The camera didn't get much use this month. Life gets in the way, sometimes. But over the last couple of days I've wandered out of the house and snapped a handful of images of the surrounding woods as Autumn begins to creep in. It'll change fast, to be sure, but I always like that early-season moment when sourwood oranges, dogwood reds, and hickory golds begin to emerge against the steadfast and stubborn oak green, lighting up the woods and dappling the forest floor in riotous color.

My favorite time of the year.





Note: Be sure to click on each image, hopefully giving you a larger and better resolved look at the details within.

What is a Photo Bin?

It’s hard to leave this place, this haven, this quiet home in the woods, and I lie here in bed, a few short hours before my daybreak departure, missing it already. I feel her warmth beside me. I listen to the yip of coyotes in the ravine below. I sense the Aussie moving restlessly about the dark room, finding one cool spot after another to lie upon the smooth concrete floor.

They say that Alaska will change a man and I hope that it’s not true. I like who I am, where I am, what I am. But it’s the “what I am” that sends me that way, I suppose, so the risk must be taken. The rush is on and I’m more than excited.

But, already, I look forward to being back home.

Our living area is shrinking.

As Fall advances and winter approaches, the sun rides closer to the horizon and reaches deeper into our southern exposure. Each day it extends a just a smidge, give or take, and each day we inch the couch and lounging chairs closer to the center of the room, exposing more and more of our polished concrete floor. That four inches of dense heat sink soaks up the warm radiation and later, as darkness falls and the evening progresses, it gradually re-releases the gentle solar comfort back into the space.

The balance is immaculate. As the days grow more frigid, the sun reaches deeper into the room and heats more of the floor. The yin and yang of passive solar consumption. Come winter solstice, half the room will be given over to this process (as well as to the plants that come in from the cold) and our sitting area will be compressed into a cozy little jumble. There, we'll be conveniently squeezed closer to the other heat sources that we've come to appreciate here in this place...

...the firebox and one another.

Prelude: I turned sixty last week and, quite honestly, I've spent the past several days trying to come to terms with it. I've started a handful of posts - some humorous, some more introspective - but I simply have not yet wrapped my head around this milestone. My mind keeps returning to something I'd written nearly three years ago, so, with apologies to you who have been around that long, I think that I'll fall back on it now. It's as true today as it was when I wrote it, and just a little bit closer to real.



We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, along the narrow gravel road that passes our woods, over the ridgeline, and through the tunnel of redbuds, so robust and full in the spring yet now so gaunt and so naked in winter's approach. We went awalkin', Sammy and I.

His vet would be pissed.

We’d taken Sammy to the local country doctor, fearing that age, arthritis, and the effects of a life-long liver condition had finally begun to squeeze the joy from the feisty little terrier. She made the expected pharmacological recommendations to ease his aching joints and suggested that, with limited activity, he should be comfortable for the foreseeable future. But she knew.

We know.




He sleeps a lot. And we carry him down the steps to the back yard so that he might sniff the 'coon tracks, stare into the woods, and unsteadily mark his now meager boundaries. It’s still his turf, after all, though he squats like a girlie dog, his leg-lifting balance gone the way of eyesight and stamina. And, at the end of each constitutional, he stands and looks up the drive, towards the road, up the ridge, to the redbuds, where we’ve walked together a thousand times - but walk no more.

Today, instead of just looking, he began to climb the hill, like before.

I called to him, to steer him back to comfort and ease, but he did not hear. Maybe he can't. More likely, he pretended not to. I called again, more urgently, and he stopped, but did not turn. Instead, he paused, then looked back over his shoulder as if to say, “Are you coming?”

I sighed. And I came.

For a half-mile he was Wilderness Dog Sammy again - scourge of squirrels, chaser of deer, defiler of tall weeds. There was spring in his step and sparkle in his eyes, his ears and tail pointed to the brilliant blue sky. He led and I followed, noticing that his haunches, once as sturdy and full as the redbuds in spring, were as thin and bony as the stark, bare canopy above. But, for a half-mile, he was the alpha dog once more. For a wonderful half-mile...

… until he slowed. I called his name, like before, and he stopped, waited, and allowed me to pick him up – a concession unimaginable in times gone by. His walk was complete, miles short of his good days, but he accepted my bearing without shame. His ears remained perked, his nose thrust forward as if to lead us along the path, his spirit taking us where his legs could no longer. We walked our old haunts together, one more time. Even in my arms, he was still the Wilderness Dog.

And, on occasion, he looked up and licked my face, his eyes still sparkling despite clouding lenses, and he seemed to say “Isn’t this glorious?”

It was.

This evening I expect that Sammy will pay for the excursion, the drugs unable to blunt the ache as it does most nights. He’ll lie in his bed, at out feet, and hurt a little more than usual, but I’m certain that the discomfort will be more than compensated by his restored canine dignity, by the walk through his old woods. I regret his pain, but I’m glad that we went for we both were able to remember the Wilderness Dog, if but just for a little while.

And, if you please, do the same for me. When my vitality wanes, when my life is diminished by whatever prostration chips it away, I hope that on that day when the woods call to me once again, you allow me to answer. Allow me to follow that ridgeline as far as I am able - wisdom and doctor be damned. I will accept assistance, if offered, on return, but first let me go. I will accept the inevitable pain, the price, but first let me go. Let me relive the fullness of my spring, the redbuds in bloom, for just that little while, and then I will again accept my limitations, accept the arrival of my winter. But first, let me go.

We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, through the tunnel of redbuds.

There’s a new body-scrubbing puff in my shower this morning. I notice it as I let the warm waters wash away ten days of road dust and it makes me realize, yet again, how little I really need to make me happy. It helps me remember how much I love home.

A silly little shower puff.

Excuse me a moment. There’s some soap in my eye.

It is, of course, more than the puff. It’s the feel of my own bed and the mold of my pillow. It’s the warmth of my wife beside me. It’s the rollicking, goofy joy of the dogs as I come in the doorway. Where have you been? Where have you been? I’m SO happy to see you!

It’s the pile of cool mail that waits on my desk; a friend’s new book, the first honest-to-goodness check for my scribblings, the deed to the ten acres of woodland next door – our additional buffer from the intruding world and an another tether to home.

It’s the garden that needs weeding and the hillside that needs mulch and the driveway that needs stone. It’s the blowdown that needs splitting so that it’s ready for winter burning. It’s the truck that needs its annual cleanup, the redbuds that need replanting, and the chimney that needs work. It’s their needs, I suppose, that I need.

And there are stories to be told. It seems so long since that was true, whatever the reason. But after ten days chasing trout in British Columbia, Alberta, and Montana, I’ve brought home a few. So keep an eye here for the next week or so, as I test my notes and my memory and my photography skills. But don’t worry. Where they fail, as they inevitably do, I’ll just make shit up. It’s more fun that way, anyway.

But not today, so indulge me a bit. For the moment, I’m simply going to stand here and let the warm waters of home wash over me.

And enjoy my new puff.

It must be stated, right up front, that the picture above violates the only two rules governing these photo bins; that the images were taken in the current month and that I took them. Instead, this shot was taken a day or two before Christmas and by one of my "other sons" from the old neighborhood. (There's a long and wonderful story here of family that exists, not by the accident of birth, but, rather, by friendship and community and dedication to others. But that's a telling for another time.)

I take the liberty of posting it here because the image began as a composition/light challenged iPhone shot of the "family's" newest addition sharing some quiet time with Grandpa's lab and I was given, this month, the opportunity to try to save it with a little Lightroom magic. The Adobe gods smiled so I add this heartwarming creation here, despite the breach of protocol.

A shot like this is worth breaking a few rules.

Moving along to some images that play more according to Hoyle...

I suppose that if you live in the south, pictures of our recent snows are obligatory, even if most of the rest of the country is damn sick and tired of seeing them. Get over it, Michigan. It's an event down here and the world slides further into the ditch for us with every inch.

Off the back porch. Out the front door. Through the bedroom window. All the views were spectacular.




And since this is a fishing blog, I feel compelled to add some appropriate content. Here's a fairly unremarkable shot of a very remarkable angler. I add it, despite it's blandness, because I chuckle at the sign and wonder how you tell him not to.


Oh, and that reminds me of a story...

Kent Edmonds (TFO rep extraordinaire, among many other things) and I carried a Mangrove out to the disappointingly narrow demonstration pool at the Winston-Salem Fly Fishing Expo to give it a try. After a couple of casts I felt a tap on my shoulder and a gentleman asked if we minded sliding over just a bit so that he could show another the peculiarities of a particular bamboo rod. I turned, sized the guy up, and bit my tongue, wanting so badly to say "Are you kidding me? Who do you think you are? F@#king Lefty Kreh?!"

It was, of course, and Kent tells me I should have. Lefty would have loved it.


What is a Photo Bin?

I shuffled through the rapidly accumulating Indiana snow, head down, buried deep in my overcoat and deeper in my thoughts. Adrift. The night air hung heavy; a thick winter pall, muting all sound and shrouding all sight; a white weight descending, smothering, despite the mortuary's parking lot lights' best efforts to pierce the soft obscurity.

Forgive me, kind reader, this cruel bait and switch, for this post is not about the fish pictured above, impressive though they be. Rather, it is about the young lady in the middle, holding the trophies. Truth be told, she was not a sportswoman - at least not for the years that I knew her - though the piles of photos we've wandered through these past couple of days hold their share of sepia-toned surprises; big bass just the beginning. Who is the girl? That vibrant young thing is my wife's mother, Emmy, who, I am so sad to say, left us this past week.

No obituary, this. No recount of the things she'd accomplished in her lifetime, as if there was room for them all to be listed here. This is no long tribute. Let the papers do that.

Instead, it is a simple thanks. For her smile. For her warmth. For her generosity. And for her gracious acceptance of me, though I turned up in her daughter's life at the most awkward of times. Thank you for so many things, dear Emmaline, but especially for that.

As my wife communicated the passing and simple details to friends and family, she, at one point, texted that her mother had slipped away, only to have a misplaced finger, no doubt assisted by misty eyes, misspell and send that she had skipped away. Mary quickly rectified the error, but its recipient replied that he rather liked the image of Emmy skipping happily once again, on to her next big challenge.

And as I trudged through the parking lot to clear the windshield and warm the cold car after the family visitation, surrounded by the hush of falling snow and heavy hearts, I, too, had to smile as I imagined the lass with the bass skipping away; pirouetting into the endless swirls of white.

Godspeed, dear Emmy. Godspeed.

The plan was to pack up the gear and have the truck ready to roll the evening before, allowing me to stumble from bed and into the driver’s seat with a minimum of fuss and delay. But our neighbors from the lower ridge dropped by and a pleasant afternoon visit turned into an impromptu dinner, which then morphed into a late night shooting-the-breeze and solving-the-world’s-problems session out on the screened porch. Fine friends, good food, and regular refills tend to precipitate such things around here.

So, instead of an early departure, I awoke the next morning, fuzzy-headed, unprepared, and went about gathering the waders, rods, and piles of paraphernalia that follow me to trout waters. The task, and the fuzz, put me on the road an hour later than I had hoped.

Okay. Maybe closer to two.

On those days that I head west, into the Appalachians, I normally get away before the sun makes an appearance. Day trips that require a three or four hour drive, each way, demand a wee-hour start so the crossing of the bridge downstream of the house is typically done in darkness. It turns out, that’s been a blessing.

For what I saw this particular morning as the sun rose out of my truck bed made me question why I was leaving. I won’t try to describe it. I don’t have the skills.

Let's simply say that the old axiom “Don’t leave fish to find fish” seemed to apply to streams as well and I considered turning around, putting the pickup back in the driveway, and strolling down to wade my home waters. And while there’s no trout there, I felt certain I could coax a sluggish largemouth from the cool Piedmont flow. To be sure, I’d find no prettier surroundings to the west.

But I was already on the road and the trout stuff was packed. It seemed foolish, at that point, to return. In truth, it might have been foolish to have packed it in the first place. I spent the day wondering.

Wondering, and vowing that, next time, I'd be sure to be long gone before first light.

An odd provision in the purchase of our home was the conveyance of a one-fourth ownership in a hydraulic wood splitter. I've staunchly resisted its use these past two years.

You see, I love splitting wood by hand. It's great exercise, extremely effective stress therapy, and often an entertaining puzzle in three dimensions. Whiling away a day swinging an axe suits me just fine.

But over the past couple of seasons I have accumulated a stack of "problem" rounds - sections of wood with knots, twists, forks, and general stubbornness that have resisted my maul - much of it hickory which is particularly cantankerous to pry apart as its grains tend to go every which way. Andrew Jackson must have been one mean cuss.

So I reluctantly chased down the splitter, dragged it home, and put it to work, feeling a bit guilty giving in to the convenience. The pile of nasties was split in no time. It was a ton too easy.

Actually, twenty-two of them.

All Hallows' Eve on the Bridge

If you’ve been hanging around here for a while, you have come to realize that I have a penchant for obscure, out-of-focus images. They fascinate me.

Now, it could very well be that it’s a self-delusion mechanism, a way to rationalize the fact that I suck as a photographer, a way to excuse my shaky work, but I find a certain dreamy reality-warp in handheld shots taken in impossibly dim conditions. In their soft indistinction, they come closer to my perception of the shadowy scenes in front of my lens than any crystal-clear photo could ever hope to.

Moonrise Downriver

So these three shots are exactly how I remember this past Halloween on the old Bynum Bridge; an eight-hundred-foot, county bridge spanning my home Haw River, built in 1922 and closed to vehicular traffic since the turn of the century, replaced by the big, sterile four-lane 15-501 just a quarter-mile upstream. Each All Hallows' Eve, the Bynum span, now just a footpath, is decorated, end-to-end, along both railings, with jack-o-lanterns carved by the residents of the county; carvings of all kinds, created with every level of skill, and depicting an amazing variety of expression and perspective. Hundreds of orange globes enjoyed by hordes of folks, many in ghoulish garb, strolling the dark remote bridge, cooing over the creepy creations, and breathing deeply the aroma of lit candles, roasting pumpkin flesh, and rich river mist.

Upstream to the New Highway Bridge

It's a time and a place delightfully out of focus. And here, my friends, are the images to prove it.

A comment prompted by my last post. Harsh. What the commenter doesn’t realize is that being retired is no day in the park.

Unless, of course, you want it to be.

I am often asked how I fill my day. My friends ask because they feel that I’ve abandoned them and desperately need to know that I'm bored shitless. Strangers are just curious how such a dashingly good-looking young man could deal with not having important and productive things to do.

How do I fill my day? It’s a good question and one that I often have a hard time answering. Mary simply says “He fishes,” but there’s more to it than that. At least I think there is.

So, today, I’ve decided to keep track. I’ve purposely picked today because there’s nothing special going on to falsely impress you; no place that I need to be. It’s just another everyday Monday.

At least I think it’s Monday. I have problems with the whole day-of-the-week thing because, typically, it doesn’t matter a whole hell of a lot.

Anyway, here goes.

5:25a – Wake (five minutes before the alarm goes off) and roll out of bed. I don’t get up this early every day, but it seems a good one to wander down to the river before the summer sun gets above the treeline. A quick bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, a Mt. Dew, a half-hour on the computer, feed the dog, and out the door. No gathering of gear necessary. My homewater stuff stays out and ready.

Three hours wading the Haw, pitching assorted bugs under the overhanging trees, unproductively. Summer’s finally baked the river into submission and perhaps it’s time to look elsewhere until September when the bass begin to reanimate. But it’s a nice way to start the day, fish or no.

Return home and spend a couple of hours moving mulch to the north slope – whittling down the twelve-yard pile (the second one) that sits at the end of the gravel parking pad.

Crank the chainsaw and section a fifteen-foot white oak trunk to be split later. Four others remain, all harvested during the clearing of a neighbor’s paddock, but it’s gotten too hot to mess with them. They’ll still be there tomorrow.

Retire to the side porch, strip to the skin, and sit and watch the hummingbirds dive-bomb one another around the nectar feeder. Text some friends about fishing tomorrow, giving them the bad news about the absent Haw bass, while Carolina wrens, goldfinches, nuthatches, phoebes, and titmice struggle to supplant the family of piggish mourning doves on the safflower tray. An incoming red-bellied woodpecker scatters them all, like bowling pins - the thunder of the departing doves’ wings, deafening.

Hang my fishing gear to dry. Toss my soaked and dirty clothes into the wash. Shower.

Eat some lunch - a BBQ chicken leg from the night before, some strawberries, and three scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Clean my mess on the deck. Gear, tools. Notice some tarnish on my Orvis Power Jaws forceps and polish them with a little Bar Keeper’s Friend. Thought I’d paid too much for these things several years ago but they’ve been everywhere, fresh and salt, hung around my neck for countless hours, and have become a fishing touchstone for me.

Make some sweet ice tea.

Sit on the porch and read, William Gibson, ice tea by my side, until Mary returns home from a celebratory lunch with a friend. (Happy Birthday Joanne!) She’s followed shortly by our neighbor Robin, necessitating that I scramble and put on more than my boxer shorts and Sanuks. Damn.

The girls make fresh basil pesto. I pour more ice tea and let the ice melt while I take a nap. Mid-day naps are the single most wonderful thing that retirement allows. I snooze, interrupted occasionally by the whirr of the Cuisinart and warm-hearted laughter that drifts from the kitchen.

Mary and I wander down to the pond and float for an hour or so, socializing with what neighbors show up. The usual suspects generally arrive around 5:00 to wash away their workday in the cool, deep waters. Your neighborhood probably has a pool. This community has the pond.

Home again for another quick shower and to start some rice for dinner. The next hour is spent checking the local weather, coming and going between the laundry, stove, and computer, penning a post for the blog, playing with some pictures.

Dinner (black beans and rice, homegrown diced tomatoes with CSA onions, and a shot of Texas Pete) in front of the TV - which we watch entirely too much of. At least we avoid the commercials. DVRs are heaven-sent. The Newsroom (HBO’s fantastic new series, the first ten minutes of the pilot are not to be missed), The Finder (the final episode, cancelled, dammit), and White Collar. Mary thinks Neal’s scruffy beard is cute. The jury is still out on mine. Been out for years.

Load the dishes into the dishwasher, take the dog out one last time, a final cursory look at my email, and head for bed. The Tempur-Pedic feels perfect after such a long, rigorous day.

That, then, is how I spend a typical day. Not terribly exciting, eh? So, in response to the cruel accusation that I use this forum to taunt those who continue to work, who continue to keep our economy alive, who continue to lead active and productive lives, I have but one word.

Busted.

When, exactly, does a structure become a home?

When the COO is signed? No, that's just man's inane bureaucracy. When the furniture gets moved in? That's only ocupancy. When the first mortgage bill arrives? Please.

A structure becomes a home when it's opened to friends, when it's shared with those who will find their way back with regularity, when it's infused with light and life and laughter. It doesn't need walls or a roof or running water, though these will come in time. To be a home it just needs our spirit.

We helped build a home Saturday night.

Higher on the ridge, maybe thirty yards above the house, we have a small man-made pond, put in place as an incubator for the local spotted salamander and peepers of all sorts. But when the heat rolls in, some of the larger neighbors take advantage. This morning, Mom and fawn took a dip while I got this fuzzy shot from the front porch.

Obviously, they were as interested in me as I was in them.

Our fully exposed southern garden gets it bad, but even the thermometer on our cool northside shaded deck reads triple digits so we're pretty well cooked any way you look at it. So we learn to deal with it. We learn to cope.

And believe me, there's a bunch of coping goin' on today.




Stay cool, my friends.

Sometimes you get more than you want expect and this month's bin posting is one of those times. While rummaging through March's photo catalog, looking for the usual trio of misfit pics, a half-dozen emerged as candidates. How to choose? Not surprisingly, given my high degree of self control and uncanny ability to made the hard decisions, I show them all.

Sorry. You're getting a double dose this month.

The image above is a peek into Ned's thread-and-wire box, taken at one of our Monday beer ties. Fun colors and interesting lighting. Always a good combination.


A shot of my favorite girls and Wilderness Dog Sammy, taken during our granddaughter's joyful extended visit. Charlotte and Mary walked the woods, baked bread, visited the neighbor's livestock, and had an all-round jolly old time. Here, they return down the driveway from one of their adventures - Charlotte examining something small that caught her vivid imagination. She did that a lot.


And here is where they were probably coming from - from down the gravel road that leads to civilization - a road I am less and less inclined to travel unless there's a fish or two at the end. As you can see, spring is moving fast, filling the oaks and poplars, maples and sourwoods, providing a crisp green background on which to display the dogwood blossoms. The evening sky ain't bad either.


The girls also spent some time in the "back yard" - a bit of southern exposure perfectly proportioned for our hold on the ridge line and the collection of passive solar energy. It's also just right for a little square-foot gardening - with accommodation, of course, for the local deer population. Yes, I had a little fun with Lightroom.


As you have seen already, I was fascinated with the mists this month. The weather said "spring" with it's mild mornings and early fogs but the woods continued to whisper "winter". The combination of soft air and stark trees provided a dreamy environment, accentuated by the wisps of evergreen and ruddy buds, waiting to explode into color.


To close, an emotional image. Freeman embraced this motto. Live Free. We wear these bands to honor him and to remind ourselves to appreciate each day without reservation. He did. We miss him terribly.

Thank you for your indulgence.

We wake to another misty morning. Formless wisps soften our surroundings and it's difficult to be sure that the fog is real and not the retreating borders of dreamland. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes, and look out to the south, peering into the treetops as the ravine falls below. Ivory dogwood lace accents the gray canopy but it will all be a riot of green quite soon.


I rise, and shuffle down the hall, sit at my desk, and stare through the east-facing window, towards the rising sun, wondering who'll be bouncing around the woodpiles this early. Today, it's only the mists.


Woodpile peaceful, I swivel my chair to the north and check the hazy ridge for the herd - the whitetails - but the does are off hiding their newborn fawns and the bucks have disappeared to wherever it is that bucks disappear to. Actually, I should look more closely into the tall grasses. The Bambies are probably nestled there. For now, though, all's quiet above.

But it's early. And it's lovely. And it's home, here, in the quiet morning mists.

I wonder what I should have for breakfast.