Leaving The Picket Line
Like remnant pickets, vestiges of an old farmhouse fence, fly fishers line up along the Gastineau Channel shoreline. Their fly rods, like tall late summer grasses bowing in a restless...
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August 25, 2020
What it Takes
The skiff rolled right, left and back, as the bow slammed over another crest, and into a confused, shifting valley. My camera case jumped from the bench and slammed into...
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August 7, 2020
Walking Alone, With Brownies
On either side of the trail through the woods, in shaded pockets in the folds of the open mountainside, and tucked under the north sides of old logs in the...
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July 29, 2020
A Whale By Any Other Name
Two miles in front of our little skiff, near the south end of Shelter Island, a blast of water erupts from the surface of the ocean, rises 15 feet, hangs...
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What Would Phil Connor Do?
It is the first day of July, 2020, but like every other day this summer, the date didn’t matter much when I awoke this morning. Honestly, it feels more like...
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Walking Alone with Nothing to Say
Following several weeks of being driven to write, I have for the past couple weeks, been without much to say. My walks in the woods and photos of wildlife seem...
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May 21, 2020
Walking Alone on Ascension Day
Sitting alone on a trailside bench, I look up at Bullard Mountain. The peak, haloed by dense white cloud, reminds me of long ago Sunday morning images of the Tower...
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May 14, 2020
Walking Alone – Saying Hello
A woodpecker lands just outside the entrance to his new cavity, looks around, then disappears into the void. Moments later, her head appears in the entrance, beak full of wood...
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May 10, 2020
Walking Alone – Meaning No Harm
Awakened from a fitful sleep, I unzip my tent and direct my headlamp toward the gentle waves licking the high-water mark. Were Berners Bay experiencing the fierce winds these narrow...
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