these waterlogged bogs exist, cold temperatures combine with anaerobic conditions to bring decomposition to a near standstill. Slowly, inch by inch, these basins fill in with the withered remains of past vegetative growth. What I am walking on looks much as it did a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago, only more filled in, a little higher. I start to imagine that maybe this quiet is just about the same as it has always been. The buzz of mosquitos provides white noise, a meditative hum linking past and present. Slowly the hum builds and I realized that it is not mosquitoes I am hearing but a manufactured mimic, a distant floatplane whirring up the Lynn Canal. Snapped back to the present, I remember that it is good to be aware. A bear could be around though a likelier problem the ground underfoot, which isn’t always firm. A large muskeg complex is a mosaic of dry and wet land, areas that have filled in completely and spots that are still mucky. Throughout, small streams and little ponds are found. The open water is easy enough to avoid, but areas where a thin layer of moss covers the muck can be less obvious. A step in the wrong spot can put you up to your knee or more. Knowing a little bit about this type of landscape, the topography and plants can help. Ahead I can see hundreds of buckbean (Menyanthes trifoliata) leaf stalks emerging from the moss, a beautiful plant but one to tread near carefully.