January 2023 #234
prose
September 2022 #206
June 13th – 17th, #190
Day 1
Melissa and I traveled to Tierra Del Mar on the Oregon Coast. Tierra Del Mar is a small community north of Pacific City. We have made several trips to the coast together and I have made many more before we met. We were to meet family, but as happens, in the last minute, plans change. After picking up the key and a light dinner, we arrived at the house in the evening twilight. I parked and turned the key. The engine’s vibrations settled to hum, then quiet. We walked to the the beach.
sunset waves, I blink
in the dark a stretching yawn
in still winds, I dream
Day 2
After breakfast we walked north along the beach. We were looking for a trailhead that would take us on a loop through a Sitka forest. We found the trailhead and headed in. On the trail we met a lady who was a distressed. She asked us if we’d seen a tall man in his 80’s, in a blue shirt, wearing hearing aids. They had been separated for about half an hour. We insisted on helping and came up with a plan to split up. We followed the loop in opposite directions with a plan to reconnect. I had only walked a short distance before I ran across a man fitting the description. Although he was a bit anxious, he was proudly holding two chanterelle mushrooms (which I later found out it was a rare find for the time of year). We reunited. I was relieved that he was okay. We talked for sometime about life on the coast and how to prepare Chanterelle’s and Samphire.
the morning fog lifts
forest floor dappled in sun
hands lightly holding
Day 3
A walk on the beach. We take off our shoes, splashing our feet in the water. The morning has left me with sense of appreciation. In this state, I find myself in awe as witness to the life beneath my feet, life in each step walking along this little stretch of water and land.
on delicate cycle
splashing then a tumble dry
toes play in the surf
Day 4
Day 5
For the most part, over the years, traveling to the coast has been a getaway from everyday life that turned into a feeling of dread on the return home. Today, the getting ready, the time at the coast, the returning home, are feeling as part of the same experience. Maybe it was the small fish, washing up in the waves, then swimming back to the sea in the receding waves, over and over and over again, switching direction in one swift motion. I wonder why I make the things I want to get away from so big and and powerful when all they are waves and here I am swimming up down this narrow strip of my existence, over and over and over.
we start our way home
rain falling -the fisherfolk
head out to sea
June 15th, #188
Melissa and I pulled into the parking lot at the Nestucca Bay National Wildlife Refuge. It was a planned stop on our way to Lincoln City to shop at the outlet mall, a convenience we don’t have in the small town we live in: brand names, a number of choices, good prices.
The parking lot was empty and a light rain began to fall. We packed up a bit of food and water and our raincoats. Before hiking in the hill, we stopped at the posted map to get our bearings. The trail meandered its way through a few trees which opened up to another meadow where we found two deer grazing.
The deer looked toward us.
Melissa and I looked toward them.
The rain stopped, the rain started, I was not sure how many times.
The deer lowered their heads and continued to graze.
We turned our heads and continued our hike and entered forest.
under the canopy
on one side of the trail
sitting on a felled tree
Getting up from the bench, we entered the store.
While browsing the shirt rack my eyes glance up.
Two other shoppers, their eyes glance up.
We shared a causal conversation, not sure how long.
They lowered their eyes and continued shopping.
I lowered my eyes, sliding a few shirts hangers along the rail.
I purchased a shirt and a pair of hiking pants and joined Melissa. As we were leaving the store, a shopper heading in held the door open for us. Melissa and I both shared a thank you. Before moving on, we made our way to our car in the overflow parking lot to drop off our purchases.
the canopy hums
on the trail holding her hand-
raindrops on stained glass
Late December, #143
1.
water flow crossing
shy of the stone walk below
finds a spot to rest
2.
Leaving the building after the photo shoot, I am not sure why I did it. It was spontaneous.
On the table a bowl of mints.
The wrappers made a scraping sound as I shoved the handful of them into my coat pocket.
I walked back to the office and on arrival I removed my snow boots and hung my coat.
I sat down and proceeded to upload the photographs on the hard drive for a later edit.
I answered a few emails and instant message requests.
I warmed up lunch.
Putting on my coat, I and headed out for walk downtown.
The snow still falling.
I came upon a person shoveling the walk.
Passing him I said, “Thank You.”
He said “What?”
I said, “Thank you for clearing the walk. Would you like a mint?” (I had just put my hand in my pocket and found them).
He said, “No.”
I pulled the mints out and held them in my hand.
A couple of the mints had red and green stripes.
He said, “I like candy canes.”
I held out my hand and he took one, thanking me.
We continued on our way to the scrapping sound of the shovel.
3.
above the tree tops
in the tree shadows -raindrops
waxing and waining
Bruneau – thoughts and poems, #128
I recently visited Bruneau State Park in southern Idaho’s Snake River Valley. The park has a few hiking trails that pass by a small lake, a grove of Russian Olive trees, and meanders around and up a large sand dune. As my partner and I began our hike, we stop to read the informative sign at the beginning of the trail. At approximately 470 ft, the sand dune is the largest in North America. It stays relatively stationary moving a little to the East and a little to the West in the cycle of the seasonal winds. What the sign mentions that intrigues me is that the dune has been here for 15,000 years, forming during the glacial flood of Lake Bonneville.
I have been intrigued by time my whole life. The first book I remember reading about time and still own is titled “The Discoverers.”[1] It is broken into three books. The first one is about the processes man when through breaking up the day into small bits of time. It is my experience that these small bits of time create a sense of urgency or pressure to hurry and get things done.
Other things I’ve read or seen over the years look at time differently. These include the stretching of a 100 ft. tape measure in geology class or a PBS documentary of a car driving 100 miles. Both start at zero, earth’s beginning, and note events along the way.
Being a photographer, the most interesting to me was an essay I read in the 70’s by a forest park ranger. He postulated that if an alien race took a photograph of the earth every year since it’s beginning and they arrived on earth to share the movie, it would, based on the film rate of 24 frames per second, run a full year. In July, (or chapter 7, f you will), there is a hint of a Grand Canyon. In December, as with the tape measure and car as in the first examples, modern man only appears in the last few seconds, inch, or mile.
In the introduction of his book Search for the Meaning of Life: Essays and Reflections on the Mystical Experience, Willigis Jager, also uses a year long movie as a reference for time. “On the night of the 31st (on the last day, in other words) humans branch off from their ancestral apes. The Neanderthals live five minutes before midnight, and seventeen seconds before midnight, Jesus Christ is born, one-half second before twelve, the technological age commences.” [11]
I think of these perspectives as I climb this 15,000 year old sand dune holding my partners hand and wonder about the things I make big. I feel like a tiny grain of sand comprising a much bigger dune and wonder why I worry and become anxious. As I climb, I relax and experience a gratitude that I am not even sure for what.
seven poems: in pictures
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
[1] – Daniel J. Boorstin, The Discoverers: A History of Man’s search to know his world and himself, (Vintage Books – Random House Inc., 1983)
[1I] – Willigis Jager, Search for the Meaning of Life: Essays and Reflections on the Mystical Experience, (Liguori Publications, 1995), Page 4
Dry waterfall, #111
This year the waterfall below Ivan Carper pass is a trickle. On our hike last year at this time, it was raging, filling the valley with its roar. The mountain meadows, although not as green as previous years, are still a contrast to the brown fields of the Palouse we drove through on our way here. Walking up to Minam Lake in the Wallowas, over Ivan-Carper pass to the lake basin, and out following the glacial valley where the East Lostine River meanders, there are also fewer flowers. The plants and the blooms seemed re-energized from the monsoon rain moisture that had come through a day ago. In the rain and the sunshine that followed we walked by Rainer Gentian, St. John’s Wort, Pacific Onion, Pearly Everlasting, Common Yarrow, Sulphuric Flower, Aspen Fleabane, Dwarf Fireweed, and Indian Paintbrush. I’ve never been one to learn the names of things. Camping at Mirror Lake I woke up in the middle of the night to pee and while out had to use my star gazing app to find out the names of stars and constellations. I learned I was seeing Jupiter and Saturn watching Draco flying between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor and the Milky Way spilling into a rising crescent moon. A sad feeling came over me, not having not paid much attention before to the names of things. I’d spent much of my life walking too quickly passing flowers not giving them the respect and appreciation they deserve for the efforts they give, whether it is a hot and dry or cool and moist.
flow in the meadow
purple and green waterfalls
a dusty trail’s edge
July monthly gallery:
Invisible Rain, #110
1.
Melissa and I left on our annual summer backpacking trip to the Eagle Cap Wilderness. We left the Palouse in a shroud of smoke under an orange sun with an AQI (Air Quality Index) of 157, in the unhealthy range. We were going to an area under red flag and flood warnings/watches with heavy rain and thunder in the forecast. It made us feel uneasy. Our plan was to forge ahead and get a feel for what it might be like at the trail head before deciding to backpack in. We arrived to a little thunder, the last we would hear the remainder of the trip, at Two Pan trail head an hour out of Lostine, Oregon. After a conversation over lunch we decided to camp at the trail head to see what the evening might bring. I woke up a few times in the night to heavy rain that lasted 12 hours.
In the morning, the heavy rains subsided becoming waves of heavy-light rain (smaller drops, but the air felt full of water). We were in good spirits and decided to begin our hike. We began walking, taking a right at the fork to follow the West Lostine River up to Minam Lake. It was wet and warm. It felt like we were in a tropical forest instead of a forest in the Pacific Northwest. As we walked my quick dry hiking shirt and shorts were soaked with rain, the humid air, and sweat. I wondered if this is what is is like to swim the mountains and walk the waters.
On the trail we came across a couple and later an individual; each saying how light the traffic and how heavy the rain was last night. They looked soaked as I imagined we did. We continued our walk in the rain. I wondered about the smoke we were driving in yesterday. Were the particles soaking me like the rain? An invisible rain that I couldn’t feel soaking my clothes, skin, and breath? I then wondered about the soaking of other invisible particles such as micro-plastics and green house gasses. I ask myself, how do I walk in this invisible rain?
2.
buzzz -a mosquito
at the end of my swiped hand
a lake trout jumping
Left, Right, #99
In the Arboretum II – Blooms, #83
1.
I enter the arboretum wondering what blooms will be out today. There are a few clouds on this cool day, yet our warmest of spring .
I approach a family, the parents are in no rush to exit. The children are running and laughing under the bare branches. They stomp then wonder at their footprints in the remnants of an early morning snow in the dappled light.
Pools of grief and joy
well in afternoon green buds
early spring snowmelt
2.
I pass two people. Their voices mix with the chatting of squirrels and the chirping of birds. One has a pair of binoculars hanging from their neck. We share a “Hello.”
After they pass by, I hear a sound. Looking over, I see an empty tree branch waving.
Floating Lenten Rose
blooming in the garden bed
a passing spring cloud
3.
Close to the exit, I approach one of the pair I had passed earlier.
I blurt out, “Did you lose someone?” They laugh and look back the way they came saying , “No, they went that way.”
Day after winter
February Daphne blooms
Its fragrance lingers