And a view alongside the lower Boulders at the bottom of Whitman's Rough. I could stand and look for a long time at these massive stones formed in the warm waters of three hundred million years ago during the Pennsylvanian Epoch. The Boulders slide slowly downward within the fault of this small canyon, their gentle weight giving way to acidic rains, fern root, lichen, and the scratch of small claws in the night.
Here the limestone has given way to a trickle of water only a memory these days.
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| Gum bumelia (Sideroxylon lanuginosum ssp. Rigidum) |
This has always been one of my favorite trees. The early settlers of this area used the wood of mature gum bumelias for making the handles of axes and such because of its fine strength. The children of these pioneers chewed the sap that oozed from cuts in the bark. People have called it Black Haw, Woolybucket, Chittamwood, False Buckthorn, Gum Bully, Gum Elastic, Gum Woolybucket, Woolybucket Bumelia, Wooly Buckthorn, Ironwood, and Coma.
Drying one's naked body by the wind is one of those things I'll miss when I'm dead.
Last Sunday morning I hurried out to the Creek to get in a couple hours of concrete work, shoring up the flood-exposed northeast corner of the Hog Shed's slab.
I finished four bags of concrete mix and had worked myself to a sweaty lather of salt, dirt, and cement lime. Afterwards, I showered under the Oak with a cool hose full of Pond water. My body dried by wind there in the dappled shade.
Many, many things are good to me, but few that are much better than the feeling of drying skin up against a wind driven up a small canyon.
The turkey vultures and black buzzards were at it again. I could hear them croaking up above the boulders on Whitman's Rough while I watched others flying about in front of me, over the Stone Field. I know they benefit by thermal updrafts created within this Canyon, but I still don't know why they find the place so attractive. I've never seen them feeding. I've never seen even the smallest bit of carrion lying about. But here they are, day after day, circling away and spending hours upon hours perched in the trees and on the boulders where they leave behind a surface painted white by their calcareous feces.
Drying one's naked body by the wind is one of those things I'll miss when I'm dead.
Last Sunday morning I hurried out to the Creek to get in a couple hours of concrete work, shoring up the flood-exposed northeast corner of the Hog Shed's slab.
I finished four bags of concrete mix and had worked myself to a sweaty lather of salt, dirt, and cement lime. Afterwards, I showered under the Oak with a cool hose full of Pond water. My body dried by wind there in the dappled shade.
Many, many things are good to me, but few that are much better than the feeling of drying skin up against a wind driven up a small canyon.
The turkey vultures and black buzzards were at it again. I could hear them croaking up above the boulders on Whitman's Rough while I watched others flying about in front of me, over the Stone Field. I know they benefit by thermal updrafts created within this Canyon, but I still don't know why they find the place so attractive. I've never seen them feeding. I've never seen even the smallest bit of carrion lying about. But here they are, day after day, circling away and spending hours upon hours perched in the trees and on the boulders where they leave behind a surface painted white by their calcareous feces.
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