You’ll burn for this Scout Master.
He leveled his rifle, eye down the barrel, finding the Guide’s chest in the sight.
No Hendrick, we shall both of us burn.
His voice echoed through the darkening twilight woods. The light odor of kerosene being wafted into his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. The wind was blowing directly on him, as he had hoped it would, carrying the vapors of the fuel with it and away from the mountain man standing with rifle pointed at his chest.
Silence enveloped the forest. The trees groaned in the breeze. Somewhere an angry squirrel screamed out, eliciting further screams from his compatriots.
The last sound he heard was so much like that final smell. Crisp, definitive, and final. The hammer came down against the primer with a snap. The primer exploded into the shell igniting the propellant. The signal flare embedded itself into the kerosene soaked forest floor of pine needles and fallen leaves. The fire overwhelmed. He ran as fast as he could, straight towards that flare between the awestruck and bewildered hillbilly’s legs. The flare gun dropped to the forest floor and from the back of the waistband came the broken paddle shaft with the t-grip. Jagged and sharpened, pressed deep and hard into Hendricks belly. Twisting and pushing with the grip doing as much damage as possible.
Thick smoke from burning wet leaves, strong waves of evaporating kerosene, they soon hit the turf. A loud grunt from the impact. The Guide had expected more of a fight, had expected his plan to go completely awry. Instead Hendrick lay there beneath him, slowly wheezing, his eyes wandering wildly at the canopy and the rising smoke. Hands fallen from the guides back and splayed outward, an obscene forest floor angel. Fire beginning to singe his shirt and burn his finger tips, circling both of them and beginning to rage. The Guides face planted in the dirt and leaves, smelling of earth and life and death and decay. Smelling of Hendrick and his dying breaths, of his unwashed clothes, of his intestines. Pushing himself back up and gathering his knees beneath him while straddling the dying man. He looked skyward, tendrils of smoke reaching towards the browning canopy, leaves falling and riding the waves of heat from below.
The Guide hadn’t heard it.
Must have been the same time I fired the flare, or was it while I charged this shit heap of a dying man?
His chest was warm. His breathing labored. His hand fell away from his ribs wet and scarlet, pink bubbles forming from the red that spread from where his shirt was torn away. Light headed and confused he halfway stood, then lay down on the ground abruptly. In his pocket was the wristband she gave him for safe keeping. The Guides right pocket, where his hand weakly dug so that he could feel that rubbery little bracelet. Somehow he knew that by touching it, by knowing the feeling of those engraved little letters that spelled her name that she would know too. It was done, his promise fulfilled, no more little ones would lose anything to that monster. No more little ones would be scared into silence anymore. It ended here, in flame and smoke. He hoped, with his last breath and his last thought, that he would be hollering all ahead full and smiling at her again soon as she bounced up and down on the raft and cackled hysterical laughter. Soon, he thought, soon.
This is just a place where I share one story, mine. Sometimes I share a fleeting moment. Sometimes I share a fleeting life.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Passion and paddling.
This was originally intended for use in a magazine that was to be published by a friend. As is happens with the best laid plans life got in the way. I like what I had put together and waited until after I knew whether or not it would be published to publish it this way. Thanks for reading. - Beardedcanoeist
Countless are the passions which we pursue. Each as unique as the individual that pursues them. How do we choose those things that drive us? How do we define exactly what our goals are? These questions are some of the few that came to mind when the opportunity to participate in this experiment “Tattoo America”, came along.
Now before I dive head long into a diatribe about my passions, let me introduce myself. I was raised in Campbell County, VA. Although born north of the Mason-Dixon, I consider myself a Southerner (by choice and by heart). I have a few names, Matthew is the most common and least offensive. My parents, who are amazingly supportive of me through all my troubles, are still married. I, however, am no longer married. Which may be why at thirty years old I am taking chances that many so close to middle age would not.
Now please do not misunderstand, I do not for a minute believe I can completely describe myself in just a paragraph of impersonal details. There is more to me than where I was raised and how old I am. There is more to you, than ink on skin or what is in your camera bag. When discussing what would be my contribution with a fellow contributor I was at a loss.
“What should I write about? Tattoos or people who get them, or my own?”
“Write about whatever you want to”
Those words can cripple a writer just as fast as they can set one free. Sometimes we all need a little nudge in the right direction, or any damned direction for that matter. So here I sit, typing away on a laptop that is easily seven years old and on it’s last legs. Hoping my little Dell does not just freeze up and lose all my work so far. So I have decided to write about “passion” in this installment, of what I hope becomes a series. I feel you can learn more about a person through what they are passionate about then any questionnaire.
What are my passions? Simple question, just four words. The answer is less so. The first thing that comes to my mind is a single word: river. I cannot honestly recall the first time I encountered a river, nor can I recount for you the first trip I made down one. I know it was the James, the very same that flows right through Downtown Lynchburg and eventually Richmond. My chubby butt planted firmly in a truck tire tube, soaking up the sun and bobbing gently down the small rapids and riffles. It was tremendous fun. All except the rash you would get on your arms from paddling and rubbing wet skin against black rubber. That was not fun. I would leave the river for many years. High school sports kept me busy all Summer as well as Spring. Post graduation the little bit of college education I earned and working took the rest of my time. I finally was reunited when I took up fishing. I no longer fish, lets just leave that subject for another time.
My passion for the river really ignited the first time I paddled a canoe solo. It was not a good boat, inexpensive and unresponsive. Ridiculously heavy and far too wide. I went through another boat of ill conceived purpose before I stumbled across what I really wanted. My first whitewater canoe is nearly as old as I am. Built in 1986 and showing the physical signs of a boat that has been enjoyed and abused (these are the same thing in the whitewater community). I could spend days regaling details and specifications and notable achievements obtained in this hull design, but I digress. My passion is not in the details.
Whitewater paddling is fun. If it is not fun, then you are doing it wrong. After my best days on the river I drive home with a huge shit eating grin on my face and sore shoulders and hands. Recently I had one of these days. Instead of simply paddling down my favorite section of river one time, as was planned, I went back for seconds. Paddling into a stiff headwind the first time, and a much more developed headwind the second lap. Carving hard u turns into small eddies and delicately side surfing below a ledge. Zig zagging back and forth across the whole width of the river to pick and choose which features I would play in. The sun was warm and pleasant and the cold water felt absolutely refreshing. Halfway down on my first lap I removed my paddling shirt and let the warmth settle into my bones around my pfd. Starting my second lap I could feel the sunburn starting to settle in. I am an avid sunscreen user, but this day was just too perfect. A day worth the risk. A time not worth spoiling with concern, self doubt or other worries. I could look down and see the rocky river bed passing beneath me. Look skyward and see countless birds playing in the updraft just as I played down in the stream.
During dark times in my life, I would find myself sitting alone in my truck, overlooking some familiar section of stream. Quietly watching the hours flow like the water. The sun setting and the reflection of it on the waters rippled and broken surface dancing slower and lower. Our lives are like rivers. There are rough waters and flat pools of tranquility and solace. Steep drops that are over quickly, in the blink of an eye. Long running wave trains that seem to go on forever. Wherever I find myself on the river that is my life, I take solace in the fact that just ahead and around that bend is another river feature. Maybe that feature is an exciting rapid or perhaps flat-water with a fierce headwind, either way I know I how to get past it. Words of wisdom from an extremely talented paddler I admire, “Don’t stop paddling.” I may not paddle the steepest canyons, the biggest rivers or the tightest creeks. However, I do paddle with passion and for me, for right now, that is just fine.
Countless are the passions which we pursue. Each as unique as the individual that pursues them. How do we choose those things that drive us? How do we define exactly what our goals are? These questions are some of the few that came to mind when the opportunity to participate in this experiment “Tattoo America”, came along.
Now before I dive head long into a diatribe about my passions, let me introduce myself. I was raised in Campbell County, VA. Although born north of the Mason-Dixon, I consider myself a Southerner (by choice and by heart). I have a few names, Matthew is the most common and least offensive. My parents, who are amazingly supportive of me through all my troubles, are still married. I, however, am no longer married. Which may be why at thirty years old I am taking chances that many so close to middle age would not.
Now please do not misunderstand, I do not for a minute believe I can completely describe myself in just a paragraph of impersonal details. There is more to me than where I was raised and how old I am. There is more to you, than ink on skin or what is in your camera bag. When discussing what would be my contribution with a fellow contributor I was at a loss.
“What should I write about? Tattoos or people who get them, or my own?”
“Write about whatever you want to”
Those words can cripple a writer just as fast as they can set one free. Sometimes we all need a little nudge in the right direction, or any damned direction for that matter. So here I sit, typing away on a laptop that is easily seven years old and on it’s last legs. Hoping my little Dell does not just freeze up and lose all my work so far. So I have decided to write about “passion” in this installment, of what I hope becomes a series. I feel you can learn more about a person through what they are passionate about then any questionnaire.
What are my passions? Simple question, just four words. The answer is less so. The first thing that comes to my mind is a single word: river. I cannot honestly recall the first time I encountered a river, nor can I recount for you the first trip I made down one. I know it was the James, the very same that flows right through Downtown Lynchburg and eventually Richmond. My chubby butt planted firmly in a truck tire tube, soaking up the sun and bobbing gently down the small rapids and riffles. It was tremendous fun. All except the rash you would get on your arms from paddling and rubbing wet skin against black rubber. That was not fun. I would leave the river for many years. High school sports kept me busy all Summer as well as Spring. Post graduation the little bit of college education I earned and working took the rest of my time. I finally was reunited when I took up fishing. I no longer fish, lets just leave that subject for another time.
My passion for the river really ignited the first time I paddled a canoe solo. It was not a good boat, inexpensive and unresponsive. Ridiculously heavy and far too wide. I went through another boat of ill conceived purpose before I stumbled across what I really wanted. My first whitewater canoe is nearly as old as I am. Built in 1986 and showing the physical signs of a boat that has been enjoyed and abused (these are the same thing in the whitewater community). I could spend days regaling details and specifications and notable achievements obtained in this hull design, but I digress. My passion is not in the details.
Whitewater paddling is fun. If it is not fun, then you are doing it wrong. After my best days on the river I drive home with a huge shit eating grin on my face and sore shoulders and hands. Recently I had one of these days. Instead of simply paddling down my favorite section of river one time, as was planned, I went back for seconds. Paddling into a stiff headwind the first time, and a much more developed headwind the second lap. Carving hard u turns into small eddies and delicately side surfing below a ledge. Zig zagging back and forth across the whole width of the river to pick and choose which features I would play in. The sun was warm and pleasant and the cold water felt absolutely refreshing. Halfway down on my first lap I removed my paddling shirt and let the warmth settle into my bones around my pfd. Starting my second lap I could feel the sunburn starting to settle in. I am an avid sunscreen user, but this day was just too perfect. A day worth the risk. A time not worth spoiling with concern, self doubt or other worries. I could look down and see the rocky river bed passing beneath me. Look skyward and see countless birds playing in the updraft just as I played down in the stream.
During dark times in my life, I would find myself sitting alone in my truck, overlooking some familiar section of stream. Quietly watching the hours flow like the water. The sun setting and the reflection of it on the waters rippled and broken surface dancing slower and lower. Our lives are like rivers. There are rough waters and flat pools of tranquility and solace. Steep drops that are over quickly, in the blink of an eye. Long running wave trains that seem to go on forever. Wherever I find myself on the river that is my life, I take solace in the fact that just ahead and around that bend is another river feature. Maybe that feature is an exciting rapid or perhaps flat-water with a fierce headwind, either way I know I how to get past it. Words of wisdom from an extremely talented paddler I admire, “Don’t stop paddling.” I may not paddle the steepest canyons, the biggest rivers or the tightest creeks. However, I do paddle with passion and for me, for right now, that is just fine.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Thoughts on Independence
He sits in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
Reasonably Priced he says.
Small So I Don’t Waste Money On Accoutrements he says.
He sits in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I Don’t Need Much he says.
Things Are Not Important To Me he says.
He sits in a Small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
Creaking Noises From Upstairs Are Fine he says.
Loud Rude Voices Outside The Locked Door Are OK he says.
He sits in a small, but Comfortable one bedroom apartment.
No One Says Hello he says.
He Sits in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
No One Else Is Here he says.
He sits Alone, in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
Reasonably Priced he says.
Small So I Don’t Waste Money On Accoutrements he says.
He sits in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I Don’t Need Much he says.
Things Are Not Important To Me he says.
He sits in a Small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
Creaking Noises From Upstairs Are Fine he says.
Loud Rude Voices Outside The Locked Door Are OK he says.
He sits in a small, but Comfortable one bedroom apartment.
No One Says Hello he says.
He Sits in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
No One Else Is Here he says.
He sits Alone, in a small, but comfortable one bedroom apartment.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
River Log Entry 2
Sunday February 23
2:00 pm
Balcony Falls section of the James River
(12 ft on the Holcomb Rock gauge)
Nervous. Having paddled this section on two previous occasions at a slightly higher level (albeit in warm weather/water) I had never seen in my Probe 12. I learned a lot that day. Firstly, my bulkhead, while definitely having the look of an amateur job performed wonderfully. Secondly, the Probe 12 is not nearly as dry as the Mad River ME.
The air was warm, water cold. There was no confluence rapid. The Maury dumped into the James with little more than a riffle and a scarce eddy line. The wave trains were what I expected, longer and deeper than usual. I climbed and dove, dove and climbed, small splashes of water making the bottom of the boat a cold place for my knees and toes. My farmer john wetsuit works. Soon my body heat is trapped enough and the cold water is a non factor.
It isn't until just above Balcony that I am truly concerned for my safety. Here the ledges that are usually simple drops and eddies, ideal for attainment and playing have disappeared under continuous and collapsing wave trains and holes that could easily hold onto my boat. I navigate gingerly, digging hard to keep my line.
As I ride up a wave that peaks into a triangle and start to fall off the side of it, I reach forward and dig my paddle into the raging torrent, rotate my upper body back and my hips the opposite way. I feel my thighs digging into the bulkhead foam, the canoe slowly rotates its bow back into line at the bottom of the trough and I punch through the backside of a smaller wave. Water in the hull. Lots of it. Now Balcony gently calls. No roar like lower levels. Just a quite hiss. The right side of the rapid pours over into the center. I chose a line just left of center. As I drop off the ledge and into the first wave I feel the water in the boat rolling forward, plunging my bow into the wall of water. I lean back and lift my knees trying to keep from submarining into the great brown bottom. As I crest the wave and the bow of my boat sheds the water a new strategy shows it self.
I let the boat take a slightly right track into the bottom of the trough. I lean back and to my offside, rolling the side of the boat into the wall of water, It works and my bow slides up the wall instead of just piercing the wet curtain. Once my hips hit the bottom I dig my paddle forward and out and rotate my hips and the boat back into line. I repeat this approach until the waves of Balcony calm enough for me to ferry to river left. I need to empty this ballast. I wobble back and forth as the water in my boat acts a pendulum. I spin into a big eddy behind one of the few exposed rocks. Facing upstream now, I can see what I've just navigated. A smile sneaks onto my face. I take solace in the eddy and catch my breath. Then dig and ferry facing upstream to the river left shore.
Standing up is not easy. My legs are sore and cramped, my toes and ankles numb. I take my time, and as I finally look down into my canoe another smile creeps over my face. Water up to my thighs. Lots of water. I'm not smiling that I took on this much, but that I was able to handle what I had, without it handling me.
Boat emptied and back on the water. I ferry back out off the river left bank about 30 yards. I'll be avoiding the holes and ledges that dominate the trip on river right towards Jump Rock. River left proves fun and rewarding and relaxing. Smaller waves in higher frequency, a few times I paddle nothing but air as my boat rides the tops of two waves.
One more quick stop to stretch before the flat water paddle out, dump the boat of residual river and I'm done.
Another Gorgeous day on the James.
2:00 pm
Balcony Falls section of the James River
(12 ft on the Holcomb Rock gauge)
Nervous. Having paddled this section on two previous occasions at a slightly higher level (albeit in warm weather/water) I had never seen in my Probe 12. I learned a lot that day. Firstly, my bulkhead, while definitely having the look of an amateur job performed wonderfully. Secondly, the Probe 12 is not nearly as dry as the Mad River ME.
The air was warm, water cold. There was no confluence rapid. The Maury dumped into the James with little more than a riffle and a scarce eddy line. The wave trains were what I expected, longer and deeper than usual. I climbed and dove, dove and climbed, small splashes of water making the bottom of the boat a cold place for my knees and toes. My farmer john wetsuit works. Soon my body heat is trapped enough and the cold water is a non factor.
It isn't until just above Balcony that I am truly concerned for my safety. Here the ledges that are usually simple drops and eddies, ideal for attainment and playing have disappeared under continuous and collapsing wave trains and holes that could easily hold onto my boat. I navigate gingerly, digging hard to keep my line.
As I ride up a wave that peaks into a triangle and start to fall off the side of it, I reach forward and dig my paddle into the raging torrent, rotate my upper body back and my hips the opposite way. I feel my thighs digging into the bulkhead foam, the canoe slowly rotates its bow back into line at the bottom of the trough and I punch through the backside of a smaller wave. Water in the hull. Lots of it. Now Balcony gently calls. No roar like lower levels. Just a quite hiss. The right side of the rapid pours over into the center. I chose a line just left of center. As I drop off the ledge and into the first wave I feel the water in the boat rolling forward, plunging my bow into the wall of water. I lean back and lift my knees trying to keep from submarining into the great brown bottom. As I crest the wave and the bow of my boat sheds the water a new strategy shows it self.
I let the boat take a slightly right track into the bottom of the trough. I lean back and to my offside, rolling the side of the boat into the wall of water, It works and my bow slides up the wall instead of just piercing the wet curtain. Once my hips hit the bottom I dig my paddle forward and out and rotate my hips and the boat back into line. I repeat this approach until the waves of Balcony calm enough for me to ferry to river left. I need to empty this ballast. I wobble back and forth as the water in my boat acts a pendulum. I spin into a big eddy behind one of the few exposed rocks. Facing upstream now, I can see what I've just navigated. A smile sneaks onto my face. I take solace in the eddy and catch my breath. Then dig and ferry facing upstream to the river left shore.
Standing up is not easy. My legs are sore and cramped, my toes and ankles numb. I take my time, and as I finally look down into my canoe another smile creeps over my face. Water up to my thighs. Lots of water. I'm not smiling that I took on this much, but that I was able to handle what I had, without it handling me.
Boat emptied and back on the water. I ferry back out off the river left bank about 30 yards. I'll be avoiding the holes and ledges that dominate the trip on river right towards Jump Rock. River left proves fun and rewarding and relaxing. Smaller waves in higher frequency, a few times I paddle nothing but air as my boat rides the tops of two waves.
One more quick stop to stretch before the flat water paddle out, dump the boat of residual river and I'm done.
Another Gorgeous day on the James.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Blvd.
Sitting patiently and enjoying the hot coffee. Extremely hot in it's little cup. A small amount of sugar to sweeten and sipping slurping noises. The sun hides behind trees, no clouds in the azure sky. The metal of the chair was hot when first sitting down, a stark contrast to the cool early spring air. It is one of those days that the weather simply demands one to wear no jacket with short sleeves even though it is still chilled. The direct sunlight rescues the skin from goosebumps and penetrates directly to the soul. It hadn't been a particularly long winter but it was a punishing one. Weathering the elements, weathering the heart, weathering the pain.
Rustling over head, the sound of envelopes being slid across a desk. The green leaves swaying back and forth in the icy breeze. Shadows dance around on the table, the chair, across the coffee cup. The warm sunlight moves around and draws radiant random figures in heat across the skin. The shadows from the leaves offering stark contrast and cooling darkness. Passerby deep in thought, deep in conversation, but most, unfortunately, lost in electronic fray. Sucked into the ear buds and controlled by weakness of signal or endurance of battery or limit of volume. Passerby simply passing it by.
Steam rises off the coffee, like a ghost rising from a grave, translucent and beautiful and temporary and majestic. Time passes slowly when each second is inspected. Sip after scalding sip stranger after passing stranger. The smell of spring competes with the coffee. Damp green leaves, wet fertile soil and rain. A car glides past, bouncing over the cobblestone, engine softly humming and a shrill whine from the transmission. The windows are opened, softly rolling outward are the muted mumbles of the radio. A song that is familiar, ears perk up. Footsteps. Clunking boot heels. The sound of familiar comfortable shoes.
She smokes a cigarette as she approaches. Inhaling deeply and exhaling through her nose. Smoke pillowing downward and quickly disappearing. Dark curly hair bouncing slightly in rhythm to the cadence of the boot steps. The corners of her mouth pull up, a few teeth show through her smile as Her eyes connect with His. Her dress reveals nothing and everything. Neckline above the sternum. Short sleeves puffy and just long enough to cover her shoulder but leave her bicep bare. Deep plaid that seems endless, line after line of a variety of blue and purple and brown and black. Just above her knees the hemline stops. Ruffles swishing and swaying with each step.
Chattering as the chair is slid back for her. Chattering as she slides it under the table and under her. Clinking as another stifling hot cup of coffee is brought. No sugar to sweeten, the bitterness interests her, the intimate discovery of taste. A voyage of nerve endings and chemical reactions. Her cigarette is spent and squashed into the ashtray. Another is produced and as she places the tobacco to her lips, he produces a lighter. He hesitates, his eyes asking when, she glances back with twinkling clear eyes, a smile flashes and she leans over the table. A hiss and a snap, flame kisses the tip of the cigarette and as she gently inhales, engulfs it. She leans back and with her right hand's middle finger and ring finer, in that way unique to her, she removes the cigarette from her mouth and exhales the white plume of smoke. Right elbow tucked in, hand up by her shoulder, palm to the sky. The newly lit cigarette dangles.
How is your day going?
Words laced with smoke drift towards him.
Rustling over head, the sound of envelopes being slid across a desk. The green leaves swaying back and forth in the icy breeze. Shadows dance around on the table, the chair, across the coffee cup. The warm sunlight moves around and draws radiant random figures in heat across the skin. The shadows from the leaves offering stark contrast and cooling darkness. Passerby deep in thought, deep in conversation, but most, unfortunately, lost in electronic fray. Sucked into the ear buds and controlled by weakness of signal or endurance of battery or limit of volume. Passerby simply passing it by.
Steam rises off the coffee, like a ghost rising from a grave, translucent and beautiful and temporary and majestic. Time passes slowly when each second is inspected. Sip after scalding sip stranger after passing stranger. The smell of spring competes with the coffee. Damp green leaves, wet fertile soil and rain. A car glides past, bouncing over the cobblestone, engine softly humming and a shrill whine from the transmission. The windows are opened, softly rolling outward are the muted mumbles of the radio. A song that is familiar, ears perk up. Footsteps. Clunking boot heels. The sound of familiar comfortable shoes.
She smokes a cigarette as she approaches. Inhaling deeply and exhaling through her nose. Smoke pillowing downward and quickly disappearing. Dark curly hair bouncing slightly in rhythm to the cadence of the boot steps. The corners of her mouth pull up, a few teeth show through her smile as Her eyes connect with His. Her dress reveals nothing and everything. Neckline above the sternum. Short sleeves puffy and just long enough to cover her shoulder but leave her bicep bare. Deep plaid that seems endless, line after line of a variety of blue and purple and brown and black. Just above her knees the hemline stops. Ruffles swishing and swaying with each step.
Chattering as the chair is slid back for her. Chattering as she slides it under the table and under her. Clinking as another stifling hot cup of coffee is brought. No sugar to sweeten, the bitterness interests her, the intimate discovery of taste. A voyage of nerve endings and chemical reactions. Her cigarette is spent and squashed into the ashtray. Another is produced and as she places the tobacco to her lips, he produces a lighter. He hesitates, his eyes asking when, she glances back with twinkling clear eyes, a smile flashes and she leans over the table. A hiss and a snap, flame kisses the tip of the cigarette and as she gently inhales, engulfs it. She leans back and with her right hand's middle finger and ring finer, in that way unique to her, she removes the cigarette from her mouth and exhales the white plume of smoke. Right elbow tucked in, hand up by her shoulder, palm to the sky. The newly lit cigarette dangles.
How is your day going?
Words laced with smoke drift towards him.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
River Log Entry 1
New Years Day float in Franklin County with the Creek Freaks.
Shirley paddled the Mad River ME, I was in the Mohawk Probe 12.
Water on the Blackwater River was crystal clear, no wind and gorgeous skies.
Great crowd of people to spend a pretty day with. Amazing way to start the New Year and I hope it continues.
I still find so much solace and peacefulness on the water, even when in a big group of people I feel alone and independent. A paddle in my hand and boat beneath me and I am centered and relaxed and clear minded. I am thankful every day to have such a wonderful retreat from the real world available to me.
Shirley paddled the Mad River ME, I was in the Mohawk Probe 12.
Water on the Blackwater River was crystal clear, no wind and gorgeous skies.
Great crowd of people to spend a pretty day with. Amazing way to start the New Year and I hope it continues.
I still find so much solace and peacefulness on the water, even when in a big group of people I feel alone and independent. A paddle in my hand and boat beneath me and I am centered and relaxed and clear minded. I am thankful every day to have such a wonderful retreat from the real world available to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)