---------- the storms were breaking near sunset. so I decide to make a quick run to the flats. I underestimated the slowness of the rains and was mostly sitting, watching it pour. As I was moving down the road trying to get to the edge of the storm, the rain stopped and I saw this in the rear view mirror. I jumped out and before I could even reach for my tripod the big drops started again. so I dialed up the iso and shot two images while cursing and then ran for cover... I kind of like this one.
did you ever just go... you know, pick a direction and just go and go and go until you can't go any more? I did this day. I faced west and followed the sun. when I caught up with it I found myself 100 or so miles deep into the open prairie of the Great Plains. with each mile traveled it becomes more evident that it is the land that rules here... the supercilious becomes the superfluous. the dialogue is one of the the wind, the sun, and the song of the cicada rather than one of words.
this was much welcome. there's been too many words of late and I suspect I've about run out.
...and now I shall muster a few more and try and catch up on comments and deviations in my message center.
Follow, follow the sun And which way the wind blows When this day is done.
Breathe, breathe in the air Set your intentions Dream with care.
Tomorrow's a new day for everyone A brand new moon and brand new sun.
So follow, follow the sun The direction of the birds The direction of love.
Breathe, breathe in the air Cherish this moment Cherish this breath.
Tomorrow's a new day day for everyone A brand new moon, brand new sun.
When you feel life coming down on you like a heavy weight When you feel this crazy society adding to the strain Take a stroll to the nearest water's edge, remember your place. Many moons have risen and fallen long, long before you came.
So which way is the wind blowing? What does your heart say?
So follow, follow the sun And which way the wind blows When this day is done...
An afternoon of rock climbing found me at Treasure Lake as the sun was setting. I decided I would walk out onto a cliff that has a nice vantage point of the lake and try for a shot. this is one of those a million miles from anywhere places. As I am looking around wondering what the heck to shoot I hear, "hello" from behind me. I turn and find the ghost of John Muir perched on this small little ledge, feet dangling, while writing verse of some sort into his journal.
there was my shot.
we didn't really talk. other than me asking, "may I?" he nodded and I took a dozen or so shots. then he asked me how I knew of the place... I told him my grandfather started taking me here to fish when I was 5. he smiled and nodded... after a few minutes or so, he told me it was his favorite spot in the world.
We watched the light fade for a bit and then I nodded to him as I left. one of the more satisfying exchanges of the week.
a little bit before sunrise in the mist covered hills of my youth... the place where I "grew up" so to speak. My Parents accepted long ago that when I visit, I will disappear into these hills a fair amount of the time. to say the area is rural is an understatement. some might say we didn't have much to do. I am pretty sure I voiced the same lament on occasion myself. In retrospect I was wrong. my retreats were my books and these hills... with the time to indulge in both.
if you wish to picture the locals and the little towns that dot these hills... imagine a NC-17 Andy Griffith Show's Mayberry with the occasional Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil incident thrown in just to fuck with everyone's head. alol, needless to say, my free time was spent in the woods. they were usually easier to understand and began just across the street from my house. it was a spectacular playground. I hunted, fished, camped, and learned to move silently through them. about that time I hung up the guns for the camera. (no sport in it... there has to be sport) I explored every inch until I knew every inch. this included the stories and the histories.
this is one of my favorite places. I've tried shooting it tons of times to no avail. I like this one. it's a beautiful spot and I look out and see nothing but the stories. these are the Cookson Hills of far eastern Oklahoma. to the left of the far ridge was the western most settlement of the Mississippian Mound Builders. the Choctaw People were moved to these very hills on the trail of tears. to the left, a few miles up river, Cherokee Confederate forces sank a Union paddle-boat in the civil war. outlaws hid here in Indian Territory Days. Judge Parker, The Hanging Judge, sent his Marshals into these hills. I've pulled crappie out of these waters by the basket full... they're yummy, just two filets with fins. a little off frame to the right I pulled my best friend up out of a muddy bar ditch late one night after a fight with his girlfriend and a bottle of cheap gin. (both of which he lost.) I can remember counting the innumerable stars by the light of the campfire while listening to the lies of my buds and the bells on the tip of the catfishing rods.
that's why I always go back and drive these hills. the land retains the stories, the histories and the memories. it sings them.
And I saw my reflection in a snow covered hill...
I suppose to know where one's going one has to know where he's been...and right now I am off to the new year (and catching up here)... may yours brings good light, fun and smiles.
if you turn around and go west a few miles to the other side of the ridge you are here.