Jan. 25, 2004
I didn't make any sightings of famous photographers out in the woods this week. But I want to thank Tim Ernst once again for linking to this site from his journal, which I think was pretty decent of him. I also think we all ought to keep sending him money. After all, how would we ever know what it's like to live our dreams if there weren't someone like Tim who's doing it and can tell us all about it. So let's make sure he can continue to live in the manner to which we've become accustomed. I myself have done my part by buying about every book he's ever published.
I've got a backlog of photos to post; so this week's picture is from last week's visit to the Glory Hole, and next week's may be from the week before last, which is kind of going in the wrong direction, I know, but I've always been an advance to the rear sort of guy, and usually manage to say gee when I should have said haw.
And on Saturday's hike, as Junie and I were making our way back along a logging road after exploring the creek in Falling Rock Hollow from the waterfall down to where it feeds into Hurricane Creek, we came to a fork in the road that I didn't remember from our previous sojourn last summer. Do I have to say that I chose the wrong fork? Well, I did. Then after a little upping and downing in the trail, and then a little twisting this way and that, I discovered when I got to wondering why nothing looked familiar and pulled out the compass that I had got my directions completely turned around. We were steadfastly and intrepidly marching due south when I thought we were headed north. It goes to show you can't depend on your sense of direction on a cloudy day, or at least I can't.
It was easy enough to retrace our path and take the other fork, after which things started looking much more familiar, but we still had about a mile and a half of uphill walking to do, and dear reader, it's funny how much shorter that mile and half was in memory than it was in fact, and how much longer it seemed than our trek downhill along the creek.
At one point in our exploration of the creek, we came to a place where the valley narrowed to a passage about 25 feet wide between two bluffs, and sitting in the middle with the creek on one side and scant clearance on the other was a huge boulder about as tall as a house and as big around as a living room, and then a companion boulder about the size of a compact car. A mini-Cooper, I'd say. I looked up and to the left and saw the rest of the cohort up there, five or six more boulders lined up against the sky on a rise above the bluff, and in my mind's eye I saw an ancient and continuing game of red rover gone tragically wrong, as one by one these old ones would be called out, and one by one they would tip themselves forward and gradually gain speed and momentum, only to land with a thunk and stop dead in the creek bed, and from across the way, at first there would come titters and finally guffaws at another exhibition of rock stupid gullibility.
What's that? You never heard of red rover? So is this really what the world has come to? First the Beatles break up, and now no more red rover? Next you'll be telling me there's no more stink base either.