Monday, May 22, 2006

weekend encounter report: summary 

morelsspent the weekend poking around under ash trees and thrashing around in old abandoned apple orchards looking for morels. didn't find one single morel. maybe still too cold. lots of rain lately but cold. a little warm weather following all the rain might bring em up.

photo at left lifted from HERE

spent some time in an old graveyard atop a small knoll with an orchard just beyond. 15 to 20 stones thereabouts. noted the inscriptions while i was at it (the ones that hadn't been erased by time and weather). 1823, 1842, 1881 were some of the expiration dates. several old stone foundations are still visible in the immediate vicinity and date back to the early/mid 1800s. more than likely the names on those stones belonged to some of the same people who built those foundations.

didn't have to flee any chigger-bit toothless hippies neither. guess they stayed put at home huddled around the smudge pot or busy trying to complete that Joan Baez jigsaw puzzel they been meaning to git to one of these rainy days.

luckily i wasn't attacked by any crazy animals either. although at one point i thought i sensed something sizing me up from a hole in a sinister looking dead tree trunk. probably a flicker. noted a small ramshackle farm on the way home which had 20-30 goats grazing along a rise in a pasture. could be Taliban i thought; so i'll report the global satellite position on that place to the department of homeland security on monday. gotta take that camera along next time.



Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin? ~ Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian

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