Well, mostly travels anyway. This is really just an excuse to tell stories about places I’ve been or adventures I’ve experienced. I hope you find them entertaining.
Once upon a time, I created a set of gallery pages that provide a quick way to check out the photography from past posts without having to access them individually. I’ve just updated the galleries, and rather than explain the lot I’m reblogging the post that introduced the galleries in January of last year- Short Attention Span Theater.
PS: I’m about to do some traveling, so if you don’t see any blog posts or me responding to your posts for a few weeks, not to worry.
The Pass was hidden, a treacherous rift of currents that didn’t want to shoot strait – at least from the perspective of Captain George Vancouver. Back in 1792, while exploring the Pacific Northwest, he sent Joseph Whidbey sailing northward along the east coast of a strip of land that now bears Whidbey’s name. Whidbey made it up the Saratoga Passage and explored eastward into Skagit Bay, but didn’t make it far enough west to find an outlet. It wasn’t until they changed their practice and explored up the west coast of Whidbey that they found the strait, making Whidbey an island rather than a peninsula. Captain Vancouver was so annoyed being fooled by that hidden rift of roiling water he called it Deception Pass.
226 years later, another group of intrepid sailors headed up to that deceptive pass to pursue a different set of practices. I was one of them.
The dirt road was a veritable minefield of potholes, craftily camouflaged in dappled midday shadows. Trees lined the road, providing a source for that insidious shade, giving those potholes ninja stealth. Driving down this minefield was akin to navigating an impassible obstacle course, where occasions of failure gave me thoughts of riding a bucking bronco, and dropping into the bigger craters evoked a guttural oof.
But what brought me to this kidney buster?
“Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” “Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” The man in the front of the room encouraged on the followers, “Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” The old, respected guru was about to enter. What sort of cult was this?
Carefully, I chose my steps. The herd of deer was out in an open field, as was I. Too sudden a movement and they’d spook, and I was trying to get as close as I could to take my shot.
Two or three more steps and another pause, a bit parallel, a bit closer. I’m taking care not to stare, to pretend I’m just doing my own disinterested thing. There were 14 in the herd. It would only take one to interpret my nonchalant amble as the stalking that it was and set the alarm. 40 yards away now.
There comes a time in every person’s life that a certain discussion needs to be had, either as the presenter of certain life-affirming facts, or as the recipient. While I suspect most of you gentle readers would consider yourselves well versed in these facts, perhaps today I can shed a new light upon them.
Yes, today we’re going to talk about the birds and the bees.
Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Ah, the joys of listening to a piledriver.
And how is that relevant to the serenity and contemplation one might find in a Chinese Garden? Read on.
My storytelling muse hasn’t been amusing itself lately. So rather than a cohesive “Once Upon A Time”, here are a few vignettes from recent wanderings around town.
The rainfall grew, starting softly to moisten the dried dirt and clay, then growing to create rivulets of water, streaming down the hills. But it was not a simple muddy brown runoff; yellows over there, maroons there, ochers, reds, oranges, greys, shades of brown from light tan to dark brown ran and collected. It was as if a giant Jackson Pollock had one too many drinks, and in his drunken stumble kicked over all the cans of paint in his studio.