For Your Reading Pleasure

“I have submited four stories to the newspaper of a nearby town at the invitation of it's editor, who is an old friend.

I copied and pasted one to Belle's "Woof Rat" thread. It's my version of what she briefly described in said thraid (sead thread?).

Then I get these responses from the criTTics:

"...a fabulous read!"
~Smiley Girl

"...send it to Reader's Digest.”
~StoveStomper

"...a gret piece."
~pedxing



So I figured I would do this thread offering you the opportunity to read what everyone's raving about.

Here they be...



Rats In Peace

We stood over the grave in respectful silence. Our brief service was the culmination of a months-long conflict. The opposing forces attacked and counterattacked. They assaulted and retreated. They ambushed and eluded. They fought nose to nose in close quarters, and charged head-on across the open field of battle. They braved the elements; standing vigil in the pouring rains of April and sweltering in the relentless suns of August. They cheated the Reaper day after day and lived to fight the next. Until one day - that fateful day - when one of the warriors fell bravely and honorably, and forever hallowed the ground upon which Sarabelle, Gizmeaux, and I now stood. The grave was covered with a small slab of black, lusterous marble. There was not a tombstone, but had there been one, it would have been inscribed:

By Twists Of Fate, They Met In Combat
One Was A Dog, Here Lies A Rat

A friend had just purchased property along Thomason Road, and needed help with several remodeling and renovation projects - so in stepped our crew. Besides myself, the crew consists of Gizmeaux, a 14 pound border terrier, and Sarabelle, a lean and leggy yellow Labrador retriever. Perhaps motley at first glance, the onlooker would soon realize that we are a well-oiled machine having a place for everyone, with everyone in their place. Gizmeaux, the Inspector, follows me around the jobsite eying every detail of my work. Though he can often be found in the nearby shade in a near-death state of sleep, he always manages to get dirtied or sawdusted or paint splattered in a manner suggesting his roll-up-the-sleeves work ethic. Sarabelle's domain is to insure our safety - she is First Security Officer, and by far our hardest working crew member. She can be found patrolling the periphery searching out such high risk threats as squirrels and lizards, or lying Sphynx-like under a shade tree; eyes keen, ears perked, and twitching snout held high. She can occasionally be seen stalking slower than slowly across a lawn with her nose pointing in the direction of an acorn-munching chipmunk, or a cardinal picking at the spoils below a bird feeder. I can honestly say that thanks to her dedication to duty, I have never suffered a pecked-out eye, or had a chameleon run up a leg of my utility jeans.

Nothing she had ever encountered had been a match for her cunning and skill - until now. Until he. Until Rat. Not a mouse, mind you - Sarabelle can go through mice like a kid through a bag of Skittles. We're talking Rat here - a large tawny-furred, talant toon'd, scaley tailed rat. One creature stands above the rest in terms of cunning and craftiness. It's not the coyote, it's not the snake, it's not the raven - it's the rat. Our travels throughout North America had included backpacking trips in the Northern Rockies, walks along the shores of the Great Lakes, and snowshoeing the mountain slopes of New Hampshire, yet she had never flushed a rat. She had rubbed whiskers with marmots, prairie dogs, and fox squirrels the size of, well, foxes - but she had never seen a rat. She had walked the streets and frolicked in the parks of Manhattan, Toronto, and Washington D.C., but she had never crossed paths with a rat.

Appearantly, the previous years of learning the whos and hows of nature's managerie was a way of training for the ultimate test of her skills. In the insuing war with Rat, she would rely on all the knowledge and skills she had acquired, for it was upon this foundation that she would build an arsenal like she had never known to exist - and use it to defeat this worthy foe. With patience and perserverence, she would get the best of Rat, or he would get the best of her. It came close to a draw.

Shortly after beginning the project, I noticed Sarabelle spending alot of her workday around the perimeter of a certain barn. She had made numerous digs - which I am always obliged to repair - so I assumed it was done in the pursuit of numerous mice and/or ground squirrels.

"Nope" said Tom's friend, Terry. He had been around since Tom bought the property. He had helped with the move, and had even begun some of the projects which I had come to complete.
"It's a rat - a gret big'un. I seen him several times. Can't be killed, neither - too smart, I reckon." Terry had obviously given up on the hunt, or more likely, gotten too busy to pursue it in earnest.

But Belle persisted. Near the barn was a flat, open trailer laden with old furniture, several doors, some cabinets removed from a vacant house, and various sundry items. All were covered tightly with a heavy-duty tarp. Though it seemed Rat had several homes away from home, this trailer was the location of his permanent residence. It was here that Sarabelle studied his habits and tendencies, and eventually formulated her strategy for ultimate success. She would spend entire days beneath the tarp - sometimes leaving her rump and wagging tail exposed, and sometimes burrowing completely out of sight. On one occassion, I could tell by the urgency of Belle's behavior that he was close - Rat was home. Gizmeaux and I joined the fray. I furled the tarp to expose a large chest of drawers with which Belle exhibited a keen interest. I slowly opened a drawer just enough to peer at what looked to be rat bedding. And in that bedding was what appeared to be a rat.
"Here he is!" I exclaimed - half excited, and half scared. Sure, I'll admit it. My first up-close and personal encounter with a rat - which must have weighed 20 pounds, by the way - was a bit more frightful than I expected it would be.
Whatever. I got the dogs' attention, and got my game on. Then, without thinking, I shoved hard against the piece of furniture with every fiber of my being. The drawered wooden frame toppled hard and struck the ground with a thunderous crash. The dogs were immediately atop and around the smelly remnants of the once cheap bedroom piece. Lying scattered among the rubble was the nest - but no rat. He had escaped, but how? I was puzzled, as were the dogs. Rat 1, Crew 0.

Later on, I could see signs that Rat was frequenting the interior of the barn. I had been building shelving and racks in order to enhance it's new role as a sort of warehouse. One night I rigged an elaborate series of lights in order to brighten the large space to a degree suitable for using firearms. I fashioned a crude blind, and behind it placed an easy chair. While I stood in the middle of the room with a trusty Daisy air rifle under my arm, and Sarabelle at my side, Rat stepped out. Right from where I would expect him to, and right out into the middle of the floor. He taunted us as we stood in frozen disbelief. He had obviously been watching as I set the trap, and showed himself before preparations had been finalized. By the time Belle and I regained our composure, he disappeared into the very crevice by which I had anticipated he would escape. By the time we got there he was long gone, leaving behind only a smelly trail which Sarabelle sniffed without cessation. But we were not finished with our fuzzy little foe.
With a single-syllabled "fweeet!" and a shouted "Gid-mo!" I summoned our lightweight backup, who had been lingering all the while just outside the barn doors. In ran Gizmeaux, who I immediately led to the hot trail. He scurried excitedly into the crevice and was soon out of sight. I could hear heavy snorts and scratching, but never a growl. After a couple minutes, all was quiet, then Gizmeaux reentered the barn from outside. He had trailed Rat through whatever maze was concealed behind the cabinetry, and continued on to the outside exit. But again, no rat. Rat 2, Crew 0.

It was a gorgeous late summer morning. The weather had gotten beyond the influences of Katrina, and we were once again enjoying the warmth of the sun and the cool of the gently passing breeze. After five months, the projects were nearly completed, and our days were numbered. I was finishing-up some sundeck repair on the rear of the house, and Sarabelle was still performing her daily patrols, including the barn and it's surroundings. I had recently moved a stack of lumber to an area near the barn and covered it with a tarp. It was this stack that drew Sarabelles attention as she passed nearby.

"He's here" she said with her stance.
"Right here - not more than one foot from my nose!" she continued as she lowered into a well braced crouch.

I had Gizmeaux position himself on the opposite side in order to block Rat's escape. I removed the bricks from the edges of the tarp and began to roll it back. I rolled it completely away, but Sarabelle held her pose. She was focused on the three boards that composed the layers on one side of the stack. As I removed the top board, Sarabelle flinched - but no rat. I removed the second, and again - no rat. Then, as I reached for the third and final board, Sarabelle knelt lower, placing her chin just above the two-by-six. I quickly snatched upward on the board, and Sarabelle just as quickly lunged forward. As the board cleared away, I saw Rat lying motionless - staring straight into the quickly closing jaws of his tyrannasaur. In the blink of an eye, Rat was dead.

"Yes!" I yelled.
"YES BAY-BEEEE!" as if we had just won the Super Bowl.
I ran around and jumped up and down punching the air with clinched fists.
"Yes, yes, yes!"

Sarabelle, too, priked and hopped around, proudly displaying the lifeless heap that was just moments before her most despised antagonist. Gizmeaux ran alongside her anticipating his turn at a taste. It was a glorious moment.

Within 10 minutes, Rat laid drenched in saliva and all but forgotten. Dogs do not seem to have much interest in things not alive. As I stood over him with a shovel, I couldn't help but admire him. As a rat, he was the perfect specimen - both in body and varmity soul. He was large and well proportioned. His coloration was aesthetically pleasing - not blotchy or spotted like a citified wharf rat, but the even, earthtone color of a wild animal, which he truely was. He defended the land of his ancestors with a dignity achievable by only the best of vermin. His lot in life was not of his choosing, but he did the best he could with the hand which fate had dealt him. To paraphrase the poet e.e. cummins, what did he ever do that we would not have done? Rather than flee after the arrival of Sarabelle, he chose to stand his ground, and paid the ultimate price for doing so. We should all be so courageous.

I had intended to bury his remains as I would a pail of fish heads, but I decided this was an occasion worthy of memorial. I selected an elevated spot beneath a large cedar tree, and dug a hole. I then searched among several pieces of one inch thick polished marble that were stacked in the back yard. I selected the black one for its size more than any other factor - it measures about five inches wide and a foot in length - but it is an attractive piece, nonetheless. I laid the rat in the hole, and covered it with tightly packed red dirt. I brought over a couple extra shovels-full in order to form an ovate dome, then tamped the marble tightly upon the top of the low mound.

So there we stood - Gizmeaux fidgeting like a kindergarten graduate - paying attention to seemingly nothing, Sarabelle paying attention to everything but the gravesite, I me paying final homage to one of nature's most remarkable creatures. I stop by the grave on every visit to Tom's. I chuckle at the notion of such a silly memorial, then mutter an audible, heartfelt "rest in peace, Rat".”

“Appalachian Lullaby

Fifteen thousand strides. I did not count each one, but the map indicated that the days hike had brought us an additional twelve miles or so, therefore, the number is probably a close estimate. Whatever the amount of lifts and drops my boots had done, my final destination made them each worthwhile. Sarabelle, my faithful yellow lab, and I found ourselves nestled in a high cove of the Blue Ridge of Western North Carolina. The surrounding forest is designated as the Joyce Kilmer/Slickrock Wilderness Area, a 17,000 acre unit within the Nantahala National Forest. The wilderness is home to one of only a handful of virgin forests in America. For whatever reason - be it economic, political, geographical, or social - the trees had never fallen to the saw, or the rich earth laid open to the plow.

I leaned back against a large log that seemed a natural border for what had become our temporary homestead. I sat upon my folded sleeping pad. Sarabelle, contentedly tired and full of kibble and tuna and jerked beef, laid asleep with her head pressed hard against my leg in a perpetual nudge. Her occasional jerk and barely discernable whimper indicated her deep, restful slumber. I sat silently sipping hot cocoa - my traditional follow-up to Ramen noodles and tuna. "Hots", some call it. I call it supper. Whatever the title, hot food and drink taste no better than in the backcountry - and nowhere else does a small fire warm so well. Despite the rains of the preceding days, I had managed to raise a more than adequate flame. I watched the fiery follies of the one-ring circus as my titanium cup became increasingly lighter, and my eyelids heavier.

As darkness grew, my dreamy attention was drawn to the treetops. There was a familiar stir in the air. Indeed, the stir was brought about by the News of things forthcoming. The Titans - red maple, white oak, blue spruce - standing above me were first to receive the News. They became restless and excited; leaning first to one neighbor, then another - thus spreading the News. Then, to the rousing applause of the nearby rhododendron, the News swept through the camp.

Smoke, which had been slithering about the ground as if searching out the vulnerable for it's flaming master, began first to stop, then reel, then dart off in a panicked retreat - disappearing into the shadows of the forest. Fire, angered by the News, glowed a ferocious red then orange then yellow. He raised up and hissed and threw outward and upward his pyroclastic weapons of destruction - all of which diminished, dim and harmless, until they fell black onto the damp leaf litter. Seeing all this, Little Creek leapt into a rock crevice to giggle unseen like a bashful schoolgirl. She, too, had heard the News, and knew that her fantasies would soon come true; that she was about to grow into a beautiful and patient woman as she meandered to the place where she would someday wed her briney groom.

Then nothing. Silence. Eerily motionless and perfectly quiet. As soon as it arrived, it had vanished.

But not for long.

First, a tap on the hat. Then, a tap on the toe. Then another, and another, and another. The fire spat and spewed, the rhododendron began another ovation, and I roused from my slumber and scrambled to my feet. Within a few seconds, the pitterpatter of a few raindrops had become the roar of a deluge. I scurried around grabbing all that my headlamp illuminated, and within one minute Sarabelle and I were safely bedded down in the dry comfort of our little tent. The rain continued battering the fly of our shelter, and lulled us quickly to sleep - my favorite sleep. It is a sleep that can only be found 15,000 steps to where the giant sentinels of the forest stand watch, where the creatures of the darkness prowl by to whisper "good night", and where you are securely cradled in the loving arms of God.”

“Far From It's Mouth, A River Bears It's Teeth

We stood on a rock only a half-mile from our destination, but my concern was the immediate one hundred feet of whitewater that thundered before us. In my preceding trips down the Ocmulgee, I had never witnessed her at such a fantastically violent level.

"Can we go back?!" shouted Barbara.
I turned toward her and shouted back "Not against this current!"
She nodded. We double-checked the straps and buckles of our life preservers as we prepared to step down into what now seemed to be a vastly inadequate canoe.

Before we launched below Jackson Lake that morning, I noticed the river was running high and swift. The yellow-stained water indicated that the authorities at Georgia Power's Lloyd Shoals dam were probably attempting to keep the lake's rising water level in check. This is actually a boon for canoists, kayakers, and rafters. The high water makes for a swift ride downstream, and washes over many of the shallow shoals that occur sporatically until the fall line near Macon, about 35 miles distance.

For most of it's path, the river and it's flood plain are wide and flat. This is not the case at Seven Islands, however. Here, the floodplain narrows between bluffs on either side. Add to that a number of islands (I have never counted, nor am I a gambling man, but I would bet my emergency survival pack that there are more than seven), and the river divides into numerous narrow, high volume channels. The narrowest and high volumest of these channels is where Barbara and I currently found ourselves, and there was no turning back. As the river is divided by islands, this channel is divided by rocks. Some were visible above the torrent, and others lay just below the surface. Barbara and I stood atop a large rock near the Butts County bank surveying our options. Steep banks and an almost impenetrable underbrush made a portage impractacle. Unfortunately, our only option was to chance a run down the labyrinth that bounced and rolled below us.
"When we shove off, you'll need to paddle hard on your right until we reach that chute!" I yelled as I pointed to a gap between two rocks, some 50 feet across the swift current.

"After we pass between the rocks, switch to your left side and continue paddling hard through the second chute. Don't stop paddling until we pass over the standing waves there!" I continued as my point swung another hundred feet downstream.

She nodded to indicate her understanding, but the fear that had overcome her normally smiling eyes indicated otherwise. She was wet, and she was trembling, but she was not trembling due to being wet.

"We're not going to make it!" She said.

"We'll be fine - this'll be a blast!" I said, trying to reassure her. But I knew what was about to happen.

We then stepped down into the canoe with paddles in hand, and stomachs in throat. I shoved hard against the rock with the tip of my paddle, and we were again underway toward our picnic at Wise Creek. Barbara, a real trooper, began paddling hard just as instructed. I, too, paddled hard right. The current at our left side prevented the left turn that would ordinarily result from both paddlers on the right. Instead, the bow of the canoe headed diagonally across the current, directly toward the intended chute. When the bow became aligned with our target, I began backstroking on the right, and Barbara, as instructed, switched to the left side. This manuever resulted in the canoe making a clockwise pivot, and the little craft entered the steep chute in perfect alignment.

Things can seem like something they're not from over near Butts County, I reckon. What appeared from the observation rock to be a two foot drop was probably more like five. As soon as the canoe entered the chute, it developed an orientation of about 45 degrees off horizontal. This caused the canoe to plunge bow long into the wave standing at the bottom, and for Barbara to start kind of floating in a foamy sort of Jacuzzi. By this time, she had abandoned her paddle, and her hands were clinging hard to the gunwales at her sides. It was about then she let out a blood-curdling "Jooooooooooe!"

By the time my end of the canoe experienced a similar treatment, we were burdened with approximately 100 gallons of water. That comes to about 800 pounds of unwanted cargo - especially unwanted in our current situation. We were dead in the water, drifting out of alignment, and fast approaching the first chutes mother. I struggled to get the boat realigned, but the canoe would hear nothing of it. We hit the second chute sideways, then rolled. And rolled.

As we began to roll, I leapt forward toward Barbara. We hit the water at about the same time, and no more than three feet apart. I quickly grabbed her and told her to kick. We stroked and kicked and grabbed and finally made it to a nearby rock. She made it onto the rock in fine fashion.
"I gotta get the canoe!" I yelled.
"Stay here! Do not leave this spot! I'll be back as soon as I can!" I shouted. Then I jumped into the two foot standing waves.

I swam freestyle, which can be a dangerous technique in rapids. But the canoe had gotten a pretty good headstart in the swift current, and I knew more falls were only a hundred yards downstream. I reached the canoe, which was upright, but brimming with water. I grabbed it near the middle, and kicked toward a sandbar on the left bank. The sandy bottom soon rose to a depth I could manage without losing control of the canoe. I was able to drag the canoe to the shallows where I could tip out enough water to then get it completely beached.

I was soon back in the water making my way across the 100 foot wide channel. I reached the opposite bank and scaled the root infested bluff. This was the kind of stuff bad dreams are made of. The Roots and dark recesses were enough to make me dare not climb around under normal circumstances, but this was no time to be fearing snakes and swamp boogers - I had a girlfriend to retrieve. I had to cross what was no more than a creek to reach the islet that Barbara was still perched upon. She was squatted at the channel's edge, looking as though she were testing the temperature of the water with her tennis shod foot.

"Barbara!" I yelled. She startled and spun around.

"Joe!" She shouted back - her facial expression changing from concern to delight. I scrambled through the brush and grabbed her in an embrace. I was very glad to be reunited with her, as was she with me.

"Let's get off this God forsaken rock!" I said. So we jumped in. This time we swam on our backs with our feet facing downstream to absorb the impact of any unseen underwater obstacles. Before we took the plunge, I told her to let the current do the work, and focus on ferrying diagonally toward the left. Within a couple minutes we were standing on the sandbar with the canoe. Everything was still tethered and accounted for: five gallon bucket with snap-on lid, medium size cooler, tacklebox, and fishing rod. Missing, of course, were two paddles.

I suspected that the paddles would be snagged somewhere downstream. We walked down the sandbar to get a better look, and sure enough, glistening in the sunlight was the blade of a paddle. It was caught in the branches of a tree that had fallen into the river. We made our way to the tree, and I shimmied out the trunk, then down a limb. I reached out and clutched the handle, waved the paddle in the air, and gave out a celebratory "hoooyah!". Barbara applauded.

We were soon back underway, and shooting through the relatively tame rapids at the old Smith's Mill ruin. Around the next bend was the other paddle tangled in a snag of some sort - probably a tree root. And around the next, on the Jasper County bank, was the National Forest Service public access area known as Wise Creek. We drug the canoe up the muddy boatramp, then retired, with cooler in tow, to a bench fashioned from a railroad tie.

I watched Barbara as I dined on a soggy sandwich and a lukewarm beer. She seemed rather introspective - a trait that she rarely exhibited. I was truely proud of her. She handled our ordeal exceedingly well. She had never been in a canoe until six hours earlier, yet she seemed to have an air of Lewis and Clark about her. Yeah, she could have been Sakajaweha as far as anyone knew. While I was staring at her, she turned to me with a smirky grin and her beautiful brown, smiling eyes and asked "Ya wanna do that again?"”

“Cumberland Island By Rowboat

I leaned back and pulled hard against the oars as the small boat mad her final lunge, then struck soundly against the concrete boatramp. The boat sat motionless, as did I. I was exhausted and exhilerated. I had just completed a 41 mile tour of the creeks and rivers that meander through the saltmarshes of coastal Georgia's Cumberland Island National Seashore. I had not eaten a decent meal in four days, so I gathered myself well enough to load-up and head for the nearest hot breakfast.

I had launched at the boatramp of Crooked River State Park on the previous Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. I arrived late that afternoon, and had a couple hours to make last minute preparations before the seven p.m. high tide. When the tide crested, then began it's seaward flow, I climbed down into the rowboat, instructed Sarabelle to "c'mon", and pushed off into the patient current. Darkness had set in by then; the skies were clear, and the air was calm and comfortably cool. My yellow lab and I were on our way out the Crooked River. In about four miles, we would meet the Cumberland River. Across the Cumberland was the mouth of the Brickhill River, which would take us to the shores of Cumberland Island. Our destination there was the restored Plum Orchard estate, or more specifically, the adjacent wharf. The trip out was quiet and gloriously uneventful. We saw no other boats, and heard no sounds other than the splash of the oars and the creak of their locks. By 10 p.m., we were moored at the wharf, and bedded down for the night.

I rose early and prepared my favorite "backcountry" breakfast - coffee and Pop Tarts. Belle hurried through her bowl of food in order to get to her requisite smell-around. As I enjoyed my fare, and she stalked fiddler crabs, a sailboat motored by, and the lady of the craft offered a friendly wave and a "Happy Thanksgiving!". I returned the gesture with a wave and smile of my own. We were soon back underway toward our next destination - Brickhill Bluff. The tide was ebbing, and the current was in our favor.

The surrounding waterways are navigable by the largest of craft, but I prefer the silent, slow-go that brings the marsh up close. The myriad birds homesteading in the grasses all but ignored us, and went about their business as if we were some inanimate object drifting by. Dolphins topped the surface nearby as if to be getting an ever closer look at our boat. Sarabelle found them to be most interesting. She was at first speechless and a bit nervous about their proximity, but soon managed to muster shouts of warning - assuming her role as First Security Officer. We arrived at Brickhill Bluff with three hours of friendly current remaining, which was not enough to insure our reaching the next destination several miles beyond. I opted to wait out the tide cycles there.

Brickhill is the location of the National Park Service's northernmost backcountry campsite. It is a picturesque area that features towering pines, thick patches of palmetto, and the island's signature live oaks. On my numerous hiking trips to the island, I had never camped there - I had only passed through to collect water from the nearby hand pump. On this trip I brought along backpacking gear (which substitutes well as rowboatpacking gear) with the intent to at least get in a dayhike. I had injured my leg the previous weekend on a snowy descent of North Carolina's Cheoah Bald along the Appalachian Trail. Therefore, even a "slackpacking" dayhike was out of the question. Instead, I did some fishing, filtered drinking water, and dined on Ramen Noodles with tuna.

By seven p.m., the tide once again beckoned the oars, and we set off into the darkness for the ruins of the old Cumberland wharf. Only a minute after getting underway, I heard the thundering hooves of several of the islands 150 wild horses stampeding the bluff. They noisely descended onto a grassy area of the marsh, and my spotlight illuminated three of them grazing only 30 or 40 feet away. This got Sarabelle's attention, who was ever vigilant and always keen to the surroundings. She was enjoying the trip as much as I. The environment was as new to her as it was to me on my first childhood trip south to our beautiful coast.

We were at the northern terminus of the Brickhill River - where she rejoins the Cumberland - by 11 p.m., and reached the ruins in another half-hour. I continued on to a vast oyster bar that acts as a bridge between Cumberland Island and Little Cumberland. I pulled the boat onto the beach, and laid across the makeshift bed in the boat's front section. The oyster bar was teeming with raccoons. They were busy cracking shells with rocks so to avail themselves of the tasty morsels within. They must have numbered in the dozens, and their activity sounded like amplified Rice Crispies in the otherwise silent night. It was one of those surprises that await around every corner of every new adventure.

I know that when beached for a nap, putting out the anchor would be the logical thing to do. For reasons still unknown to me, I failed to do so. Therefore, I awoke at five a.m. to an embarrassing surprise - I was adrift in the middle of the river. I quickly donned my headlamp and fetched my chart and compass. I was able to get a fix on our location by triangulating with two known objects - the light of a moored boat on the Brickhill River, and a well lit paper mill near Brunswick. We had drifted five miles opposite the direction of choice. I quickly rowed to the grassy shore. Belle relieved herself on the muddy banks, and I sipped coffee and munched on tarts. I had committed a potentially dangerous blunder. Thankfully, boat traffic along the Cumberland is all but nonexistant in the wee hours. I sat and awaited the tides that make no exception for no man.

Soon the thin sliver of a crescent moon was rising over the now distant island. It was accompanied by an eerie glow on the horizon. That glow turned out to be from the rising sun. At one point, both were visible through the golden-orange haze of the sea air. It was surreal. It was another of those never-ending moments that continuously draw me out into the wild.

It was about then - Lucky 7 - that the tide changed, and I began the return to from whence we drifted. We reached the wharf ruin in a couple hours. Belle and I went ashore for a stretch. From there I surveyed the river and the surroundings. I opted to make a final push for the mouth of the Cumberland, where it spills into the vast St. Andrews Sound. The sound seperates the Cumberlands from Jekyll Island. It is also the inlet for the Satilla and Turtle Rivers. It's a high volume body of water - it's the ocean. We climbed back aboard, and made our way diagonally across the river toward an islet - some three-quarters of a mile distance. The wind had kick-up by then, but in a favorable direction. The plan was to reach the islet, then begin the homeward voyage from there with the next incoming tide - a period I knew to be about eight hours. The wind indicated that something was probably brewing, so I did not want to delay for very long. Being at the islet or where we currently were would make little difference at tide change. Besides, rowing to Sarabelle Island would be something to do.

By tide change, the wind had increased considerably, and the river was white with foot-high waves. They battered the boat from the port stern, which provided a considerable push. There was a hard left turn about six miles ahead, however, which I knew would put us almost directly into the wind. Upon making the turn, the propulsion provided by the current was checked by the wind. In fact, even with my nonstop rowing, our forward progress was halted completely. I had no choice but to make for the riverbank. As time went by, the wind speed increased, and by dark the marsh had become more like an ocean than the calm, inshore waters with which I had become familiar. I snacked on gorp (good 'ol raisins and peanuts) as I waited out the weather. By 7:30 p.m., the tide had changed and Sarabelle and I were bedded down for some much needed rest.

Around 9 o'clock I was awakened by raindrops. The shower was light, so I took my time putting on my rain gear. Soon after, the strong winds were accompanied by a heavy, almost horizontal deluge. I sensed the rain was more than just a passing squall, so I resolved to sit it out as best I could. Sarabelle was miserable. On numerous occasions, she would spin and lay down only to spring right back up off her drenched bedding. Eventually, she too resolved to meet our situation on it's terms, and laid down. I covered her with the poncho I brought along for just such an occassion. I busied myself with bailing water and adjusting the boats location. I somehow had the foresight to tie the bow line to a root, and stepped out to slide the boat down the bank as the water level receded. I was keenly aware that the tide would remain unfriendly until about 2 a.m. That meant that I would be sitting in those conditions for another five hours. I managed to fashion a shelter using the cooler lid. Under this I set-up my tiny backpacking stove and pot of water. Nothing was going to deny me my favorite backcountry snack.

Around 2 o'clock, I shined my headlamp on an unusually odd looking oyster shell that I had been monitoring. It was now completely submerged in the murky water - the tide was coming in. I bailed one last time, scrambled up the muddy bank and untied the bow line, and returned to the boat - using my downhill momentum to help push the little Starcraft into the heavy chop. By this time, the rain had diminished in intensity, and the wind had subsided by an appreciable degree. Nevertheless, one missed stroke of the oars would result in the loss of progress provided by the preceding two. The rythym was literally "two steps forward, one step back". Each time I lifted the oars after a stroke, the boats momentum would halt. The next stroke was required to break the inertia of the state of rest that the boat instantly acquired, as well as propel us forward perhaps six feet. The temperature was in the mid forties, but I was drenched from the inside by my sweat. I rowed for five hours, stopping once to allow Sarabelle a nature break while I rested.

At about 7 o'clock I reached the Crooked River. The turn up it was a hairpin to the right. I stroked hard with the right oar, and the boat began it's turn. As she came about, the wind resistance moved to the boat's port side. Further still, the wind was straight at the stern. Finally - a welcomed push! I positioned the boat into the middle of the river, then collapsed backward to lay motionless beside Sarabelle. I rested until the boat ran aground, perhaps 10 minutes later. I resumed rowing - mostly to keep the boat away from the bank as I allowed wind and tide to do the heavy work. A slow turn around a bend gradually revealed a familiar wharf, then a boatramp. Then, my Tacoma pickup. I was almost home. Then suddenly, in spite of all that I had just experienced, I was thinking only of one thing and two words: Waffle House.”

“Go gojo!

This might be good work for you.
BTW, I have bumper stickers ready to mail, just have to figure out the postage.”

“when does the pleasure start?

;-)”

“You're very good at visualization gojo. Good job!”

“That's unbelievable!

(That she frolicked in the parks of D.C. and never crossed paths with a rat.)”

“when does the pleasure start?"
~crash bang

The phone was ringing as I walked in the door - caller ID indicated that is was Carlina.
"Carlina?!" I said aloud, as I frantically searched for the "Answer" button. The phone rang again.
"Shoot! Where's the freaking button?"
"Riiiiiiiiiiing"
"My glasses! I need my glasses." I said while patting my coat and trousers.
"Riiiiiiiiiiing"
After finding my glasses, then the correct button, I put the Princess phone to my ear.
"Hello, Carlina?" I said excitedly.
Then a womans voice licked my ear:
"If you'd like to make a call..."


LOL!!!”

“I liked pedx's review the best. ;-)”

“I had been building shelving and racks in order to enhance it's new role as a sort of warehouse.

Incorrect usage of the apostrophe! LizS would be proud.

Even with such an egregious mistake, I still enjoyed the story.”

“I love your stories, Gojo! They are "all that and a bag of sweet feed."
:)”

“"all that and a bag of sweet feed."
~AmyG

What? No Skittles?
(:”

“The Power of a Praying Wife
by Stormie Omartian

Tender Warrior, God's Intention For A Man
by Stu Weber

Just beginning these two.”

“I will not die here,
pushing a pencil beneath a lamp;
My boots will be muddy,
And my clothes will be damp.
Not clutching my chest
At the local mall,
But losing my grip
As I scale a cliff wall.
Not drawing last breath
Under bright O.R. light,
But missing the trail
In the darkness of night.
Not at a desk
On a hectic workday,
But searching for windmills
And dragons to slay.
Not in the embrace
Of a grieving, sweet wife;
By the grip of a bear
Will I lose my life.
Not in a pileup
While driving my truck,
But at the end of the road,
Alas out of luck.
It's time of happening?
Only fate would so dare!
The concern is not "when?"
Instead, mine is "where?"”

“nice ..”

“The creak of the third step up the staircase, the way the storm door mysteriously comes unlatched, or the relentless drip... drip... drip... of the bathtub faucet.

The Collegiates and old college text books at arms reach, the familiarality of the La-Z-Boy's cushions and the TV remote's contour, and headlights appearing in the driveway - a surprise visitor!

Oak and hickory crackiling in the woodstove, 8-by-10 reminders of great times past, and the coffee maker gurgling her aromatic "come and get it!"

The ringing phone bringing home a warm voice, the warm smell of a new bed in a bag, or Belle's urgent "outside go pee!"

Homesick, mercilessly ill. Homeless, mercilessly terminal.”

“Gojo, you have an amazing talent! Thank you.

I'm going to go and dig something out to share too.”

“If only we could dust & clean out the cobwebs
Of pain and assault in our souls by writing

It would be done by now

And I could live as I was truly meant to live
Free, sincerely happy
In the trusted knowledge of who I really am
God's own child
Complete
Whole
Loved merely for being Me
And no one else at all

P.S. Kelly
11/6/2006”

“For the last couple of years, I've read several mountaineering books - accident summaries, trip report style books, historical accounts by some of the "old masters", etc...

I just found this page over at summit post and thought I'd post a link here - this is a terrific list, anyone of these books would make my list of "must read"....

enjoy:

Mountaineering Book List
last edited: 12/14/07 9:53:04 AM”

“Thanks, I have no interest in actually doing mountaineering, but love reading about it. I've only read a few of those books and will have to pick up a few of the ones on the list.”

“Wow. Killer list. Thanks.”

“Old Welcomes New

When I was three, my family moved from our generations-old farmland to the edge of Atlanta's southern sprawl. Behind our brand new home was a brand new school, and behind it an old farmer's old farm.

The woods and grown over fields of this property was where I spent much of my time. My friends and I explored every hedgerow and gulley. We stopped shy of the far outbuildings for there there was a small pasture that was diligently protected by it's guardian - and we dared not venture farther for fear of losing our lives.

On one occasion, while strolling along an old three-track trail that meandered through the dark, wooded bottomland, we stopped to listen carefully. We could here the clamor of a mule-drawn wagon drawing ever nearer. We tresspassers had never been caught, and my buddies intended to keep it that way - bolting into the distant shadows like rabbits.

I was intrigued. I remained still.

My grandfather had a wagon, and a mule. Perhaps I yearned for home.

As the wagon drew near, I stepped aside and waited. The old man tugged at the reins with little effort, and whispered a calm "Whoa". When they came to a stop, I, standing on an embankment, found myself eye to eye with the old farmer. He envited me to climb on.

Holy cow - a wagon ride!

The mule knew where to go, and went. We rode for awhile - turning here and there - until reaching the farmyard and it's big barn. I climbed down and skipped away home.

From that day forward I would go boldly wherever there I wanted, for the mule never again chased me away.
last edited: 1/09/08 7:10:37 AM”

“.

Our days are numbered and few,
For now the chores will do.
All your frets will stay -
Hike on! Hike away!

Tis so much yet to see,
Be it range or valley or tree.
Forego any further delay -
Hike on! Hike away!

Breathe deep the vibrant air,
Behold the glade so fair.
Hear the forest sway -
Hike on! Hike away!

Be it only for a while,
Or for mile after mile after mile.
For a month or a week or a day -
Hike on! Hike away!

Leave every worry behind,
And clear your busy mind.
Forget your cares - go play!
Hike on! Hike away!

So when my days are through -
Oh, and how 'bout you?
What better words to say
Hiked on! Hiked away!

.
last edited: 1/25/08 2:01:39 PM”

“Very nice, Gojo. How are you doing?”

“Good. Thanks.”

“Another hit with me gojo. Thanks dude. I enjoyed that.”

“An excellent poem, not doubt, but Sarabelle seems to have the edge:)”

“Thanks, gojo.

Leave every worry behind,
And clear your busy mind.
Forget your cares - go play!
Hike on! Hike away!

I found on numerous occasions that it takes me about two weeks of backpacking to rid myself of the stress and anxieties. After that I can relax and I sleep much better and feel a lot more comfortable.”

“�My winter roadtrip of 2000 found me one night in Gorham, NH. I got a room there after bailing out of a totally ill-prepared snowshoe/camping trip along the wintry, windswept slopes of Mount Adams. It was a Saturday between the two holidays, and the height of the college bowl season.

Before finding a room, I sought-out a sports bar. I found one - just a short ways past the place where I had returned the rented snowshoes. The probability of watching a game or two over a hot, thick double chili/bacon cheeseburger and a couple ice cold beers was what tipped the scales in my decision to escape the harshest winter conditions I had ever experienced.

After washing up, layering up, and getting Sarabelle tucked in for the night, I left the motel for the sports bar. I was awash with anticipation."Burgers, beer, and football - it don't get no better than this" I thought. And it don't.

When I stepped into the warm din of the bar I was home. It could have been the Sports Oasis or the Three Dollar Cafe back in McDonough. The smells, the sounds, the people - same, same, same. Yet I soon realized that something - something - was different.

Then it hit me - it was the televisions. Every one - 24 or so in number - were brightly displaying sportsmen in uniforms of every color, tint, and shade seeking the goal of their opponents. But these were not goals known as "field" - and this was not ball known as "foot". This was key known as "hoc".

"There must be some mistake" I thought. I made another lap around the room.
"Oh my God - these poor souls!"
Not Falcons or Eagles, but Ducks and Penguins. Not Georgia Tech Yellowjackets or Nebraska Cornhuskers , but Tri-State Sasquatches and 20th Mainers. I was genuinely shocked, yet amused. I saw a TV remote on the bar, so I sat at the stool closest to it - chuckling to myself, and at myself.

I always anticipate seeing, feeling, and doing new things with every roadtrip, but this one was over the top.

During that trip, I sat in the door of my tent into the wee hours one night as I marveled at an hours-long moonlit Catskill snow shower - compliments of ours truly, Sirpete of Millwork.

I donned snowshoes for the first time in my life and broke trails in the thick blankets of Adirondak and Presidential Range snow.

Sarabelle and I - each giddier than the other - had walked and walked and walked across a frozen Vermont lake when I suddenly realized we were standing only inches above 31 degree water a thousand feet from the nearest shore. The sensation that rushed across my left brain was one I shall never forget.

I stopped one early, chilled morning to have breakfast at a restraunt in downtown Lake Placid, NY. The proprietor was busy shoveling snow from the sidewalk as the "hired help" occupied themselves inside with the pre-opening rituals. Seeing an idle shovel leaning against the storefront, I offered to help until the coffee was brewed. Dude looked at me as if I had an anaconda crawling from a gaping crack across my skull.

I experienced yet another first - in my 40-plus years, I had never held a snow shovel. It was incredibly light. I was an adolescent before I weighed more than the shovels I'm accustomed to. And the snow? Three words: Georgia red clay. I've probably moved enough of that Godless stuff to sink the USS George H. W. Bush. Man! I owned that little shovel, and made the fluffy white stuff my b!+ch. I must have looked quite the Gomer just a shoveling and whistling away there beside Main Street.

But 24 televisions on the Saturday night between Christmas and New Years and not a single - not one! - football game? That, ladies and gentlemen, was a true and unforgetable culture shock.

I will say this - those people were having fun. Husbands and wives in matching jerseys sporting an unpronounceable name across the shoulders. Brothers wearing the different colors of opposing teams. A group at one table swapping jabs and winks with the enemy seated around another.

It was an homogenous throng of my fellow Americans, of which probably none could say which bowl games were being played at that moment, immersed deep into a sport for which my knowledge begins and ends with "Zamboni". Simply shocking.

I bet I know what they were thinking, though:
"Burgers, beer, and hockey - it doesn't get any better than this!"


And it don't.�”

“Thanks for the read, gojo. I enjoyed it, as usual.

Seriously... that was the first time you held a shovel? Wow.”

“I became a gojo fan with the Sarabelle/Gannet Peak/TFR/God Bless America story.

Hike on! Hike away!”

“Great story.

Never held a snow shovel, hell, I've never even seen one except on TV.

No football was on the TV? I can't fathom such a thing.”

“Where was that bar again? Sounds like my kind of place.”

“Gojo, I got a plot of land to sell you up here. You ain't seen snow (sucka).

Doug”

“Sarabelle/Gannet Peak/TFR/God Bless America story.
~Toge

Hmmm. I wonder whatever became of that thread? That was summer 2000.”

“My forray into Conecuh was among the first of my hikes in the modern era. I discovered the forest and it's trail offerings online - along with thebackpacker.com - with my newly installed office computer. It would be one of the most anticipated spring breaks of my seven year teaching career, combining hiking with the promising possibilities of the Panama City Beach fishery.

After a stop at a tackle shop in town, I arrived at the forest campground around 3 pm. I found the campground host and got the local skinny as well as a map that could have been the third-place entry in a Draw a Map of Conecuh National Forest contest at Andalusia Elementary School.

I hiked in only a mile or so, set up camp, then wound down with a cup-or-so of diluted rum. At dusk, the local deer herd began to gather round in small groups - staring at me and whispering about me. Ocassionaly, a bold button buck or one of the mamas would feign a charge only to stop yet far off and stomp and huff. They were not too happy with this intruder that had sat his homestead right in the middle of an animal equivilent to the Georgia-Florida Parkway. They got their revenge with a night-long barrage of snorts, grunts, and blows served up in rotating shifts. They don't sleep, and have no problem depriving their potential predators of said state - weakening us to utter exhaustion, thus decreasing the chance that we will have the energy to drag them down by the throat - action I pondered around 10 pm, midnight, 2:30 am, etc.

Next day, I struck southward down the trail, then eastward, with snake leggings securely donned, through the brush toward the Yellow River.

The Plan:
Arrive at the river and land a quantity of upper-tier sunfishes, preferably the river's equivelant to the red-eyed species of Suwanee, Flint River, and shoal basses. I was to do this until I exhausted my tackle supply or arm muscles - whichever came first.

Within the first hour of the bushwhack I toyed with the possibility of turning back and devising a plan B, but shear determination, or stupidity, or whatever, prompted me to continue - rationalizing that I must be getting close, and the worst was probably behind me anyway. I was not, it was not.

Though the tree canopy was seamless, the undergrowth managed in some places to achieve densities denying visibility of more than 10 feet in any direction. I ripped and plodded through endless acres of canebreaks, privet hedges, and hanging gardens of sawbrier - some of which were so thick I could have caught up on my sleep right where I stood. I was bloodied and bruised and stupid - but determined.

The wet ground finally sloped away into vast areas of standing water - creating relative clearings and suggesting the presence of a nearby waterway. Then, finally, a distant backdrop of a sunlit break in the canopy - the channel of the Yella. Halleluia.

Like most rivers, the Yellow is paralleled on either side by berms of course river sand - a sort of lateral morraine piled high by flood waters as it loses energy outside the channel. The berm serves as a dam, which accounted for the black ponds of trapped rainwater I had been wading for the preceding hour. The current configuration was probably the work of the flood of '94 - making them only five years old, and not terribly overgrown. It was atop the berm that I would traverse as I turned southward.

I surveyed the river upon reaching the ridge of the berm. The combined heights of the berm and the bluff put the water's level far below where I stood. That, and an abundance of riverbank snags and deadfalls, plus the close proximity of overhanging tree limbs, made fishing from the bank a likely exercise in futility. Besides, I had lost alot of the day just getting there, and should probably make haste toward the higher and dryer, camper-friendly ground of the sandhills of Conecuh.

The going was fairly easy along the berm, save a few extra-thick patches of reeds and privet laced with catbrier. On two occasions, yellow-bellied water snakes skurried from their tanning sessions among overhanging tree limbs to splash loudly into the safety of the river. Both times, I stood for a moment to watch them swim away - admiring their considerable size and their gracefulness in the water.

At one point there was a gap in the berm, the bottom of which was only a few feet above the water level of the river. The gap would be breached on occasion by the swollen river, then the impounded water left to stagnate as the river level receded. Fortunately, I was able to shimmy up and across a tree that leaned from my side in a favorable direction over the gap. Once within range, I tossed my pack across, then, swinging several times to build momentum, I released my grip on a limb to fly gymnast-like to a soft, sandy landing on the other side. It's good to be primate.

The next gap was considerably wider, and had no monkey bars any way. Be there gators or snakes or swomp boogers, I had one choice other than to venture down into the dark shadows of this blackwater slough, and that was to turn back. I opted to take a chance with the creatures that lied in wait below.

The creature was a copperhead snake. Well into my wade across the thigh-deep slough, movement ahead caught my eye. It was a large copperhead living up to it's nickname highland moccasin, and it was swimming straight toward me. The level of it's fangs were a foot above the highest level of my submerged snake leggings, making them useless in the event of an attack. Cooly, I implemented my defensive plan: I froze. It got close enough to count the hourglasses strung along the length of it's back, then veered slightly and passed on by - all the while stopping here and there to checkout a cypress trunk or some floating object. It never knew I was there.

It was time to go. I adjusted my compass bearing to 270 degrees - due west - and toward the thicket. Hungry, wet, and chilled by the rapidly dropping temperature, I leaned forward, and charged headlong into the tangle - hardly breaking stride. In what seemed like only minutes, I suddenly broke out of the jungle into the open sky. I had reached planted pine that was barely 10 feet tall, and criss-crossed with open, grassy lanes.

Within a half hour, I was fed and bedded down in the cozy warmth of my Eureka! Aurora. Minutes after that I was in a sleep deepened further by the pitterpatter of raindrops on the outside, and diluted rum on the inside.

By noon the next day, I had showered at the campground, and was on the road to PCB - with the foul weather in tow...�”

“ty”

“when does the pleasure start?”

“thanks for the story, gojo”

“Nice report... and continue, please! :-)”

“So what if westward the wall of the woods stands high?
My eyes are to the east - how ample!
Toward the marsh and the sea and the sky!

~Sydney Lanier
The Marshes of Glynn

I have had numerous opportunities to move away - far away. Most notably to Challis, Idaho - 2163 miles. That's pretty far.
'Job opportunities" I will say to my brother there. 'What about work?"
"Ah - there's always something to do" he replies.
"Not good enough - I need something more substantial than that."
So I say. Yet here I am in the twenty-somethinth week of unemployment payments - "here" being the opperative word. I could have just as easily been there. The unemployment funds are deposited automatically into my bank account, and I access them with a plastic card. That would not be affected whatsoever whether I be here or there. Plus, the job opportunities are no rosier here than anywhere else it would seem.

So what gives? Why won't I move to Challis? I have grown to love the Northern Rockies region - Idaho in particular - so what gives? I have had my suspiscions, and they may have been proven right a year ago. That is when we had large, violent forest fires down near the coast - some four hours away by car. The fires have been occuring forever, but increasing drought conditions have made for a much more combustable environment than in the soggy days of yore. The fires were in the Atlanta news, so I was aware of what was going on down there. I figured that they must be occuring here on the Piedmont, too, one morning as I stepped out into the smell of smoke. Daybreak soon illuminated a foglike shroud as far as the eye could see - which, from my hilltop jobsite, included the Georgia Pacific plant in Monticello, probably 30 miles away by crow. Nope. This was the same smoke that had stretches of I-95 shut down between Savannah and Jacksonville. What? Smoke from the coast? Coastal air? Salt air?

Salt air.

It sustains me. I breathe it daily. If only by the most minute quantities, it passes through my subconscience with every breath. Every single breath. It reminds me that my beloved coast is always just down the hill - whether it be Atlantic or Gulf. I know that I could have lunch at a River Street pub if I were so inclined. Or enjoy a supper of fresh-caught bluefish at a Saint Andrews State Park campsite - if the notion struck me early enough. It's 9:00 am as I write. I could be on the afternoon ferry to Cumberland Island today - today!

One of my earliest memories is of a family visit with a great-uncle who lived on Jekyll Island. (It should be noted here that I had some prior knowledge of what to expect. My scannings through the family set of Comptons Encylopedias - which began well before I could read - had insinuated that I would be able to see France from the island's beach. This had a profound impact on my anticipation). It took forever, but the wall of the woods was at last behind us as we turned onto the Jekyll Island Causeway - beginning the drive across the marshes of Glynn County. Ample! The elevated roadway provides a view of endless miles of salty, creek-laced grasslands - teeming with a flock of white egrets squabbling here, or a lone heron wading there. To the south might be a shrimpboat chugging out the Satilla River - looking akin to an odd-shaped prairie schooner. Or just below may be an old man in an old boat creeling for an old skillet. After a few miles, the causeway begins to rise, then crosses the Intracoastal Waterway by way of a bridge whose other end lands on the solid ground of Jekyll. Tall, sturdy pines stand as sentrys on either side of the road as it dips into a tunnel of squat, overreaching live oaks. Spanish moss sways wistfully from their muscular, horizontal branches - sometimes mingling with the multi-colored azaleas and other native rhododendri growing below. Within a mile, the road terminates at the beachfront road. Straight across, and very close, lies the ocean. Obscured by sand dunes, but it's there. Close your eyes and listen. Take a slow, deep breath. Yeah - it's there!

We turned left. Not two miles away was my uncles house. I said my hellos, then vanished. I ran. Two blocks - I ran. The short side street ended at the foot of the sand dunes. I scampered up the loose sand. I stood atop the world , and there, below me, stretched farther than the eye can imagine, lied the sea. Ample, indeed. It was surreal. I had beaten Apollo to the moon.

I have not been to the coast in four years. It may be another four before I go again - if not longer. But I know it is there, and always will be. It's nice to know that I can fish the surf of Anastasia Island tomorrow, if I so chose - but just "nice". What's critical is the air. It's critical that I breathe it with every breath - for without it I would surely die.


We all have our salt air or our Challis, I suppose. It's too bad we can't have both.”

“�How can I describe
This warm winter day?
My pen lies still -
Knowing not what to say.

Perhaps a painter,
With canvas and oil,
Could easily say
Without much toil.

Or maybe a sculptor,
With chisel held true,
Could bring from marble
A sample for you.

Some singers of song
Might entrance your ears
With such a description
That it brings you to tears.

But me and my pen?
No sir - no way
Could we possibly describe
This warm winter day.�”

“Four Poems

Cursed time.
Too slow today -
Fleeting tomorrow.
Too much to sell,
Or none to borrow.

Cursed time.
Delay my love -
How do you dare?
When she arrives -
Too little to share!

Cursed time.
When is she?
Today I pace.
With me at last -
Then you race!

Cursed time.
Were you thousands
And a year,
You would not be enough
When my love is here
last edited: 3/06/09 10:39:36 AM”

“Love is out there
Somewhere.
You'll find it -
I swear!
Look deep and you'll see.
Then when you find it,
Tell me”

“encore, gojo!”

“�I stopped in Indian Springs Village this morning to do a sketch of the old church there. I set up my Thermarest chair and drawing stuff across the street at the Big Chief Grocery. When I was inside flirt-er-showing the sketch to the cashier chick, a Floors By Chip And Flip van turned the corner. Chip Greene was leaning out the passenger window looking at my stuff, saying to his driver "It looks like Sarabelle and Gizmeaux have stolen some shoes" (my Waldie wannabes were scattered among my stuff, as were the mutts). I stepped outside.
"Chip-o!" I yelled.
The van continued out of sight as it passed the store - the passenger-side rearview mirror missing the building but for one more coat of chrome.
"That bastage better come back!" I said to the cashier.
Sure 'nuff, they back into the small parking lot. The streets are really narrow, and the structures close to them. The van had traveled no more than 70 feet this whole time. The passenger window was now about eight feet from the door.
"'Zup easy money?" I said as I stepped toward the van with my outstretched hand moving toward his. I leaned into the window and shook the drivers hand, too. He is the BFF of one of my nephews, but I cannot remember his name to save me.

WARNING! Digression:
I have thought alot about Chip during this economic downturn. Turns out, they are busy as one-armed paper hangers.

As we were chatting, a dude passed by, stopped, and shook Chip's hand - said a thing or two - then went into the store.
"Was that a White?" I asked.
"No, he's an Evans - but he does look alot like Dale and Jerry, don't he?" Says Chip.
"Even more like Leon (aka Montel)" I said.

We were all raised up together around here - we Greenes and Whites and Evanses and Plymels. We know where to position ourselves when one of us comes up to bat. We recognize one anothers vehicles, and stop to help when one is seen oddly parked. We share our tears with each other when brothers and sisters, moms and dads, and sons and daughters ship out with our National Guard batallion for Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom.

There are 80 red, white, blue, and yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze at the abandoned armory three blocks from where I write. None black. None white. E Pluribis Unum.�
last edited: 7/06/09 8:46:55 AM”

“Sometimes I miss that hometown stuff!!!...thanks for sharing!!!”

“To the south of Cabin Creek - where a mindless walk in a wetland turns upward and mindful and plotted and more upward through deadfalls and blowdowns and rocky slopes; where strides become shortened and calculated as sweat beads and breath pants; where a backward glance of happenstance reveals a tree canopy below, providing a sweet, quenching vinegar of vitality that propels me faster and farther and higher and higher still; where the view of the familiar soon rolls away into a distant and unknown forested Kansas that fades away into the haze of the far, far horizon - stands Robin Hill.

Who else has loved her? How many are the spirits that linger here? What others have seen her silhouetted against the setting and sitting sun - her shapely contours through a leafy nightgown revealed - and answered with an eagerness equal to mine her amourous allure?

Who has also sat here - here where I sit now? Who were they that collected from her shoulders the small stones from which they fashioned the now-scattered tools for hunting her bountiful game and gathering her rooted bounty? Who were the mothers and fathers of Patriots and Confederates that toiled behind the axe and plow of civilization, and lie now upon her bosom in these shallow depressions faced squarely toward the rising sun?

It is easy to see from whence I came: the creek, the lawn, the road, the pasture. But beyond? What lies there? They know. They know what Robin Hill knows; they know what lies waiting in the haze.�”

“Tales From Cabin Creek

To the south of Cabin Creek - where a mindless walk in a wetland turns upland and mindful through deadfalls and blowdowns and rocky slopes; where strides become shortened and calculated as sweat beads and breaths pant; where a backward glance of happenstance reveals a tree canopy below, providing a bittersweet vinegar of vitality that propels me faster and farther and higher and higher; where the view of the familiar soon rolls away into a distant and unknown forested Kansas that fades away into the haze of the far, far horizon - stands Robin Hill.
Who has loved her? How many are the spirits that linger here? What others have seen her silhouetted against the days last light - her shapely contours through a floral nightgown revealed - and answered with an eagerness equal to mine her amourous allure? Who were they that collected from her shoulders the small stones from which they fashioned the now-scattered tools for hunting her bountiful game and gathering her rooted bounty? Who were the mothers and fathers of Confederates and slaves that toiled behind the plow of civilization, and lie now upon her bosom in these shallow, forgotten depressions faced squarely toward the rising sun? Did they ponder the panorama borne of Robin Hill? In their brief respites from the labors of life, did they peer through her myriad, leafy jambs toward the horizon and wonder where?
It is easy to see from whence I came: the creek, the road, the fields. But beyond? What lies there? They did not know then, as I do not now - for then as now, Robin Hill stands silent but for the wind. But soon enough they learned the language of her whispers - as will I no doubt too soon. For near looms the day that I shall learn what lies in the haze... waiting for us all.”