A confession. I am a mediocre photographer. And that is okay. I was looking over some older photographs, mostly from when I was an enthusiastic user of film. I reflected on the fact that there were very few good ones. Even ones that I recall liking at the time I
Here are some recent photos I took in Pine Stree Woods. The days were not great, overcast and gray. Still there is a bit of fall color and it was fun to play with some black and white. These were taken by an old camera that I have resurrected the
Soft sodden air of the twilit forest Snap of fallen drops, formed of mist and pines Rain-blackened trunks parade down-slope Pale bleached-yellow of fern Like spirits of their brown bracken brothers Wraiths of mist hang and sweep through the rain-dark trees Flash of white, a pause,
As a measure of transparency; I have started to use AI (Microsoft Co-pilot) in my sparse writing attempts. I am limiting it to editing functions like spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Sometimes it adds Em-dashes. I am not using it for the writing itself but more like a professional
Introduction History is usually made from what is known, events, people, facts. Much of history is obscured by secrecy; shame, embarrassment, or state secrets obscure much of what we know of history. It's these small secrets obscured by time and the deaths of the small number of participants
A great way I have of finding interesting books at my favorite bookstore (Bonner’s Books in Bonner’s Ferry Idaho) is to look for books with old bindings like cloth or leather. My best finds have been in the travel section. The classics or near classics are easy enough
We walked the tightly packed gravel road through cottonwood, paper birch, and poplar trees. Their leaves ranged from lemon to mustard to egg-yolk yellow, forming a canopy and tunnel of color this fall afternoon. The air smelled of rotting leaf mold and wet ground—a soft, sweet scent of
A sudden slap in the water near the distant shore with expanding circles of ripples revealing the location. The Green River slipped silently below the bank where we perched. Inching down the far canyon walls the rising sun cast a warm light. Where the river ran over its rough bottom
I am a child of the American West, actually the Southwest. Having grown up in Arizona I am used to that arid land. A love of mountains, desert, clear mountain streams, volcanoes, red sandstone sculpture, ghost towns, ancient Indian ruins, Native Americans, Mexican Americans. The culture of the West still
I had just squeezed the handle on the pump and set the latch when I glanced behind me to see this tall thin older man looking over my trailer. I said 'Hi' and he remarked what an unusual trailer. I agreed and he continued with this slow drawl
I could discern some very low noted booming which alarmed me. Was there a rock fall? Almost imperceptibly the water in the cascade seemed to slow. I didn’t believe my senses at first and kept looking to confirm what I was seeing. Then it was obvious the water had
We drove for two hours under the deep blue Montana October sky across the dun colored sagebrush. Sected and bisected by fence. The valley a brown blonde exhausted grass of summer’s end. Sagebrush rimmed the valleys and its teal green draped over hillsides. Teeming in the lowest place was