jumpingfish

There is a strip of little stones along the walkway beside the cottage in the woods on the hill by the lake. Michigan stones with reds, grays, and blues; pinks, greens, and whites. The stuff of grinding glaciers and rushing streams. Stones smoothed by the years, gathered with care, intentionally set along the walk to accentuate it with some geology of this place, or perhaps just because they’re nice.

Recent years have had their way. Sand and leaves and pine needles and other flimflam had filled in the gaps, covered some of the rocks, muted their accentuation, diminished their niceness. And so it was time to dig in the dirt to clear the debris of those years. I suspect that in years past my mother likely tended to the stones, but she is not here to continue that work. So this year I assumed the flimflam-clearing role, taking sand and needles and leaves away one handful at a time now and then over several days — a project that terminated today.

At the end of the line where the stones stop, as I cleared the last handful, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little something slithering. A dark wiggling thing working its way between the stones. Too short for a snake, too long for a worm, it was a super slender salamander with a shiny brown body and tiny little legs.

A reward for tending to little things.

When collecting kindling, it is important to properly calibrate the sticks.

Traveling from Pomme de Terre State Park in Missouri to Argyle Lake State Park in Illinois

…

1.

En route to Illinois, we chose a “scenic route” along the western shore of the Mississippi River. There were green dots along the road in our (yes) paper atlas. The narrow road twisted and turned. It passed thru green bottomlands of soybean and corn. It climbed up and down rolling hills — unexpectedly steep for our poor knowledge of eastern Missouri.

And then there was a blue sign by the side of the road.

It announced a scenic overlook. We slowed and turned into the forest to the right onto a two-rut road that climbed up the hillside. We muttered hopes that there would be a place at the top to turn around with the trailer, which of course there was. But there was in fact no scene to look out over. The forest had long since overgrown, and there was no hint of a valley, much less the mighty Mississippi. So without stopping, we drove around the loop, descended back thru the forest, turned back onto the road and continued on to Hannibal.

2.

Then we can to another blue sign with a right-pointing arrow, this one advertising a scenic overlook and a picnic table. So we slowed and again turned onto a two-rut road into the forest to the right.

We drove up the hill, this time confident of a turn-around. And indeed, at the top, there was a loop encircling a grassy knoll with a lone picnic table in the shade of two large Oaks. But again, there was no scene to see thru the overgrowth. 

Strike two. We continued on to Hannibal.

3. 

Yes. There was a third blue sign. I consulted with the Fair and Industrious Trudy, who said no, because by this time she had located Becky’s Ice Cream Shop and Emporium along the main drag in old town Hannibal. We continued on the road past the sign and descended into the Mississippi valley into Hannibal, Missouri, where there was a parking lot big enough for us and the trailer just off the main street.

Izzy and I found a bench in the shade across the street from the shop. Trudy walked over and got a cup of Huckleberry Chocolate ice cream. (This was Mark Twain’s Hannial, after all.)

Twenty minutes later, we were travelling northward again. But here’s the thing of it. Our scenic overlook and ice cream detours had put us sufficiently behind schedule that we really wanted to get going (never wanting to arrive after sunset to back in the trailer). And so although life on mainstream Hannibal a block away from the Mississippi River was thriving, we never did walk that one block over. And we never did go down to the river. And so while in Hannibal, we completely missed life on the Mississippi.

At Tyler State Park in North Texas on the first overnight on our northward trek.

…

Ants and Bee

I was sitting in a folding camp chair. On the ground in the dappled sun nearby, there was a flash of some sort. A fly or maybe a solitary bee was flopping in the dirt. Wait… that wasn’t it — the flopping bee was in a struggle with (I could barely see it from this distance) an ant. No… two ants. Make that three. Was the number of ants growing? Were others joining the melee?

To answer this pressing question, I continued to sit in that folding chair and watched a fourth ant wandering nearby the others. It seemed to be heading toward them, but then it passed the insectoidal struggle — missed it by that much. So no. Ants were not joining forces. But wait… the passer-by ant stopped, turned, and headed back. It missed the brawl again. Then stopped, turned back and forth in several directions, and headed directly into the fray.

So yes, the ant kingdom was indeed descending upon that hapless bee, whose flailing and flashing was by now slowing. The ants were getting the upper hand, and I couldn’t stay to watch the rest.

I stood up and walked away

Summer Breeze

Some time later, I somehow found myself in that folding camp chair again — viewing the land, enjoying the summer breeze. (This camp chair thing certain is a thing.)

A hummingbird was buzzing in the canopy of Oaks and alighted on a dead branch. It swiped its beak on its perch, first one way then the other. And then it came to attention. At guard, scanning the air in the distance. On guard for rivals.

Suddenly it swopped down from its perch, flying across the campsite to inspect a red bulb in the camp lights strung between two trees. It inspected the light closely, and then finding no nectar moved on to the next red bulbs down the line. Again finding no nectar and having exhausted the possibilities (as our string of lights is mercifully short), the hummingbird flew onto a nearby perch.

And after a few moments, it flew off into the forest.

#silentsunday