Blog Posts

Bird Nerd: Next Level Twitchers

2/5/2019

I became a fan of the feathered flocks because Mumsie was a birder. She listened to the Audubon record of birdsong to tune her ear and when she saw a new bird, she ticked it off the index of her Roger Tory Peterson Guide to the Birds.

It's not much of a surprise that many in her circle became enthusiastic feeders and photographers of birds (Hi Sis! Hi Care! Hey Mary Jo!). She was inspiring in her quiet way.

Of course the interest came to her from her own mother, Norma, who spent many a pleasant morning lingering over coffee and watching birds at the feeder out her window.

But I wonder what they would think about Google Street View Birding.

Yeah, Google. Street-view. Birding.

No bird-feeder required.

Gooble Street View Birders are a group of very enthusiastic birders who comb the Goog for images of birds as captured by the street-view automated cameras that are busy around the world taking photos for Google Maps.

When the Street Level first came out, people hunted for their own faces. Others looked for Bigfoot. These people commenced prowling for birds.

They post the images on a Facebook page (here), where there's collective identification and commentary.

What a world.

The pastime seems to have started when a blogger (the Birdist, aka Nick Lund) let his personal hobby of surfing Google images out into a wider world.

Here's the start of it in 2014. The Birdist does a nice blog –– I recommend the browse.

Like many of the new members on the Google Street View Birding Group, I read an article and clicked on a link to get there. It's a very pleasant counterpoint to the hot-air blaring so common on the social media these days.

I mean, if you like birds.

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Everglades Challenge: Origami with Boat Parts

1/29/2019

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The 2019 Everglades Challenge is a month away, and my favorite skipper is finalizing this year's modifications to Spawn of Frankenscot, the 22-foot-long, OH-Rodgers-designed adventure boat that engages his attention this time of year.

The main change to the boat is the addition of hard wings that fold up for transport.

The rowing seat needed to scoot aft in the cockpit so that the sweeps could reach water, and Mr. Linton installed additional anti-slip devices like foot-straps and a slide stopper at the end of the wing (yellow safety rail, thank you Home Depot), all because the hard wings are quite a bit more slippery than the former racks were.

But the wings are worth a quick look, I think. So here's a video.

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Writing Prompt –– Small Pieces

1/22/2019

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Around my house, you can tell whether the writing is going well by how dusty and messy things are.

Me included.

<sound effect here>

Thanks, folks, I'll be playing this town all week, and don't forget to tip your waiter!

In all honesty, writing is terribly easy to avoid. Sometimes the dishes and the laundry seem more important.

For the past few weeks, I have been sewing a lot. And while I can rift on how quilting is like writing, I know it's really an elaborate avoidance mechanism for the Really Awful Stuff that is going down in the world of my goose-girl story.

But in light of that impulse to cut things up and sew them back together in a pleasing form, today's writing prompt takes some random words and puts them into a story pattern:

Random words: relation, requirement, region, role, reaction, revolution, ratio.
The pattern: (character+needs+action)

Story 1
Everything looked tiny from the sky that time of day. The ratio of tree to shadow all out of proportion, as if the shadow had overthrown its role. She felt the idea take hold, that a revolution was rolling across the surface of the world. That long, branching shadow was just then throwing a tree into existence against the burning disk of sun.

The crackling of her headset recalled her to the reality of the chopper, the dry air and the dust, the possibility of light glinting off something lethal on the ground below her.

"Barnett! Two clicks!"

She nodded and took a deep, steadying breath. Without consulting the laminated instruction sheet clipped to the seat-back, she ticked off the safety requirements again. She snugged the buckles, threaded gloved fingers along the straps. This time, she swung her legs to the side and let her boots meet the skids.

"Barnett, I am counting in four, three, two ––" the horizon took a quarter turn, and she punched the release on her seatbelt. Gravity loaded as the chopper rose away from her. The chute deployed, and she bounced lightly in the harness in the middle of the air.

The toggles felt like reins, she thought, and the wing was like a horse racing downhill. Shit, she was flaking out. She was a target waiting to sighted. With an effort, she lined up a particular tan formation of rock with its own long shadow and urged the horses to gallop.

The gritty sand rose to meet her, and she landed running. Hustling the wing into the pack, she didn't spare a moment looking into the hills. She trotted up the narrow ravine for fifteen minutes, the only sound her boots and her own pulse like a snare drum in her ears.

Whoa. That's a surprise. Sometimes the scraps turn themselves into something unexpected.

I wonder if it's Afghanistan or Mars. Why is she solo? I may return to this one day, and I thank you for joining me in my rhetorical calisthenics.

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The Would-Be Farm: Fruit!

1/15/2019

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In 2014, Mr. Linton and I started planting fruiting trees on the Would-Be Farm.

Yes, we found two hilltops full of mature old apple trees on the land, but was that enough for my agricultural ambitions?

Nope.

And like so many would-be farmers, I chose the wrong spot for plants first.

The Empire apple tree didn't survive the first winter. Both of those first pear trees frosted back to their wild roots. Of course, they were ordinary trees imported in for the local nurseries, and I put them in the ground RIGHT where the wind howls through the valley.

Some of my orchard notes.

I've since became an enthusiastic customer of St. Lawrence Nurseries, where the trees are bred to survive the harshest of North Country weather. We made sheltered havens where we've planted heirloom apples, pears, hazelnuts, elderberries, basket willows, and, the point of the blog: aronia berries.

Aronia is the formal name for what is sometimes known as a "chokeberry." (NOT a "chokecherry," btw) It's a small, hardy, brushy tree that bears dark little fruits. They are quite astringent until ripe.

Scientific studies show that it's bursting with super-fruit power, and I'm hoping for an aronia cordial or a mixed berry pie next fall.

It's not an easy lot, trying to be a good sapling on the Would-Be Farm. You'll have to survive lots of rain, or not enough rain, plus biblical-level plagues of insects and marauding deer. You'll get ignored and crowded by weeds for months at a time.

But when fruit arrives, as this aronia did this past autumn, a young sapling can expect a bit of a party.

Hurrah the Aronia! Nice work, little fella!

Hope you are having a decent winter up there! You'll be getting a birthday cake of fertilizer in April! Yay you!

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The Evil Stair

1/9/2019

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When planning a trip, I suggest avoid saying things like: "Greece is the most dangerous place in Europe to drive a rental. We certainly won't do that."

or "We'll take a slow ferry from Crete so we can see all the beautiful little islands between there and Athens."

Because inevitably you'll get stranded on Crete (where btw –– the oldest Bronze Age city? The one you have been wanting to see since you were eleven or twelve years old? It will be closed for repairs. For like 18 months.)

Between the ferries, the Mistral winds, and the Ministry of Culture, you will weep bitter, bitter tears of frustration.

And then you'll find yourself standing in line at the car rental counter at the Athens airport behind a pair of French dudes celebrating Bastille Day by joining the rest of their countrymen on vacation in Greece.

The fellows will say –– clear enough for even your rusty college French to follow –– that the rental company has run out of automobiles. (Les voitures sont completement fini.)

Nothing ventured, you'll figure, even if these guys snub you for your really execrable accent, you give it a try, "Excusez-moi, avez-vois dit que Les Hertz n'avez-pas rien du voitures?

"Oh non, <something something> de voitures, mais mini-vans, oui." Oh, mini-vans, you'll think, yet another word that has no translation.

Perhaps because the waiting line was quite long and they had only started their vacation, the French men say, "Do you have a reservation for a car? No?"

Then switching easily to English, they ask, "Have you just arrived?"

You'll explain about the visit to Crete.

They will be terribly French in their amusement at your mishaps.

Of course, the wind.

Big world-weary shrugs and their lower lips will project out for a moment –– of course, Knossos. Ha ha ha!

But of course one couldn't find the Heraklion Museum because it was closed for renovations. For like 18 months.

You'll share gentle, ironic laughter. Ha ha ha! Zee world is funny, no? Trés amusant!

Where, they ask, will you go now?

Tell them you were planning to visit beautiful Mount Olympus, an easy drive. Hiking, perhaps even camping.

Oh, they will say, Have you not heard? Forest fires have closed Mount Olympus.

"Mais bien sûr!" you can say. But of course. Of course Mount Olympus is closed.

And then you'll be navigating the Greek countryside by fraternity letters while your husband boldly pilots a tiny white rental car.

You'll say, "Alpha-theta-epsilon? and maybe Nu. Wait, is µ ––you'll sketch the letter on the air –– Nu or Psi?"

Despite this level of distraction, he addresses the odd round-about and the mysterious symbols for merging or yielding without hesitation.

It may be a dangerous country for renting a car, but he's Ricky-Bobbying the living merde out of it.

On our trip, we did not stop at the crossroads in Theta-epsilon-beta-alpha.

It seemed a quiet, agricultural spot –– silos and onion fields –– a long way removed from mistaken identities and Freud's own dream of patricide and royal incest.

We went instead to Delphi, a spot I'd hoped to explore on a Classically nerdy trip another time.

The Delphic oracle, the Temple of Apollo, the Delphic games. That magical light!

Be still o Mary Renault-inspired heart!
Stand down, o Mary Stewart-influenced enthusiasm!

I'd honestly hoped not to bore Mr. Linton to death with all that.

I underestimate my husband's ability to find joy in his moment. After mooching around the ruins, he suggested a walk, and we headed up the beautifully marked E4 European long-distance trail. Up up up the Kaki Scala.

At a switchback, I pause to catch my breath, and see the tiny white rental car, no bigger than a loaf of bread far below our feet.

Later, it's the size of a matchbox car.

Then only a speck.

Then the car is entirely indistinguishable in the distance nearly straight down.

The trail continues up and up, the pitch a mathematical puzzle: a 50:12 pitch? 100:12?

Pebbles roll out from under our feet and hurtle off the side of the mountain, pinging and clicking into the sonic distance.

Eventually, there's signage that explains why the trail –– roughly cobbled and zig-zagging with such determination –– is called the Kaki Skala.

Skala, as one might imagine (scales, escalators, scales of pitch), means stair or ladder, while Kaki is not kaka (that would be Russian poo, thank you very much), Kaki is bad or evil.

Ill-omened stair, maybe, or bad ladder, or evil stair.

Made bad by who used it: condemned criminals were made to walk up the Kaki Skala and then leap (or be pushed) from an overlook.

Twenty-five hundred years later on a hot, HOT day, there's still a bit of chill in the air.

A few hours later, as we followed signs and listened to the musical clanking of goat-bells sounding from the hills around us, we arrived at the Korykion Cave, where Pan was worshipped.

The actual Pan. Not an easy god, he.

We climbed into Pan's cave. Scene of who knows what-all sacred mysteries, the cave also sheltered Greeks from foreign invasion (the Persians in the 5th C BC, the Turks during the Greek War of Independence, and the Germans in 1943).

A good cave is a joy forever, evidently.

We picnicked, respectfully, and then wound our way back to the tiny white rental car, unscathed by Pan or the loud farm-dogs.

A couple of days is not enough for Delphi.

I am almost afraid to plan a trip back to the Temple of Apollo to see the Charioteer again and walk those fragrant dry hills –– in case my travel mojo destroys the entire town.

But still.

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Spawn of Frankenscot Back to the Water

1/2/2019

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Of course it should float, but it's always nice to have confirmation.

This year's modifications to the Rodgers 22 Adventure boat include converting the trampoline-style racks and external water tanks to integral water tanks that fold up for road transport.

Unpainted "water wing" before installation.

I'm calling them "water wings." Like the inflatable swim aids, these solid wings should give the boat additional floatation and resistance to turning over.

Which is important to me, anyhow.

Spawn ready for land transport.

And as promised, a short video from the weekend of testing Spawn.

By the time I got on the water with a camera, the air was VERY light. Thanks to EnsignRumsDown who filled in for Moresailesaid on New Year's Day.

My favorite skipper will be away from this project for a few weeks while he sails other, less quirky vessels.

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Fiction Prompt: Holiday Cheer

12/24/2018

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Imagination is like the common cold virus: it's always there, lurking, waiting for the chance to nip in and take the wheel. There's no sure cure, though you can treat the symptoms. Medical advice says let it run its course.

Today's fiction prompt: a photo I took on a fishing trip to Wyoming.

Rudolph was no fiberglass elk, bugling soundlessly on the street of Thermopolis.
He was neither the victim of a fierce electrical taping nor did he lose an ear during a wrestling match with a drunk guy.
He did not lift his rack of fiberglass antlers into the wide Wyoming sky in an effort to voice his pain.
He did not wear a saddle-pad of twinkling holiday lights.
He did not sport a compact fluorescent bulb painted red at the distal point of his noggin.

They might have let Rudolph join in any reindeer games, but little matter.
Was he like Bartleby before him, preferring not?
Or like Robert Cratchit, beetling away for the chance of a day's liberty?
Or Balthazar, with the insight to know what lay ahead?
Or maybe, inert as can be, he is like the Yule log, waiting for the dark to yield to light and then celebrate another year beginning.

Hope your season is bright.

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Everglades Challenge: Spawn Looks More and More like the Painted Love Child of a Praying Mantis and a Delorean DCM-12

12/18/2018

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Not sure what else I need to add after that title, but here goes.

Background: The Everglades Challenge is an annual unsupported adventure water race that sends a fleet of paddlers, sailors, and rowers down the west coast of Florida from St. Petersburg, across the Everglades, and ends 300 miles later in Key Largo.

It begins on the first Saturday of March.

It's organized by a group called the Water Tribe, and the start at Fort DeSoto Beach is one of the goofiest, most glorious marine spectacles imaginable.

Racks folded for trailering.

My favorite skipper has participated for a few years –– his WaterTribe handle is "Two Beers."

He sails with Jahn Tihansky ("Moresailhesaid") on a boat designed by OH Rodgers ("Ninjee"). The team has surprised more than a few skeptical onlookers and broken a couple of records.

I've been chronicling the ongoing adventures, naturally.

Each year, the guys innovate, redesign, refine. Mr. Linton spends many a spare hour dreaming about the project, and then many a busy day implementing the improvements.

This year, it's a new arrangement for the water ballasting and hiking racks.

Carbon fiber attachments and integral glass-over-wood tanks hinge up and out. This change, we all hope, should improve flotation as well as speeding up the processes of getting the boat from trailer to water.

Plus it might be a bit cushy for the tushy.

Racks deployed as for sailing.

Each year, I try to tamp down my impatience and worry knowing that Two Beers finds the long, fiddly process both mentally and physically engaging.

He told me that there is no other sailing competition that gives him the chance to use his strategic wit, maritime experience, and boat-MacGyvering in this way.

I get it, but still I worry. 300 miles. Storms. Gators and crocs. Sticky mud and razor-sharp oyster beds. Sleep deprivation. Idiot powerboaters. Et cetera.

Water testing in a couple of weeks, knock wood.

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Art or Nature?

12/11/2018

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Life is not the only thing out there imitating art.

Evidently Nature's in on it too.

According to Edgar Degas, "Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." And for that I might as well go ahead and apologize.

The naughty bit...of a goblin. Goblin State Park, Utah.

She doesn't get the same press as David, but the Medici Venus at the Uffizi has got back, baby.

I was thinking about the Alexander Pope quote, which was –– I thought –– Art is but Nature to advantage dressed. Or, in this case, not dressed. I meant to rift extensively on part about being undressed. Low humor, sure, and possibly dragging in the topic of saggy pants.

But when I checked the quotation (From his Essay on Criticism, which is in strictest truth a poem), Pope actually wrote:
"True wit is Nature to Advantage drest,/What oft was Thought, but ne'er so well Exprest,/Something, whose Truth convince'd at Sight we find,/That gives us back the Image of our Mind."

Oh Alexander Pope, you navel-gazing noodler.

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The Big Parks Trip: Goblins!

12/4/2018

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A couple of weeks into our 9000-mile road trip, Captain Winnebago was steering the Winnie through Southern Utah.

Utah is –– as Holden Caulfield might have said –– lousy with park land.

The state has the "Big 5" National Parks: Arches, Bryce, Capital Reef, Grand Canyon, and Zion, plus more: Canyonlands, the Pony Express, Mormon Pioneer, and California National Trails, and a nice handful of National Monuments.

As if that weren't enough, it also has Goblin Valley State Park.

Goblin Valley is full of hoodoos –– those weirdly worn pillars of sandstone that resemble human figures. And I mean the valley is FULL of them.

It was first called "Mushroom Valley" when Anglos first found it. Although in full disclosure, even more than goblins, I think one could argue a valley of phallus-like items.

Names matter.

I get it.

Who in the world would agree to chaperone a busload of teenagers to Dingus Valley State Park for an overnight tenting adventure?

But how about Ponker Valley? Pizzle Park? Tallywacker Trail?

I can restrain myself only by strong effort. Goblins! Goblins!

In any case, the valley opened as a state park in the 1964. It's one of the few parks where electric scooters are not prohibited on the roads, and where a visitor can meander at will up and over the sandstone structures.