It has been a blue moon since I posted here. Some may have seen my last subject, "Quitting the Writing game" and decided I did indeed quit writing. Maybe some are happy with that idea. Forget about it. I have been writing and posting everyday, sometimes several times a day.
I have been writing my autobiography.
I call it, Impressions of My Life: Autobiography of a Recherché Poet.
Why such an odd title? When I think back over my existence my memory often lets me down or things come back somewhat as if in a dream. The mind begins to wander through a fog of days and months and years after a while. I can't always pin something down to an exact time. Sometimes I am not sure of the Five Ws, the who, what, where, why and when, let alone the how.
What I write is what I recall and this may only be impressions of what happened. I may see the events and the facts differently than others do or did. I only know what these eyes have seen or I've been told.
The Recherché Poet? I originally subtitled it "Autobiography of a Minor Poet," but my friend, the same one who pushed me to write my life, though it made me sound like I was a child poet. I meant it only as a poet who had a limited following and publishing history. He suggested changing it to "Insignificant Poet". Well, my ego vetoed that! I may not be the Poet Laureate of Delaware or anything, but I do not think of my poems as insignificant.
He then suggested, "Unknown Poet," but I am not completely unknown. Therefore, I choose Recherché Poet as covering most of the bases. It means, rare, exotic or obscure. You may take your pick.
So, if I have been doing this opus daily, why aren't readers of this or my other Blogs seeing it? That too was a choice I made. I am doing it on a private Blog. The Blog is not completely closed to readers, but it isn't being Googled about the Internet or advertised.
There are a couple of reasons. When I did decide I would do this, I also decided I would try to be as honest as someone can when spilling the beans about themselves. The first half of my life was not exactly PG rated. As Richard Nixon (a fourth cousin, by the way) famously said, "I am not a crook,," but I have not been a paragon of virtue either. I have broken my share of the Ten Commandments and partaken of the Seven Deadly Sins. My lief is not always pretty reading.
Now, if everyone would be completely honest, all of you could have written that last paragraph about yourselves.
A second reason is no one lives in a vacuum alone. People weave in and out of our lives. Life is a great tapestry of relationship, good and bad. If I am honest about my life, I must be honest about my view of those who shared in its making. Sometimes this is not flattering. Sometimes it is quite critical. I have no wish to offend anyone.
Someday when I get old (Ha!) and many others have passed on, I may open it up to general readership. For now all and sundry who to my knowledge have secrets or sins are safe.
Writing one's life may seem an ego trip, but I recommend it. It is very helpful in learning and understanding yourself.
I guess I am lazy, but I hate to carry anything when I walk. Thank goodness I wasn't born a woman, I could never tolerate a pocketbook. But I have come to the conclusion I need to get over this laziness and carry my camera. You see, I keep my camera in a pouch strapped to my belt. Very convenient, but very difficult to get to quickly. As a result I am missing some interesting pictures, such as the fox I met face to face on the trail a bit ago. The fox froze in a perfect pose, but by the time I got my camera out it bolded into a nearby field and I missed it.
I've missed a few more good shots the last couple of days.
Today, for instance, I thought a stroll up Rocky Run would be enjoyable. I haven't walked that path recently, especially with the rain and floods we've had. I went up the path, but at the meadow the trail disappeared into a marsh of mud and water. I didn't feel like sinking over my shoe tops thus I backtracked a little ways and went up what I call High Ridge. It is up atop a mount and runs parallel to the main trail. I walked back and followed up where it rises even higher up the Piedmont and through the woods and emerges on a campsite high on the hill. Then I turned around and came back.
As I was walking I heard a twig snap to my left. I glance over and thought I saw a white shirt and movement behind a bush. That made me edgy. Why would anyone be back there? It is the deep scruff and there is no trail, only rough ground and thicket.
I walked on and another twig snapped. I stopped and stood looking over in the direction of the sound. A few moments passed before I realized I was being watched. There between two trees stood a large deer staring at me. I don't know if it was a buck, it didn't have antlers, but it was very large and quite handsome. I reached to my pouch, but as soon as I did it bolted back into the brush. I saw another set of legs follow, so I have no idea how many deer may have been there.
But once again I missed the shot because my camera was zipped away at my side.
I continued down off the mount to Rocky Run heading out this time. As I reached that trail two dogs came bounding up it toward me. The lead dog was a Yellow Lab, looking much like my dog, Tucker (who died earlier). The other was also a large dog, but all black.
As they ran toward me, I froze. They had been at a distance when first I spotted them and there was no sign of a person about. The dogs stopped directly in front of me and I began to stick one hand out for them to sniff. Suddenly the yellow lab begins barking at me. The black dog quickly follows suit. Both are blocking the path and barking and making little lunges in my direction. I am saying something, probably, "It's okay, fellows."
I am glancing about for something to protect me, like a large sharp stick, when I hear a woman's voice far down the trail call a name and yell, "Come here!" The dogs pay it no mind. Finally two women appear and after several calls and admonishments to the pooches, the hounds turn tail and run to them. I see them snap leashes on the beasts.
The women are very apologetic and assure me this was very unusual behavior. We have a little chat of pleasantries and they go up the trail and I go down. After while I wonder if I should have told them of the deer. I wouldn't want the dogs to go chasing, but it is too late now. I go on.
I am coming up the main trail and happen to glance left at the creek. The Brandywine is several yards beyond this trail. There is a narrow barrier of trees along the left side, then the ground dips down to a large apron of grass. Across the way I see the Great Blue Heron sitting up on a downed tree branch.
I ignore the brush and press through the tree line, cross a patch of mud (this whole area had been under water a week ago) and pull my camera free as I step over the grass to the shoreline of the creek. Amazingly the great bird doesn't fly away as it has every time in the past I have tried to film it.
I stand on the bank as still as I can for nearly a half hour filming the Heron. I am staying so long now hoping it will raise its wings and fly so I can capture that graceful departure. But it doesn't leave. It stands on the branch and looks about. It preens itself, looks across at me, but it doesn't fly. I finally move on. I have the bird recorded, but it is still at a distance. You can see it in the photo at the top of this post if you look closely. You can almost see it better in its reflection in the water than its actual body against the background.
But this is what I mean, for the day before I had been walking on the Northern Greenway from Rockwood to Bellevue and back. Coming back I turned a corner and there was a Great Blue Heron standing directly in the middle of the path not more than 15 feet away. Magnificent, what an opportunity, but as usual, when I began to unzip my camera pouch it took flight. For such a large bird it disappeared very quickly.
Later, as I was driving through the woods after my walk, heading home, a pelican flew directly in front of me. This was rather unusual for around here. Perhaps the pelican had been driven northward by the hurricane, but it was definitely a pelican. I was driving then, so there was no chance of retrieving my camera from its garage on my belt.
As disappointing as it was to miss these pictures of wild beastee and bird these were't the most disappointing of all. That missed shot had come earlier on my Rockwood-Bellevue walk.
When I parked at Rockwood and exited my car, I also pulled out my camera. There were three large trees that had been uprooted near the gazebo. I filmed these and walked up the hill and around past the mansion. Here I took some more film of those trees from above. Now I walked on, taking some shots of downed trees and branches in the mansion yard. I decided I would film the creek that ran alongside the woods I was entering. I had been here the day before and that creek was roaring, splashing high over rocks and creating the white foam of rapids.
I came down today and no roaring, no big splashes, no foam. The creek was wider than normal, but pretty calm. I decided not to film and to put my camera safely away in its little black pouch. I stood on a curve of the path struggling to get my camera back in its bed. The pouch isn't large and I carry my id in it (I don't take my wallet or money on my hikes) and also my car keys. It took some effort, but I got the camera in and zipped the pouch closed.
Now as you pass through these woods to the rear of Rockwood you see a community of homes across this creek. Up ahead of me was a footbridge over the water that joined a path which meandered through that community and if you followed it, you could walk all the way into Alapocas Run State Park.
I noticed a woman standing just on the other side of the bridge. As I came nearer on my path, she stepped out to the middle of the bridge and leaned against the railing to the far side from me. She was looking down toward the creek. I then noticed a man on my side, presumedly her husband. He was on the grass and walking down the embankment toward the stream bed.
They were saying something to each other, but I couldn't hear.
He disappeared behind the bridge and down the slight hill and suddenly she pulled her shorts down.
I do not know why, but yes, she pulled her shorts down and she was wearing nothing beneath.
I do not think she was mooning me because I am fairly certain neither of them were aware I was there. They had both been intently looking down at the stream. Perhaps it was an accident, a wardrobe malfunction. I have sometimes had my pants slip down, in fact, a regular happening this year after I lost several pounds when I started walking regularly again, although I always caught my trouser or shorts before they fell that far.
Maybe she was flashing her husband.
I do not know the reason and she pulled them up a moment later. I only know if I had kept my camera in my hand I would have recorded that posterior for posterity.
It must be the end of summer, at least the traditional end, for here we are at the Arden Fair. It comes but once a year, on Labor Day Weekend.
This is my neighboring community and an interesting one. It is perhaps the only community on the National Historical List. It goes back to the early earliest 20th Century and was part of a utopia movement of created towns. It had unique ownership rules, tax structure and has long been the home to artists, sculptors, writers and other creative people. There have been some famous people who lived or visits the village in the past.
There are theaters there, Shakespeare plays, music concerts, poetry readings, and the Fair. It draws a crowd, an eclectic mix from all over the area, including yours truly.
It takes over the center of the village, with lanes of booths selling all sorts of crafts and wares from Gild Hall to the outer limits of Arden proper. The place is made of three named areas,Village of Arden, Ardencroft and Ardentown.
Here is how Wikipedia describe it:
"Arden is a village and art colony in New Castle County, Delaware, in the United States, founded in 1900 as a radical Georgist single-tax community by sculptor Frank Stephens and architect Will Price. The village occupies about 160 acres, with half kept as open land. According to the 2010 Census, the population of the village is 439.[1] In 1973, the entire village was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Two neighboring villages of similar size were founded on Georgist principles, Ardentown, in 1922, and Ardencroft, in 1950. In 2003 they were also listed on the NRHP. Many Ardenites, as the villagers of Arden are called, consider themselves to be "close-knit, nature-loving, liberal, tolerant, free-spirited, artistic, intellectual, even ex-hippie."
My wife and I have often kiddingly called it a place where Trolls live under the bridges, but in all honestly it is my kind of place and I am not sure there are even any bridges in it.
I decided to make a visit too the fair my morning walk yesterday. It is perhaps a mile and half to chug out of my place, up the road and into the Villages. The road is narrow with not much of a shoulder that runs through the place, and is heavily traveled. I have walked along the road through Arden, but with fear for my life. Since I always here into the interior on the right, amble up its curious streets past the Candlelight Dinner Theater and Eden Rock Home, until a cross street where I can then cross to the fair at a traffic lighted cross street doubly made safe by a State Policeman on Fair day.
There is no cost for shuffling hear and about the fairgrounds and take in the sights. One can stay quite a time and not spend a dime.
One could, in turn, stay a brief time and spend a fortune. If you begin to peruse the wonderfully varied vendors selling very imaginative wares at not what I would call Hippie prices. Of course it does say, ex-Hippie, doesn't it.
I am not tempted by these trinkets and treasures. Two years ago I did by a T-shirt memorializing the 100 anniversary of the fair.
However, do not think I am not lured by temptation. I spend a total of $5.50 on what I always graviate to at the fair. Food.
Oh, nothing exotic. I hat a hot dog and French Fries. The fries were terrific, hot, crispy outside, soft inside, tasty. I am a long time fan of carnival type fare, things you can wander about chomping upon.
There were other things to do. For the children there was a complex of rides, some sort of bungee cord thing, slides, pony rides. There are potions and cures. There are games of skill, a flea market and down in Shady Grove music of different styles all day long.
I walked down to the crowded grove and caught the end of a Sousa March.
The Fair began at 10:00 AM and I arrived about twenty after. As I was walking in, a lady was walking out. "Leaving already," I laughing asked.
"Taking a break," she replied. "I've been here since seven. When you work the Fair, you need a break."
I bet you do. This thing is all volunteer and it must take a lot of hard effort to pull off.
When I had reached the light at the cross over, I was behind a young lady on a bike with two miniature collies cheeringly dropping along with tails away. The back of her tee shirt read, "Old men Rule!"
"I'll go along with that," I told her.
"Absolutely!" she replied with a smile.
As you can guess, dogs are welcome visitors at this event. Everywhere you go you see canines of every shape and size. There are special watering stations for "your thirst dog" here and there. I don't know if there is a dog porte-potty.
At any rate, it was a beautiful day for the fair and a wonderful day for walking, so I had a charming, delightful venture. Here are some faces of the fair.
When you think about it, life is a series of gates. At birth we push through the gates of our mother's birth canal and at the end someone pushes us through the gates of the graveyard. In between we constantly confront new gates. Some are closed to us. Some are open. When we do pass through one it may be into a great pasture or a narrow chute. Whichever it is, we are always inside a new stockade of regulation or restriction for that is what gates hang on, fences.
Don't think this is so?
Well, walk far enough across your independence and eventually you'll belly up against a wire or rail or picket.
That is unless you are a Bill Gates. Forty-Billion dollars can buy you a lot of open range. Even so, eventually every Bill Gates of this world will have someone push them inside a fence they can't buy their way out of.
But I, like most, am no Bill Gates. I am just an ordinary Joe (or Jill for my desires aren't confined to sex or creed or race) who always craved freedom. I like to think I went my own way, and often I did and have the scars to prove it. You see there are those barricades surrounding the phases of our life. If you are trying to climb up the rails rather than using the designated gate, you're going to be pushed down a lot.
There are, of course, many bad reasons why a fence might have been erected about our lives. Human history is full of people imprisoned behind the rails of prejudice and ignorance. But I'm not specifically talking about social justice here.
Many of these imprisoning pens were entered by choice. We voluntarily surrender some of our freedom when we go to school, take a job, pledge to a life partner, join the Armed Services or enter a movie theater. Enter a movie theater? Certainly, if you are a considerate, decent person, don't you give up your freedom to be disruptive and rude so others may enjoy the film? Yes, I know, some people don't and what do we think of him or her? When we allow that kind of freedom it makes life miserable for us all.
There are fences we stand behind for safety. If the barrier keeps us from standing in front of an oncoming train, it is a good thing. We could demand our freedom, push through the railroad gate and stand in the headlight glare of the streamline limited. We can grab such moments of freedom like standing on those railroad tracks or maybe running red lights. It may be a brief moment of exhiliration and the next gates we stand before will either be the pearly ones or the Gates of Hell.
But now I find many of the fences have come down. Most of these life phase gates I have already passed through. At 70, the gate of age has blown open and I see it as the last great beginning, where I may have as much freedom as I can expect in this world. I have nothing left to prove to you or myself, really. I am pass worrying about promotions and status and fame. I don't have the desire or need to impress anyone. I've seen enough to know most of what they call politics is being played out for the umpteenth time with little change. Oh, the actors may be different, but the lines are familiar.
Yes, I know total freedom will never come. Kris Kristofferson sang, "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose." I don't want to be that free. There will always be fences somewhere. I still see the temporary, but very close slats of having a job holding me in. That fence will come down someday and I hope there is a vast field of freedom beyond, although realistically there may be other fences being erected as I type. You know, the barbed wire of poor health perhaps.
Nonetheless, I feel more free today than I've ever felt; I am excited about having thrown wide the gate of old age and look forward to this new adventure. I don't even speculate on how big this pasture is, just I have the freedom to explore it.
Death, by the way, isn't a fence. It is a gate.
All photos by the author, except the second, taken by my wife:
Gates in the middle of the trail through Alapocas Run State Park, Delaware, 2010.
Me atop a horse pasture fence, 1968.
"The Gates of Hell", Rodin Museum, Philadelphia, Pa., 2006.
Frank March awoke once again determined to find the elusive waterfall, if it indeed did exist. So far it had the makings of a myth, although it made no sense that the trail map would entice people with a nonexistent marking, let alone a picture of a cataract right in the middle of the thing. Look at that representation with those rippling waters and golden fall colors; why wouldn't you want to find it?
And there on the right, just over that red line that shows the boundary between Delaware and Pennsylvania, is the word "waterfall".
Yet after several days searching, Frank had failed to find it. He had wandered up the long hill in the hot rays of this summer's sun (if there was any brownish hues around the elusive waterfall this time of year they would be the cooked and dry leaves wilting in the heat wave).
At least at the top, pausing to regain his breath, he could look out across the valley and see the stone tower that had once been a mystery to him and further along, the great castle on the hill. (The tower is visible on the upper left corner and the castle just right of the upper center.) But he had solved The Mystery of the Stone Tower, so these were no longer of interest. No, now it was the waterfall he sought.
He had tried many of the trails up atop this hill and seen the wondrous sights of the Woodlawn fields, the horses and the corn, but not the cascade. On his last attempt he had wandered along the upper rim of the mount through the woods, teetering on the edge of a gorge along a narrow path and discovered another mystery, which will probably remain unsolved, The memorial to Bud's Billy Goat.
Here deep in the woods sat the broken remains of a tree, some stones piled at its base and upon a notch near its top. Carved and painted into the base the words, "Bud's Billy Goat". At the top of the object was this, a bicyclist and dates. Is this a grave of some fellow's beloved pet goat? If so, this goat lived almost as long as this Old Goat, for it would have died at 67.
Or did Bud crash his mountain bike on this site, a vehicle he called, Billy Goat? But that would have been an ancient bike. Did they even have mountain bikes in 1943?
At any rate, this did not lead Frank to any waterfall on that day.
He had asked a few he met upon the trails during his searches if they knew where the waterfall might be. No one he asked even knew there was a waterfall. Was there a waterfall? It was on the trail map. There was also the story told by a friend, about pausing from a bike ride by a waterfall and quite pond on a hot day, of being temped by the water and finally giving in to the lure and engaging in some skinny-dipping. In this he was suddenly approached by a teacher and young children on a field trip and kept submerged until they finally left and he could slip out and back into his clothes.
On top of that Frank stumbled on an actual picture of the alleged waterfall on some strangers Blog.
So it was Frank studied the trail map and tried hard to coordinate it with the satellite Google image of the area. He determined it was down a path he had eschewed on his very first hike up these hills thinking this trail simply went down into someone's backyard. Now he was convinced otherwise. Thus this morning he set off to find his goal.
He had a sudden influx of working hours and this would be his only free day this week, so despite a threat of rain he headed off, but this was an advantage. After weeks of extreme heat, he would be able to go up the long, steep hill without the beat of the sun. It was cooler today as well. He traipsed with a plan, up that hill, through the woods, down around and by the horse pastures that would bring him to the path he had never walked. Now he did, down its rutted stony way, just to the right of the house below and came to the road.
It was the spot he had noted, where Beaver Valley Road made an odd almost-U-turn off to the right into Pennsylvania while what one would think was its continuation more or less straight ahead became Beaver Dam Road. That name sounded promising, Beaver Dam, for often dams create waterfalls, unless this was an actually Beaver dam made of gnawed down saplings.
Frank crossed the road and on the other side found a trail going up another hill. He went up and up and up, on a wide track edging the woods. Once further up he spied a narrow trail to his right, which entered the forest in what seemed a promising direction.
Suddenly there was a thrashing of brush nearby and a deer ran across the path startling him. It trotted between the trees and then stood stock still between two trunks. It was amazing how an animal of its size could almost become invisible simply by standing quiet. If Frank had not seen where it had run he would not have noticed it at all. It appears in this photo as only a light patch of brown between some trees near the center.
As a boy one of Frank's favorite things in the children's magazines he got, "Jack 'n' Jill" or "Highlights" or whatever it was, were these little photos with a caption: "There are 15 animals hiding in this woods, can you find them all?" This deer was playing that game with Frank today.
There had been a light rain when he started on his trek, now he could tell it was picking up. He could hear the drops increase. The leaf cover was affording him some protection, but he knew much of his way back to his car would be open ground and he would get wet. He hurried on his way.
Now the path curved downward and entered a groove of semi-mud, more a dry wash than a trail. He had to straddle it, walk with one foot on the right bank and the other on the left bank. As he shuffled along there was a loud creaking to his right, then a sustained and violent crash as a large tree gave up the ghost and tumbled over in a dead faint to the forest floor. You see many a tumbled trees about these grounds, but this was a new addition to the corpses arriving a bit too close and fresh for comfort.
Frank continued down the rut, twisting this way and that and then he was at the bank of a stream and across it was a road. He had no intension of backtracking up that woodland trail, but how to get across to the road was the next question. The path came to the water's edge at a rapids. There was no other access across and this one was tenuous, wide spaced wet rocks in bubbling water. Well, nothing to do but risk it.
Frank made it across without so much as a wet shoe, but now what. There was no sign of any waterfall anywhere and he didn't know exactly where he was. He decided to go to his right down this road, following the flow of the stream, hoping it would take him to the Brandywine.
He walked a ways. On the other side of the road, where a hill of forest rose above him, he saw a trail, but not certain where he was he decided not to chance getting lost in a strange woods for some length of time. He continued along the road.
Then, there it was, behind some large rocks, the elusive waterfall. He had stumbled upon it quite by accident. As he stood admiring the dancing waters, he realized all he would had to have done was walk along this road where he had initially crossed and he would have come to this. The hike up the mount and through the dark wood and down the rut was unnecessary. But then where would have been the adventure in walking down a road? He would have missed the deer and not heard the falling tree missing him. Ah, much more fun this way.
He rather doubted this was the waterfall his friend had swum by, though. There was some still water above you could call a pond he supposed, and certainly it was deep enough to swim in, but would one dare skinny-dip so near a public road?
It also brought his mind back to the rain or now lack of it. If it had rained hard, he wondered, how long would his white running shorts have remained opaque. Hmm, that was a consideration to spur him to move on and see if he could find his way back to his car.
He walked further on and finally came to the little park by the Brandywine. Now he knew exactly where he was and it was still a bit to where he had parked, but that was fine. He ambled beside the lovely creek enjoying the briskness of the morn and happy he had found his waterfall at last, when...
What was that white thing across the water? Could it be the Heron he had seen before?
Wouldn't you know it. He had forsaken wearing his glasses today because of the light rain. The drops would have simply clouded his vision, he reasoned. Besides, he has fairly good vision without the specs; however, not quite good enough to focus well on whatever was sticking up over there.
If only it would move, but it did not. Ah, well, another mystery.
(Turn off my music before watching this short film.)
Always rambling, always exploring, I am and I am not a creature of habit. If I do not work, and I have not worked much lately, I go for a long, early morning walk. That is the habitual part.
But walking the same trail, the same route each day, no, I like a constant variety and thankfully the good souls who have preserved our nature hereabouts have provided it.
Besides the several fine and handsome parks surrounding my neck of the woods, these parks are festooned with many trails. Not only do I take a different path each day, I look for ones I've missed before and go exploring. Sometimes they prove short or dead end and I can only turn around and go back as I came, but most present new scenery and often surprises. Sometimes the surprise is I don't know my way back to where I started and am lost for a bit. I don't mind, it is interesting being lost as long as you know ways of eventually de-losing yourself.
At any rate, I turned off on to a road less traveled yesterday. It was a totally random choice this time. I was searching for something. (I will probably make this search a Frank March Adventure if I ever find the object of my desire.) I am looking for an elusive waterfall. I had a conversation with a bicyclist I met after I had climbed hills and forded streams and had returned to a main trail unsuccessful. I asked if he knew where the waterfall was. He didn't. He didn't know there was a waterfall and thought with our dry weather it might not exist at the moment. His assumption was this mysterious waterfall only appeared after heavy rains or only at some magical time like Brigadoon.
Perhaps, but I think not. There is on the Internet at the Woodlawn website a trail map, and it indicates a waterfall up in one corner of this acreage, right over the state border I suspect. I just don't think I've walked down the right route yet or far enough.
Once a month I get together with a group of poets and we share our poetry. The latest meeting was this past Thursday and a story that was told became my catalyst to once again search for the waterfall on Friday morning. My friend and fellow poet, Dallas (pictured left), had a motorcycle accident this past week. It left him with a broken hand and broken rib. He can't work (he drives a bus) and he can't do his daily bike ride or his martial arts exercises either. This forced inability led to a story mentioning the waterfall, although it was peripheral to the tale.
The story: Dallas had gone on his regular bike ride up into the Woodlawn forest, when he came to a waterfall. Here was a nice open space beside a pond. He parked his bike and spend some time doing his martial arts exercises. It was a very hot day and that pond looked more and more inviting as he finished up his forms. Yes, it looked very enticing and there was no one around, he had been quite alone all day, he striped off to skin and dove into the water. It was very refreshing and he splashed there enjoying this cooling bath when he heard voices. A group of children suddenly appeared marching toward the spot, so he sunk himself down into the pond up to his chin. Some waved, some spoke to him and he said "hi" back. As this group settled upon the bank their teacher came from behind and began pointing and explaining things surrounding (presumably this did not include the head bobbing in the pond). Finally, the lecture finished, they waved goodbye and were gone. He, with relief and wrinkled skin, climbed ashore, quickly dressed and got out of there.
So I thought, there is definitely a waterfall somewhere out there and the next morning I set off again to find it.
I also thought isn't this always the way. When you think you are alone and safe along comes someone to embarrass you. It was just like my telling about removing my shirt in this heat while on what was to me a very unused trail. I almost never met anyone on in that place, but this time along comes a lady and her dogs. At least I had only removed my shirt.
Thus it was I wandered in a whole lot of new territory yesterday morning without finding my waterfall. I came to a choice far up on a mount after walking long. Perhaps the path going to my right would have led me to my goal, but I had been hiking long and the day was heating up, so I went left.
This took me up a narrow path I had also never been on before. It ran along the very top of the ridge and there was a fence along one side, probably electrified, for it only had three well-spaced strands of thick cable on white plastic knobs. There was a cornfield along where I first came, then later I could see a road across a meadow. Meanwhile, the path grew very narrow and all around were high brush, especially cockleburs.
This is where I saw them, a flutter of yellow here and there. There were butterflies in packs flitting from plant to plant and then around my head. It was a marvelous place to be. Cicada were singing in the nearby woods and these beautiful, colorful creatures leading me along. It was an enchanting moment of beauty and peace.
I pulled out my camera and began filming, following their flight, and at times they seemed to pose for their close-up.
Not just the yellow ones, but these darker flies of black and blue and silver.
I do not know butterfly types. When you encounter large yellow ones with black trim you always think Monarch, but I am not sure the markings were right and there are yellow butterflies that mimic the Monarch. The dark one on the left seems to be some kind of swallowtail. There was one that when sitting still spread its wings forming almost a star that looked metallic. You can see that one near the end of my little two minute film below.
By the way, did you know they tag butterflies out of the nature center in Brandywine Creek State Park. Imagine catching and tagging these delicate looking creatures. You do it gently, a tiny sticker on the wing that doesn't harm or hinder the butterfly. They catch them, take them to the center, feed them, tag them and led them loose. This way they can trace the migrations of the insect.
That heat wave that washed over us this July has ended, briefly anyway, a new one is moving in although with lesser temperatures. When you rise and say, "Thank you, it is only going to be 95 degrees today," then you know how bad the last one was. But since "the hot one" came in as I started this little series loosely connected to it, it is fitting now that we are expecting a balmy high of 88 to end it.
Over on Tamela's Place she has posted advice on respect between married couples. The last line of the last paragraph is applicable to us all, married or not, in our relationships to all around us.
"Endeavor to be perfect yourselves, but expect not too much from each other. If any offense arises, forgive it; and think not that a human being can be exempt from faults."
From the book: The Royal Path of Life by T.L. Haines 1876
This is not bragging, because I have too many failures to brag, but honesty. I try to live my live to that admonition. It is a quality that seems to lack quantity anymore. People seem pretty quick to offense over even perceived slights and very unwilling to forgive. And who takes blame for their own actions when there are so many others around to point the finger at? To me this bromide should be the foundation of good character and for a Christian, as an essential item of their spirit as the heart is to their body.
Now having recognized we need to forgive because none of us are exempt of faults, we are going to talk about the faults of others. But it isn't wrong to do this either. We may try very hard to overcome our faults, but how do we know these faults if no one ever points them out? And sometimes people have faults that are dangerous or unfair to others. We may forgive them for this, but it doesn't mean we allow them to continue doing them willy-nilly without comment. Otherwise, why have jails?
A couple weeks ago I was doing my daily walk in a state park and across the creek saw a cross. I don't know who put it there or why. If it is a memorial to someone who died in the river it is a big one. I can't tell if there is I any writing on it.
Is it in violation of anything? I don't know. Far as I can determine it is not on the Brandywine Creek State Park property or any of the land under the Woodlawn Trustees purview. Where it has been erected appears to be private property. Was it erected by trespassers or with the permission of the landowners? Did the landowners' erect it? I have not a clue.
Certainly that big wooden sign board floating in the creek not far from the cross is a violation of something. It is litter of a large scale and a danger to those who raft, canoe and kayak this water. Again, though, I don't know if it is there by intensional design or accident. I thought a week later it had been removed, but no, it had just floated further downstream.
Strangely, on the same walk I saw the cross, I did take note of several violations of park policy, some serious, some not so much.
The first violations were a mix of the messy and the menacing.
As I came back up the path from where I had spotted this cross I saw a bag lying in the grass just off the path. As amazing as this may sound, this was unusual. I see very little in the way of trash along the many trails in these parks where I roam. When I do, it is usually a water bottle, which may have been tossed or accidentally dropped by a hiker or biker. I'm not saying I never find stray paper or plastic, just very rarely and hardly as blatant as this bright bag by this main trail.
Coming to the spot I discovered this miscreant wrapper wasn't alone. That little rise just beyond the brush was littered with more debris.
Here were soda bottles, cracker boxes and candy wrappers strew about.
There was something even worse. The remains and ashes of an open fire.
It was pretty clear persons unknown had built a fire to make smores. This indicated that three violates of the parks' rules had occurred.
First, this most likely happened after dark, when the park is closed and no unauthorized person should be wandering about here. Second, there was much litter in a place that is a carry in-carry out nature preserve, Third, and totally irresponsible, an open fire had been build. We have been in a long dry spell and the fire conditions are moderate to high. A little breeze, a missed ember, and you could have easily had a wildfire here as they have had in some other states recently.
Is there any connection between this fire, litter and that cross and the bill board in the creek? I don't know, other than they all suddenly appeared in the same area simultaneously.
I didn't have to go much further or much longer to come across another violation of park policy. Unleashed dogs being walked. This may be the most common violation I see and I see it on almost every walk I take. It doesn't particularly bother me, although I understand the reasons for it. However, every time I have come upon such dogs they have been very well trained and behaved.
Now, I admit, when I come around a corner or over a hill and am confronted by a dog I grow very wary if I see no master about. One never knows what a strange dog might do. I also know that even the gentlest dog can feel the same way upon meeting me. It doesn't know what I am up to either and a sudden move could make it feel threatened, and who knows where that leads.
Frankly, the only dogs that ever really scared me on walks were on leashes. I met two Pit Bulls on several occasions on the Northern Delaware Greenway, always restrained on leads, but every time, baring teeth, they pulled and tugged on their ties trying to come at me. Each time I prayed their owners had a good grip on those leather straps and nothing broke. This did not seem a good place for these animals to be walked, on leashes or not. There are some walkers with children and children are fascinated with dogs and often run toward them without a care. But hey, I guess that is just me, an old worrywart.
I'll tell you three recent encounters with unleashed dogs.
I was on this very same trail one morning and came to this bridge. Thinking I would set my Flip on the rocks to the one side and film myself walking across here, I was suddenly startled by a large dog leaping right in front of my face from where I was about to place the tripod.
He had seemed to come out of nowhere and was quite alone. He landed on the path and looked at me and I am him.
"Are you alone?" I asked.
He said nothing.
What do I do now. This appeared to be a stray dog. He had to belong to somebody for there was a bandana around his neck, but who and where were they. Moments went by and then I heard a voice from above.
"He's friendly."
I looked up and there was a lady and another dog high up on these rocks. As I watched she came walking down upon them. I had never noticed there was a path that went up this outcropping of stone.
A second dog encounter was actually an expected encounter, but non-appearance. It was when I dared remove my shirt thinking I was in a secluded place and then this other woman with two dogs came up the path. I met the same lady a second time further down the path, meaning she had circled around (probably fascinated by my manly physique and wanted another look). She was coming just up the steep hill, that I prefer to go down rather than up. One of her dog led the way, but I didn't see the second.
"Aren't you missing someone?" I asked.
She stopped and looked back. Then she called a few times, but the other dog did not appear.
"She hasn't got lost yet," said the woman and went on her way and I on mine.
I went down the steep hill, but no sign of her other dog anywhere before me as I went. I presume it went down the creek side path in the opposite direction and knew its way home, at least I hope so. But I thought, neither dog was on a leash. She wasn't even carrying any leashes. Now one of her pooches was running free and alone through the paths, what kind of violation was that? What might the fine be if she's caught by a ranger?
My third story just happened the other day. I was hiking up the creek path, which is a narrow trail through the woods. At one spot I could hear sounds approaching from behind and in front of me. There was a little side path on the trail and I stepped upon it just as a large Bulldog bounded around a bush and came to me. At the same time, two bicyclists came from the other direction, then came a man with another Bulldog on a leash.
The first Bulldog was nuzzling my hand as its owner came up and snapped a leash upon it. One of the biker's said to him, "That's what happens when you don't have them leashed. There's a big fine for that, you know?"
"Are you cops?" the Bulldog man asked.
"Yes, we are," said one of the bikers. (I was rolling my eyes at this.)
"Well, thank you for your service, sir," said Bulldog man and the bikers rode away.
Bulldog man and I exchanged glances, neither believing these bikers were cops. Bulldog man, now with both beasts leashed, walked on down the path.
I didn't need to hear any bikers lecturing anyone about trail violations. Next to unleashed dogs, they are the biggest offenders I run into. They speed up and down these trails often giving no warning they are coming up behind you. Not all, but it is becoming more the rule than the exception, sad to say. Use to be bikers would call out, "On your left" as they approached. Now too many just whizz right pass. You seldom hear them coming until they are upon you.
They also go where they shouldn't. Some trails are marked as off-limits to bikes, but they are there. The photo to the right shows fresh bike tracks up on Rocky Run, one of the trails they are not allowed. A couple weeks ago I was on a guided tour on Rocky Run when a forbidden biker came down the narrow trail up on the high ridge. Not only didn't he give warning, he didn't even slow down. We had some old people and some children in the group. There could have been a disaster; there could have been injuries.
Bicycles aren't the only conveyance people are not suppose to ride on trails like Rocky Run. There is something else banned, horses.
Be careful where you step, friend, for this was left not far from those tire tracks, and believe me, no bicycle left this.
