Here are some local views of my root system…
Dawn.
Back 90.
Rhubarb.
Herb Garden
Backlit Bracken
My mugs.
Leaf Border Fog
Giant Chaga
Ambitious Beaver
Nightshade Blooms
Walking The Log
Birch Doing The Splits Over Waterfall
Daisy
Baby Bolete
Clouds O’er Lake
Russell’s Bolete
Like all good nature there really isn’t much to say about it. It needs no explanation.
It was nice to be there. My life is momentary. Here’s the scene! Do you click? Or just watch? Or both?
These days, I know when to click. I dont think, I just do.
These images are the product of that.
Dawes Glacier Offerings
Big Sky Near Petersburg
Slug Eyes
Aurora Green.
Landscape Layers
Sumdum Glacier
Boat Face! So Derppppy.
Whale Breath
Shaw Island
Mystified
Emerald
Mountain Cloud Trees
The Sea.
Rainy Night In Port.
Camoflage.
“Cloud Hidden, Whereabouts Unknown”
It’s one a.m. I’m just brushing my teeth, and about to go to bed. I look at the sink, and I’m struck by the low lighting on the stainless. I like the shapes, and darkness of it. I like the contrast between the layers of dark, light, dark, light. You can't appreciate one without the other.
This is a picture of the sink in my cabin. It’s dirty. It’s well used. It's my roommates turn to clean this week. He hasn’t done it yet. But that adds to it. A perfect sink wouldn’t be as interesting.
Few sinks get recognition of any kind, except perhaps, if they are stopped up and need declogging.
In the end, it’s just a sink. But, I’m intrigued when the mundane becomes compelling.
Life among the milkweed.
While taking my afternoon dip in the river, I noticed this damsel fly catching mosquitoes that were buzzing around my head. I decided to try and catch it in good sunlight. It smiled for it’s close up.
With all the rain, the forest is full of slime mold. Here are three examples:
Chocolate tube, honey comb coral, dog vomit, and more honey comb coral, in a different state of sporing.
Two views of the same tree.
Daisies and Rose.
Wine Caps.
I had friends stay over for a couple days over the holiday. Their boy picked up my camera and was curious how it worked. I gave him a quick lesson on how to turn it on and how to take a photo. I made sure the electronic ports were locked down and waterproof and let him loose.
The following are selected images from his stay.
I saw him snapping away fairly often, happily bouncing from one subject to another as our day evolved. I didn't really pay much attention, but I was curious how it would turn out.
I think these photos are pretty great.
I chose these photos to share and they aren't edited at all.
I’ve never seen an album or collection of kid photography that was taken sincerely. I think they have a unique perspective, and offer images worth contemplating.
These are the things I saw and enjoyed enough to try and photograph.
It started raining soon after I awoke. The steady rhumba of the drumming rain held me in my cocoon an extra half hour. I wonder if butterflies do the same when emerging from their crysalis.
Morning movements: Open the shades. Roll out the mat - pretend I still do yoga. I grind the beans, simmer the water and combine. The rain beat goes on.
I think of the forest and the mushrooms that might be waiting for me. If I find some oysters, I can make khinkali. And that convinces me to go.
Rain boots on. Rain jacket on. Camera in pocket. Ready to roll.
Cool out. I regret not grabbing a coffee for the trail. I'd probably spill most of it anyway, but spilled coffee is tax paid to the gods. No regrets.
The first thing I see is the crab spider in the milkweed. I opt for macro setting and get close. The spider cares not.
Look at that droplet on the abdomen- so tiny! I'm continually amazed with this camera. I'm hand holding in macro setting a moving spider on a swaying milkweed leaf. Unbelievable.
Into the forest, and onto the path. I don't know who made this path, but it's been here as long as I've been here.
It's a good forest path. It winds, and curves around the small hills and berms. It offers a fetching leading line drawing you on.
I go to the back creek that trickles when it's dry, but flows good with all this rain. I see this scene.
All I've ever wanted was to be be able to draw or paint this. This mood. But here it is in the raw, and it's beautiful.
The walk goes on, and I don't find any mushrooms for the khinkali. Not today. But, that's a small matter, it can wait.
I do find a nice chunk of chaga. Once dried chopped and powdered, it will make a fine earthy tree tea. I roasted it once, and got the birch flavor to come out, making it taste a bit like vanilla. But mostly it tastes like tree bark.
It was a good walk. It's nice to know a piece of land to connect with it. When I walk it, I know where I am.
Here are ten select photos of the day. Every day offers something interesting.
Screen
2. Artesian
3. 25 mile treats
4. Crouching Asparagus
5. Trick or Treat
6. The Evening Deck in the Morning
7. Skinny Tires on SodaPop!
8. Quiet breakfast
9. Catnip
10. Drunk and Disorderly
I've always loved the eastern entrance to Salisbury Sound.
It's so wild. It's so fresh. It's raw, and unprotected.The cold breath of wet pine and brine. The ocean swells roll through and rock the boat. To me, it's an invitation, "Come out! Come out! Come out to see!" I'm a poet at heart, and forever pulled by the allure of the sea.
I think that's why I like sounds so much. It's a place to let go of the relative safety of land and embrace the ocean. Sounds by their nature are transitory - where one gradually meets open ocean from the inner waterway, or vise-versa. It's a natural funnel.
If you headed out here, the next stop is Kodiak Island some 600 miles of open water later.
By chance, I passed by just before sunset. Thirty minutes before we reached the sound, I knew it was going to be beautiful.
I headed up to the lido deck and felt the waves and cold breeze. I paid homepage to my favorite sound.
Sea Sick
My first baby steps of becoming a mariner was on Salisbury Sound. I was working fishing boats back then. It was the summer of 2009, and I had never been on the ocean.
I remember My boss was skeptical, thinking I'd get sea sick. But, fifteen years and I'm guessing fifty thousand miles of sea time later, I've yet to become sea sick.
One strange circumstance of working on a boat is that if you get sick and puke in any other job, (with some exceptions), you go home and heal. On a boat? You puke and get back to work. It's kind of expected.
I judge people based on their reaction to sea sickness. If you get sick, fine. But you really see what someone is made of after the session. If they come back to work, and do what they have to do, they've earned a lot of respect. It's not easy to work when you are feeling miserable.
If they turn into a marshmallow, well, so be it. More work for the rest of us. It's just how it is.
"Sea legs" is a real thing. My first 4 days on the open ocean were very rocky and bouncy. Picture working on a 35 ft aluminum bull for 10 hours. When I got in the shower that night, I swore something was lifting and tilting the whole house, just like the movement I felt that day. I started laughing my ass off. It was such a peculiar feeling.
After 4 days, I never felt it again.
A Crack in the Clouds
These two pictures are in concert together. The western sunset over the mountains illuminating the Eldred Rock Lighthouse and Eastern side of the Lynn Canal.
Portage Cove
Two nice photos of a half hour spent at Portage Cove park near Haines.
A photo is but a moment of the whole shebang.
I could start another gallery called “photo a day,” as most of these gems were from one quick session each caught on a different day. But, this works fine.
As I get older, I'm becoming a faster and in my opinion, a better photographer. I don't waste time anymore. If I see the light I want, I go outside. I usually find a subject within seconds, and catch the image. I might take several, but later on weed it down to one, sometimes three images worth keeping and one worth sharing.
These are those.
Owl.
Lilac Scent.
Cloud maker.
Island.
Lunge Lunch
The Cusp of Shadow and Light
Lion's Mane in the Rain
Cloud and Mountain
Lonely
Ice Blue
Last Light
Island's End
Moon Cloud
Layered
Alaskan Garden
Spot Light
The Modern Age
I've been trying to get good pictures of the aurora borealis since I started carrying a camera. I've used the tripod and self timer. I bought several fancy cameras. I put myself in Alaska, Iceland, Western Canada in Spring and Autumn. I've had some success, but it took a lot of effort.
A week ago on my birthday, I saw one of the top three light shows of my life.
These images are handheld on a moving ship, at night, with my phone set to night mode. I was astonished at the results. It is so easy.
Too be fair, I did edit these images with software, mostly to brighten them up.
What an age we live in.
Seascapes
I have a long standing love affair with sea scapes. Here's a few more love stories.
One Perfect Waterfall
Reflection
One day I hope to be able to paint reflections like this.
Zig Zag Light
May Light In Sitka
In my opinion, Sitka looks at its best in early May.
The Vividity Of Skunk Cabbage
I bet skunk cabbage honey tastes terrible.
Interesting Slime!
I still have no idea what this is. My best guess is that a slime mold is sporing.
Scenes From Inside
This is about three weeks worth of beautiful views. This is every image I have I thought you might like to see. Every day has a moment, you know? Take a look.
I'm traveling north through the Inside Passage of British Columbia by boat. I tend to keep checking the scenery as we motor through. It changes fast. It can morph into bright sublime beauty that can last for hours, or mere seconds before fading back to gray scale.
I spend a lot of time on deck leaning on the rail and simply watching whatever it is that is happening. It's one of the fringe benefits of the ancient and modern mariner. We like staring at the sea. To see whatever it is.
I know that sounds vague, but after 15 years of looking out to sea, whatever it is still has me entranced.
I can't get enough of the swirling dance of the ocean, rugged coastal islands, cloud, light, and weather. The partners may change, but the dance goes on.
That's the broad view. Go closer. Go for a walk in the forest here and you'll see another dance within the dance. It is just as compelling and interesting.
It's dark, cool, moist and shady in here. Life abounds! Earthy aromas, mixed with the sea breeze offer a heady breath.
Wooly Bird's Nest Fungus with one egg inside!
Salmon Berry Blossom
Banana Slug
Take a look under the dock pilings. There's another magical microcosm of life flourishing in it's element.
Now I'm the alien trying to understand the undersea realm. How does it all work? Every inch is covered with something growing, hiding, living, thriving.
Now I'm having coffee on the dock. It's mid morning and good as it gets. My senses, my soul, are satisfied.
Smell that air. It's blown in from the north Pacific and filtered through pine forests, glaciers and mountains. It's a breather's delight. That's right.
Much has happened these last few weeks. I let my thoughts about these images all build up and slip by before I had a chance to write about them. Now it seems too late.
However, the images still hold water, and I'll let them cover for me.
1 to 3: The hundred mile bike ride. These were taken within the first 30 miles, when I still had energy to take photos. After mile 43, I began to suffer, and pedalled 50 miles back home into a brutal head wind.
I regret not writing about this, and will likely expand on it at a later date.
4: Hypnotic Reflection
5: Pond Slider - my first turtle of 2024
6: Wally the Collie in Eclipse Lighting
7: Old School Eclipse Viewing
8 and 9: Dolly. My sister has a house rule. You can't get up if there's a cat on your lap. Sometimes it works out in your favor, sometimes not.
10: Cleo happy to see me
11: Reunited With Rhubarb
12 and 13: Water Droplets. I prefer the first image.
14: “I know you are in there! Come play!”
15: Mourning Cloak
I'm roaming the hinterlands of the Ohio river valley down into the Ozarks of late. It's not the sexiest place you've ever been, but it does have one thing going that makes it very interesting: Spring.
The transformation from bland to colorful is upon us, and I'm riding the cusp. From tan bursts Violet! Green! Gold! Purple! Pink!
Some of these plants have great names, such as the Henbit Deadnettle pictured above.
Butterflies are flitting about, like a will-o-wisp. So alluring to photograph, yet so difficult to catch in the act. Butterflies would make good bank robbers... Hard to catch on film, and fast. They never stay too long on any one flower.
Bees are perusing petals, and pollination has begun.
The world is full of bird song. I'll be a nerd forever, and have taken to bird identification through audio calls. It's easier than trying to see them, and often the most drab little bird has the sweetest, most intriguing song.
Has anyone recorded bird song and rendered them into a symphony?
The great frog orgies have begun. The caucaughony of horny frogs is amazing. Almost deafening.
In short, the world is warm and blooming and all things natural play their part in this wonderful symphony of spring.
My friend Cassidy and I used to judge beaches partly based on it’s quality and quantity of interesting shells.
A couple days ago, I went to chase the coyote, and found these beauties. I would just get onto a good rythym and had to stop and look at a shell.
The light was great, the shells fetching. And so my life became a matter of composition and physics - the gentle persuasions of any avid photographer.
Why are photographers, “avid?”
Our public image is dorky enough as it is, with our cameras and photo vest, shuffling on our hands and knees mumbling to our selves about f stops. The last thing we need is a strange adjective added to our kit.
Ah well. Avid isn’t so bad. At least we have some excitement about life. I’d rather be avid than bored any day. I’d rather stop my run and admire a shell, than not (this is also a strategic way to stop and catch your breath). And honestly, I don’t think I could stop if I wanted to. I am what I am: Avid
Dunes remind me of finger prints. As if some giant entity gently put its thumb on this enormous patch of sand.
I know its the wind. But, this place inspires a fertile imagination.
I bumped into a coyote today - a feat that I'll attribute to circumstance and luck. The wind was strong and blowing along the ridge. It trotted by me just on the other side of the ridge, and didn't notice me, nor smell me.
I guess Im pale as a sand dune, and I had just swam in the ocean, so maybe I smelled of the sea.
I froze and watched from a distance of 50 to 100 ft before it finally noticed me, and took off.
I think watching a wild animal run as fast as it can is about as cool as it gets. I once saw a red fox sprint across a field - such speed and grace. Ill never forget it. It was the same with this coyote disappearing into the dunes.
The dunes were the highlight today. Every rise and hollow offered a new and dynamic view, that I couldn't help but try and photograph.
It was quite an enjoyable afternoon.
I used to say about my old job as a land surveyor that, “Some days they could pay me in sand, and I'd still go to work.” It was that enjoyable.
Look at me now… getting paid in sand!
I do this thing I call Coyote Running. I try to mimic as well as I can the easy loping gait of a coyote trying to get somewhere. Trot is the right word. I like to trot. I like it even better when I can follow in the footsteps of actual coyotes. Coyotes know the easy route.
You might say, " Well, that's just jogging."
You may be right, but coyotes don't jog. Jogging is something humans do, which explains why it looks so awkward. Everything we do is awkward.
Coyotes don't look awkward at all. When I'm Coyote Running, and I'm doing it right, I can run forever. I'm breathing easy, with good legs and rythym with the landscape.
Today, I went for a coyote trot on one of my mystic beaches. It's not my beach, physicaly, just spiritually.
It had been four and a half years since I've been here, and I was excited to see if the magic still held. And of course, it did.
This island beach is not that easy to get to. It's not the Copacabana, its just some far flung sand spit that is home to coyote, sand verbena, and lots and lots of sand on the western edge of Mexico. The locals have presence here occasionally, but most have better things to do.
Which is why I love it. Its pretty much been left alone.
It's one of those places where if you stand still in the middle of the dunes you can't hear anything. Certainly nothing man made.
I made my way across the island through the dunes. When you run through the dunes, it helps to take a river like approach and take the easiest path. It's not a straight line, but it is an interesting one.
When I reached the Pacific, I crowed in happiness. I was back! I was home! I was playing on one of my favorite playgrounds in all the world!
And it was beautiful.
When the sky is overcast, this place gets more stunning. And today, was such a day.
Treasures:
Lots of interesting shells.
Good reflections.
A beached sea glove.
Seaweed that I was tempted to sculpt with (next time). Coyote prints. My inspiration.
I trotted a couple miles. I swam in the wild Pacific and body surfed four waves. I crowed again! I walked back down the beach, and over the dunes, vowing to be back every week.
Tonight, I topped off my mystical experience with a pistachio paletta from La Fuenta ice cream shop in La Paz.
This whole country seems to be saying, "Welcome home, amigo."
I've been thinking about this ride for almost a year. It's such a great loop. It has everything: great scenery, plenty of distance, a long gravel section, a grueling uphill and a long down hill as your reward.
And last year, I failed to complete it. I ran over a thorn - popping my tire. After a lot of effort, I found my spare inner tube was also punctured. I was twenty miles from the finish. I ended up hitch hiking back to camp, and that was that.
But it stayed in my mind.
Over the last eleven months, my riding has changed. I bought a gravel bike and learned to love it. I started taking on long rides, and slowly improved my kit.
And as it happens, I arranged my life so I could be back in a certain national park with a full day to try again.
The hour before I leave is spent puttering: I make and drink coffee. I make an egg tortilla, and eat it standing up. I pack up road food, tools, water, and a wind breaker, and I go through my OCD rituals of making sure the van is locked, and that I still have the key.
The weather is perfect: The day begins cool, but more importantly, it's not windy. West Texas can be notoriously windy.
I decide to follow last year's route. So I hung a left out of the campground and headed towards Santa Elena canyon. I am basically making a big oval, and I'll break it down into four segments.
The first 8 miles are wonderful. My legs are strong, and I'm loving life. The morning sun is bright and warm and lighting up the canyon wall.
By the way, that cliff you see? That’s Mexico.
The next 13 miles are gravel, and winding over the desert. It takes more effort, but it's not difficult. The road ranges from full body washboard, to rough and rocky, and occasionally quite smooth. I like the variety. I also like the lonesome emptiness of the land. There aren't many cars out here, I've got the whole desert road to myself.
I stop for a pee, and a snack. Today, I have peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches. I have some Swiss chocolate. Treat yourself.
I know what's coming: the next 8 miles miles are a gently sloping uphill grind. I remember it from last year. Grind is the right word. Its not hard, but it takes more of you than youwant to give it. But this year, I've a better bike suited to the task.
I was not wrong. It still sucked, but not too bad. My thighs were fatigued, my butt getting a bit sore, but I pass the halfway point! Now every mile brings me closer to home.
The last section of the ride is the longest. It's 23 miles to glory, starting with a long uphill grind for 6 miles, followed by 2 miles of a steep backed bastard of a foothill climb.
There comes a point in every long ride, where it's no fun anymore. I was in the throes of the last climb. I am gasping like a fish on land. I made small goals: “Just pedal to that rock. Now get to the end of the guard rail.”
It was diabolical. After a steep mile, it flattened slightly before another mile of grinding. I crawl up the hill. But, I make it.
It’s funny though.. As soon as I knew I was going to beat it, a small wave of happiness rolled over me. I did it! I may be a gasping fat guy, but I’m a gasping fat guy on top of a mountain that I pedalled up!
Now the end game. I am 16 miles from home, but I knew it was all downhill from here. My only challenge was going too fast!
I stop off at the high point vista for another sandwich and top off my water. I pat myself on the back, I have the perfect amount of water. I regain my mojo, shaking off the fatigue of the last 16 uphill miles.
I'm really happy I took this route in this direction. I coasted for miles without pedalling! I call them free miles. It was awesome. And this section of the scenic drive is beautiful! I zoomed past mesas and the mule ears and the bad lands. I’m grinning like the mad man I am.
I take the turn into the campground some 53 miles later. I’m happy, very tired, and ready for the victory rituals of a day well spent.
I slowly unpacked my gear, and put up my bike. I take a hot shower in the van. I make tapas, and crack a beer - my body craving calories. I sit down in my hammock, and sigh with contentment.
It took all day to get to Seminole Canyon. When I arrived, I was road weary. I was looking forward to getting my site, and maybe going for a bike ride.
As I thanked the ranger for her time, I asked about the pictograph tour, maybe I'd go on one tomorrow. She said, "Well, we have one leaving in 10 minutes..."
Perfect timing. I postponed my campground landing, and took the tour instead.
I love pictographs and petroglyphs. I just looked up the difference: In this case, the cave art is a pictograph, as it is paint being applied to the rock, and not carving of stone, which would be a petroglyph.
I'm fascinated by both.
There are many theories. It could be religious. It could be mundane. It could be someone memorializing a damn fine day. It could be as simple as someone saying, "I was here." It might just be art.
I kind of want to find a cave somewhere and make my own cave art. Just to mess with future generations of historians. Put up a few flying saucers flown by sasquatch and octopus. Ha!
I guess that's what I'm doing here with written word and my pictures, drawings, building design or sculptures.. "Thom was here." To which the universe in all its wonderful indifference replies, "So what?"
That kind of indifference could crush some people, but not me. I'm going to do my thing as long as I am able. It's as necessary as breathing. So If I haven't mentioned it before, thank you unknown readers for dropping by and experiencing my art. It's better in person, but this will have to do for now.
I digress.
I took the tour. I enjoyed seeing the paintings and learning their ways. I was struck by how colorful the paint is. Most cave art doesn't use much more than one color, but these scenes had three to four pigments.
As the ranger said, "This artist had a plan, and knew what they wanted to paint before they began." This was no experiment.
So my question is, where did they experiment? Where did they practice? One just doesn't randomly make paint from natural materials and put up a varitable masterpiece.
It was very cool.
After the tour, I went to my campsite and got set up. Which for me means: I turned my front seats facing towards each other, and I ran an extension cord from the electrical post through my window to a space heater. That's it. It takes about 5 minutes. "Build your van wisely," I always say.
My chores done, I got my mountain bike off the rack and hit the trail going full throttle. I was racing the sunset, and wanted to see the confluence of Seminole canyon and the Rio Grande.
What a great trail! The Canyon Overlook trail hugs the edge for five miles out to Rio Grande. I was pumping hard, and grinning like a mad man. I was loving the effort and views. I saw the river from on high, and took in the silence of the place. So beautiful.
I stayed as long as I could, but the sun was winning with each minute I stayed. I took up the chase and made it home with about 20 minutes to spare.
My van was warm. The shower hot. The beer cold. The dinner flavorful. May every day be so good.
I've driven past the entrance to White Sands National Monument half a dozen times in the last few years. I was too busy to stop, or maybe it didn't fit the dynamic of the day. I've been a bad friend. These dunes are like a long time friend you mean to visit, but don't.
"Next time," I say as I speed past their driveway. I don't know why I'm wired this way, but I am.
I regret it.
This time it made sense to stop. It was a logical turn around point, before heading east. So on a chilly bright sunshine day, I turned in to see one of my favorite playgrounds.
I drove deep into the park onto the hard pack. I found a likeable pull off, parked, and got ready to go. Which means I took off my shoes and socks. Always walk bare foot in sand, if possible. The sand was cold, but my soul was warm.
I really didn't do much. I went on a long mile long circle out into the dunes. I was mostly following my muse, and It didn't take long for the desert to envelope my senses. The highway noise of cars, and people faded away. Only the soft sound of the desert breeze, rustling the dried grass remained.
If I lived anywhere near this place, I'd come once a week just to hear nothing, and see nothing but expansive sand views.
The dunes are a photographer's dream.
The dunes have worms! The dunes have tiny footprints. The dunes create scupltures. The dunes offer great shadows. The dunes recreate themselves - like a giant 'Etch-a- Sketch.' The dunes softly erases all signs with wind.
I'm really glad I dropped by. Im really glad I walked out into the dunes, I remember why this is one of my favorite places.
As I write this piece in retrospect, I'm having an epiphany. I think I could call this a moment natural philosophy. The message is clear: Not only should I listen to the movements of my old desert playgrounds, but maybe I should see my people, as well. In short, It's time to get sandy.
