Cloud Forest/ Coffee House (Costa Rica #4)

[For this fourth and final post directly relating to a recent trip to Costa Rica, I’m departing from a previous chronological narrative and incorporating a thematic approach including cloud-forest hikes and patio meditations. I hope that you’ve enjoyed the tour….]

to Hermida’s…

Our cabin at Hermida’s Coffee House and farm near the Santa Elena and Monteverde cloud forests of north-central Costa Rica offered an exciting springboard into the wild. Our first mountain road ascent to the village of Santa Elena gave our rented SUV a flat tire (not surprising since I’d noted that the tires had already seen many country miles as we began the journey). My wife and I taught our daughter how to safely change a tire on a sketchy highland road, while my attention was often distracted wondrously by noisy flocks of parakeets, parrots and chachalacas.

to the Children’s Eternal Rainforest…

While enjoying an afternoon beer and pretzel break at a brewery in Santa Elena, we reflected on Costa Rica’s modest infrastructure with regard to tourism. Santa Elena and adjacent Monteverde are among the most visited sites in Costa Rica and yet the bustling villages seem quaint, without the tinhorn chaos and the neon glitter of so many Western tourist traps. It’s as if the towns have worked to keep their authenticity and roots while saying to the visitor, yeah, our roads might be rough and our sodas (small town eateries) unimposing, but wait till you see what our woods contain…

the insect-eater, Dutchman’s Pipe…
a 3-inch hummer…
ants work hard to attain this size!

Our nights at the rustic Coffee House provided relaxation after hours of hiking on the higher ground of the Cordilleran cloud forest. A Mottled Owl hooted just beyond our porchlight in the rain; I thought about the insectivorous blooms of Dutchman’s Pipe, ostensibly the country’s largest flower, trapping bugs outside of our doorway. The malodorous plant will trap an insect one day but release it on the following day with pollen for another flower. I scribbled notes about our forest hikes, and wondered how those hikes would compare to investigations in days to come: to the national parks at Juan Castro Blanco and Tapanti, to Guayabo National Monument, to the archaeological sites and ancient churches, and to our stays at Grecia and Orosi…

Arenal Volcano, viewed from Blanco Nat’l Park, about 25 miles distant…
ribbon falls, Juan Castro Blanco Nat’l Park…

We chose to hike the Santa Elena cloud forest rather than the popular Monteverde site for the simple reason that it would be less crowded. Indeed, the 8.4-kilometer hike was like being gifted our own private jungle to explore. Again, I looked to birds as my gateway to the lush green forest, to the overhead bromeliads and orchids on the boughs. A Black Guan, a life bird for me, perched beside the trail, relaxed and apparently unafraid, its blue beak and red eyes as memorable to observers as the post-hike ice-cream savored in a Monteverde shop. That afternoon we also visited a forest gulley where a large Ficus tree had fallen and bridged the banks of a stream, its roots reaching downward from the trunk like tentacles anchored to the flow.

Black Guan…
ruins from oldest CR church, 16th century A.D.
Franklins on the fallen Ficus…

The coming days would bring numerous stops and wonderful diversions, but I want to end my Costa Rican narrative (for now) at Santa Elena/Monteverde. This cloud-forest country shares an interesting parallel with the Osa Peninsula and its wondrous Corcovado National Park in that it also contains about 2.5% of the world’s biodiversity, a fact I’m still trying to wrap my scattered brain around.

El Poeta making sense of it…

One sun-drenched morning in Monteverde we enjoyed our locally-produced coffee while observing Keel-billed Toucans, Silver-throated Tanagers, and Collared Redstarts. I listened to the tolling EENK! notes of an unseen Three-wattled Bellbird, a unique canopy dweller and one of the loudest birds in all creation. And then there was The Hummingbird Gallery– on the wooded edge of town…

Blue-gray Tanager…
Violet-ear Hummingbird…

In most of the wild or rural locations in Costa Rica I found that if you sit or stand patiently in one place and keep your senses on alert, the birds or other wildlife will appear as if by magic from the lush surroundings. On the patio of a small business like The Hummingbird Gallery, however, you can walk right into a hive of ongoing activity. Bananaquits and (especially) hummingbirds were zooming around the hanging feeders and almost begging for observation. These bejeweled avian creatures, hovering or flying in any direction (almost like the sharpest of human minds) had names like hermit, mountain-gem, and emerald– a sampling of the 50 hummingbird species to be found in Costa Rica, the small country with a giant heart.

female Purple-throated Mountain-gem, w/ Bananaquit & bee…
greetings from Rio Orosi!
a mountain-gem…

My favorite of the hummers might have been the Violet Sabrewing, a large 6-inch creature with a dazzling violet hue and a white-tipped tail. All of the birds were beautiful in their own way and, in this case, almost as remarkable to a first-time visitor as the iconic Resplendent Quetzals that had opened our eyes at a first stop in the mountains of Costa Rica.

Green Violet-ears…
Brilliants…
Violet Sabrewing…
waterfall @ Blanco National Park…
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Under the Volcano (Costa Rica #3)

It was a long tedious drive north from Corcovado and the Osa Peninsula to Guanacaste Province and volcano country. We broke from the Pacific palm plantations and an endless line of fruit and vegetable vendors at the “Crocodile Bridge,” walking out over the Rio Tarcoles and observing some 20 crocodiles resting on a little island. Sunlight gleamed from an opened mouth with prominent teeth, inspiring the question: If a human approached that island on foot, would those reptiles flee or fight each other for a first bite of human flesh? I wasn’t certain, but was glad I didn’t have to answer the question empirically.

Montezuma Oropendolas, a large tropical bird that builds a pendant nest in colonies, seemed to welcome our approach to Rinconzita, a wonderful mountainside lodge with restaurant. Melodious Blackbirds whistled nearby, and striking White-throated Magpie Jays called raucously. We would soon hike the Rincon de la Viega National Park, a land of rainforest and volcanic fumeroles (reminiscent of Yellowstone but with various monkeys cavorting nearby).

M. Oropendola
nests at branch ends prevent monkey predation…

Although the trail to the summit of Rincon Volcano had been closed since the eruptions of 2012, we enjoyed a three-kilometer circuit trail that by-passed yucca plants and massive strangler figs. I think our favorite forest sound was issued by a Nightingale Wren, a typically hidden songbird that my field guide referenced with “… one should learn to enjoy (and settle for) the extraordinary vocalization that unhurriedly wanders up and down the scale, not quite staying in key.” It truly was exquisite, and quite a contrast with the booming of neighborhood Howler Monkeys.

lodging patio…
Blue Morpho…
volcanic mist…

Our next two-day stop was near Volcan Tenario National Park. We had a cabin reserved in the deep San Miguel Valley close by, and to reach it we descended from a high ridge on the roughest, most cratered, gravel road imaginable. Alyssa dropped us admirably down the five-kilometer “goat path” (as described by our Lonely Planet guidebook to Costa Rica) but, let me say, I’m glad we survived that nightmarish, white-knuckled drive both into the canyon and back.

Laughing Falcon (dared not laugh at our descent)…
Inca Dove…

Once situated at our cabin, life was good. There was an interesting mix of rainforest and pastoral land around us. Alan, a young farmer who owned the cabin we’d be staying in, described the differences in toucan species and confirmed my earlier sighting of a Laughing Falcon nearby. His sister was employed at a neighborhood coffee and cocoa farm and would give us a tour of the organic site. Alan’s wife brought us breakfast each morning from the main house and ensured that our rural stay would be pleasant, even in the rain.

Yellow-throated Toucan… my first of several…
got my eyes on you…

And rain fell steadily as we started our 4.4-mile hike at Tenario. I glimpsed my first Collared Aricari (a small toucan) in the sodden canopy of the cloud forest as we climbed toward a renowned blue waterfall. Beyond the falls, a “blue lagoon” collected two converging streams, one of them muddy from the rains, the other almost azure-colored from volcanic elements in the soil. The two streams mixed as one, thus forming the beautiful Rio Celeste.

convergence…
Rio Celeste…

Later, at our cabin site again, I walked the evening farm lanes and identified birds– from Southern Lapwings to Common Paraques– many of them life birds for me, feathered spirits nice to contemplate as the sun went down (yes it did appear eventually) like a cold beer in the heat.

Keel-billed Toucan (try not to think of sugary breakfasts)…

Several days later we traveled toward the classic cone of Arenal Volcano and surrounding national park. We took lodging in the small village of El Castillo, created as a relocation zone following a big eruption in 1968. We had excellent views of the imposing mountain and its smoke still rising from eruptions in 2010. The view was especially satisfying from a nearby patio that offered food and drinks. Our last meal at that hillside biker-bar-cum restaurant (owned by friendly U.S. expats) featured a terrific thunder-and-lightning storm that lit the slopes of Arenal.

Arenal Volcano…
Green Honeycreeper (a tanager)…
Arenal Nat’l Park…

We would walk through Arenal Observatory and Resort (a former Smithsonian research station) and find yet another excellent opportunity for rainforest observations, as was the follow-up hike in Arenal National Park. It seemed as though new plants and animals paraded in from all directions. From coatis to curossows, from Speckled Tanagers to beautiful Rainbow Eucalyptus stands, the diversity of life was almost overwhelming. While replaying these images in my head, I could still be on a jungle path somewhere, listening to the sawing sounds of hidden insects, still wrapped in the buttresses of giant Kapok trees.

Alyssa & the Kapok tree…
Coatimundi…
takin’ it easy, 3-toed sloth…
Rainbow Eucalyptus…
coati kidz…
Smokin’….

[Stay tuned forCloud Forest/Coffee House,my final post from Costa Rica… Thank you, all.]

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Corcovado (Costa Rica #2)

National Geographic once referred to Costa Rica’s first established national park as “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.” From our previous station at Los Quetzales, we were headed down the Cordillera mountain range toward the Osa Peninsula in southwestern Costa Rica. Since 1975, the 164 square miles of Corcovado National Park has been considered a crown jewel of the country’s extensive system of parks and biological reserves, and we had been looking forward to the big adventure now for months.

ancient stone spheres at an archaeological site en route…

We knew that the journey to this remote Pacific wonderland would be a challenge for the average traveler but rewarding if undertaken safely. Corcovado’s 13 major ecosystems beckoned with possibilities, encompassing the last virginal old-growth forest to be found along Central America’s Pacific coast. Corcovado contains 2.5% of the world’s biodiversity, astonishingly enough. It contains more than 500 species of trees, for example, and (as I would learn) about 5% of all the planet’s animal species.

Leafcutter Ants at work…
Cherrie’s Tanager

With visions of monkeys, jaguars, and scarlet macaws dancing in my head, we secured our vehicle in the village of Sierpe, busy with arriving hikers and with giant crocodiles lounging near its central restaurant. An hour boat ride down the Rio Sierpe took us quickly through the vast Terrab-Sierpe National Wetlands, a mangrove wilderness where apprentice shamans once began incredible journeys in search of a special fungus to be used in hallucinogenic tea for guidance through seven days of fasting and drinking. Boating past the mangroves was no way to gain a shaman’s knowledge of self and place, but a sense of magic could be felt through this river journey, almost as if “being watched by lives unseen.”

my god, that grasshopper was what, 4 inches, 5-inches long?
Bare-throated Tiger Heron

Our small boat blasted into the Pacific and soon encountered a warm torrential rain that had us hunkering behind our ponchos. This was a wild West I had never experienced before. We arrived at Bahia Drake, a wet landing in the broken surf and climbed the frontier village for our reserved rooms in a quiet “eco-lodge.” Next morning, after an early breakfast courtesy of our hosts, we assembled on the beach and met our guide for Corcovado, a young Costa Rican named Daevid, who would prove to be the best birder I have ever met, an excellent, enthusiastic teacher of the Costa Rican wilds.

Bahia Drake, w/ high point of Costa Rica above the cloud layer, from which one might see both Atlantic & Pacific oceans…
main drag, Bahia Drake village…
our guide, Daevid, at center…

Because Corcovado is secured against unwarranted human impact on its pristine territory and because of the potential danger to inexperienced hikers on its system of trails, entry to the park (other than for research purposes) requires the accompaniment of a certified guide. Approaching the park on our ocean ride, we paused for a voyeuristic study (yes) of two Olive Ridley Turtles mating on the calming surface, then continued toward the shore for yet another wet landing in the surf.

Olive Ridley Turtles, duty for the future…
Palm Tanager & Golden-naped Woodpecker…

To minimize human impact on the national park, only about 150 visitors are allowed each day, so we felt lucky to merge with the monkeys (all four species), Fig and Fica trees, coatis, anteaters, sloths, tapirs, wild cats, butterflies, leaf cutter ants, and birds (more than 400 species, including the rare Harpy Eagle) that morning. You can bet that our senses were alert, our bodies easing through the awe-struck hours.

Anteater…
Tree Boa…

Back in Bahia Drake, we enjoyed a dinner with our park guide, Daevid, and the five other travelers who had been with us throughout the morning and afternoon. I thanked Daevid for sharing his expertise on Corcovado’s natural history. It began to rain as he mounted his motorcycle for a long ride home, and his last words of advice to me were “Never stop birding!” As if I ever doubted.

not everyone makes it out in one piece…
Great Curossow…
the uncommon Squirrel Monkey…
checking out those humans…
Adios, says Spider Monkey… heading to volcano country next….
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Los Quetzales (Costa Rica #1)

To its everlasting credit, the small nation of Costa Rica constitutionally abolished a standing military force in 1948 and pursued the goals of better education, healthcare and democracy. Progressive social and environmental programs are a hallmark of the current day, inviting global visitors of every stripe including yours truly. I was pleased to have the summer guidance of my daughter, who engineered many of the details through our countrywide journey, along with my wife who offered consolation as our rental vehicle bounced along some perilous mountain roads and who hiked the jungle and the cloud-forest trails with confidence.

our first cabin…

Los Quetzales National Park was located close to our first major stop in Costa Rica, some 80 kilometers south of San Jose, the country’s capital and largest city. Los Quetzales was the first of nine or 10 national parks we visited (the country, slightly larger than the state of West Virginia, has about 30 wilderness parks, many of them established after the 1990s when the process of deforestation in this Central American nation was reversed).

female Resplendent Quetzal
Emerald Toucanet…

The highlands of Los Quetzales, drained by the Rio Savagre (a fascinating mountain stream where I wound up catching wild rainbow trout on a fly) are a special place for birdwatching, and yes– I had studied that potential for months in advance. The iconic and nearly endangered Resplendent Quetzal draws binoculared tourists from around the world, and I was lucky to view and photograph several of these beautiful creatures. The diversity of the park’s flora and fauna is astounding. Summer starts the rainy season in Costa Rica, and it rained a lot through our 17 afternoons and evenings in the land, but the weather was primarily cool and comfortable, and the tourist crowds were mostly absent.

Rio Savagre…
mountain view from cabin site…
I eventually identified 15 of CR’s 50 hummer species…

Watching the magnificent bird life really kicked into gear at our cabin near Los Quetzales and progressed through our following stops as we moved toward Panama and then back north again. I had told myself that identifying 50 life birds in Costa Rica would have made my preparations very worthwhile. I eventually saw and/or heard 145 species in my visit to CR, of which 126 were “life birds,” or first-timers. Pretty darn good, for an amateur.

on the trail at Los Quetzales…
breakfasting at Merriam’s…
Acorn Woodpecker…
Sooty Robin…
Rufous-collared Sparrow, familiar singer…
female Resplendent…
toucanetting…

Up soon, Pacific boat ride to the Osa Peninsula and the Corcovado wilderness.

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Slow Sea Rising

Casting for tarpon, paddling bioluminescent bays, adhering to a small boat in a storm-tossed sea, philosophizing in quaint tavernas, and getting lost on remote island trails are just a few of the experiences examined in my latest book– the fruit of an indie project that I’m proud to offer interested readers.

Slow Sea Rising is an 80-page lyrical blend resulting from a lifelong investigation of our far-flung capes and islands. From imaginative origins of life in the rising brine to personal jaunts through Caribbean, Mediterranean and oceanic isles, this perfect-bound paperback constitutes more than a collection of connected poems. A strong, consistent volume, SSR reflects an ecological urgency and the pleasures of independent maritime travel. If you’re interested in a copy, let me know and I’ll get one to you pronto.

That said, I’ll soon be hiking and birding Costa Rica for a couple of weeks (and even casting for wild rainbows in the cloud forest!) high above the rising seas. Wish me luck, take care, and please stay tuned.

Image result for maps of costa rica
Image result for maps of costa rica
R.-t. is the only hummer east of the Mississippi. Costa Rica has 50 hummingbird species… A challenge?
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Stepping in the Same Stream Twice

A day-long rain cancels my intended visit to the upper Sinnemahoning. Disappointment has me dreaming– oh, those might-have-been trout! Those wild browns upstream of Costello, those speckled natives of the East Fork pools!

Some old moderns like myself get sidetracked now and then, get rolled by forces that reduce us to the level of a small kid or a primitive hunter or a drooling elder. No, there’s not much to be done at times like this. The mind gets loosened by the storm, and someone says, “Damn, the fishing could be good today. I haven’t seen the Birch or the Wild Boy Run in ages.”

Genesee River brown…

Wild nature rounds us if our senses apprehend. Here at home the whip-poor-will, after years of absence from my life, surprises with its call at dusk. Front yard, back yard, pine grove recitations! So I study dusk and dawn as the night-bird fills all crevices with sound. Thoreau once said, “New beings have usurped the air we breathe,” and I listen even in the rain.

Image result for whip-poor-will images
courtesy jpeg.blogspot.com Image result for Whip Poor Will Range Map

The child can be father to the man, they say. You can step in the same stream twice and watch yourself dissolve. I can fish or bird in the universal solvent, direct my wandering in the mythos of the wild. I won’t have to curse those sodden hours in the rain. My daydreams, mixed with memory, are therapeutic. I can salvage drier moments here at home.

old South Bend 390 still works for bass…
Genesee River smallie…
favorite felines watching thru a screen…
yellow-rump warbler…
gray catbird at the source…
ruby-throated stretch….
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The Way to Cross Fork Creek

I don’t find it with a map alone, or with a GPS or through some recollection of a printed fishing guide. I’d never recognize it in the pages of Cross Creek, written by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, nor would I hear its stony voices in the Cold Mountain poetry of ancient China. Izaak Walton might have dreamt about a place like this, but his milkmaid visions and lobworm recipes intervened. These rugged hills are something else– inviting in a subtle way.

Since time is like a flowing stream whereby we one day wake to find a head gone more than gray, I say to hell with waiting for ideal conditions, and just go. I drive toward Little Kettle Creek, turn west then climb and snake down Hungry Hollow Road. At last I see it– soft-bright lines of water dancing and converging in a trout stream meant for pilgrimage. The creek is fed by springs called Boone & Bolich, Gravel Lick & Yochum Run. I’m buoyed by tiny pools and dense green foliage.

I’ve got a fool’s grin, thinking how a tattered vest and patched-up waders might support a poet’s dream, but there’s little that I need. I wet-wade, washing off the residue of distant pomp and vanity. For a morning or an afternoon, I’m incomplete but satisfied. I’ve made it here by leaving almost everything behind (well, don’t bother asking if I’d fish without the comfort of a car or favorite rod). My dry fly drifts by the laurel blooms, a cluster of ferns, and always, the chance of trout.

cedar waxwing, on hemlock…
what rainy day species, anyone?
r.-t. hummer…
mountain laurel…
red-tail… where did that snake go?

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Maybe There’s a River

Whereas many areas of western New York are currently enjoying an adequate amount of summer rain, I know that so much of our country, particularly in the western regions, is in serious drought exacerbated by some unbelievably hot temperatures… For the Southwest, the current onset of monsoon season brings the hope that rain may fall and bring relief to the parched and often beautiful landscapes of the American desert.

I had to think of my essay called “Desert Rainbows” that forms the fifth chapter of my 2020 book Wings Over Water. The essay is based on a Rivertop Rambles post of the same name (“Desert Rainbows”) published in August 2013. That post, for some reason or another, has become the most visited site, by far, of all my 600-plus mini-essays with accompanying photographs. I guess its popularity has something to do with the notion that a desert can have trout fishing, plus a beauty apprehended by an open heart and mind.

Again, here’s the opening to “Desert Rainbows,” from the book, along with an attachment of hope for rain and cooling temperatures delivered to those lovely places that could use it. Photographs are recent and are sourced in a wetter clime…

The night rain of New Mexico spreads across the sand and binds the billions of particles for a light impression of foot and claw. The kit fox emerges, and the jack rabbit, and the great horned owl. The darkling beetle wakes with the dawn. The sun calls a black-throated sparrow into song. The bleached lizard runs from an approaching foot that makes an imprint on the sand.

Leaves of cottonwood track the surface of the ground from a wind-tossed limb. The primrose petals radiate; the jack rabbit and coyote run. Water binds the gypsum desert of White Sands National Monument (recently re-designated as a national park) only inches from the surface.

White Sands encompasses 275 square miles of desert. The Sands form an oasis in a chalk dry Chihuahua Desert bowl. Sure, it’s a long way to the trout streams that I love to haunt, but wait a minute… As water binds the particles of gypsum, it urges every dune crest into motion, blowing on the wind toward the places we know and love.

And as a wilderness moves, the white dunes invite: movies have been filmed here; Pink Floyd played a concert on the 90’s sand. I try to imagine night-walking on the dunes with a full moon overhead, the starkness and the hazard now soft and beautiful… Could I find a rivertop in such a vast and waterless realm? That’s crazy! Then again, “There’s water at the bottom of the ocean,” as the Talking Heads declared in song. So maybe there’s a river, a trout stream even, flowing through adjacent sands….

lilies of the day…
Thundersaurus…
indigo bunting, with bug, and best wishes for a happy Independence Day!

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Openings

A late spring day along Cedar Run presented the old familiar challenge– lucky to catch and release a single trout in tough conditions. There was beauty, though, reflected from each small waterfall, each pool and riffle, from the deep green foliage of the rugged slopes– and for that we could be grateful.

Bob and I passed the mountain camp called “Whippoorwill,” and we discussed the various dynamics of the goatsucker species and its current rarity in places such as western New York. We settled on the Pine Creek flats where tributaries cooled the water and allowed continued brown trout fishing till the summer heat eventually shuts it down.

Cruising fish ignored our self-tied artificials through the late afternoon. Only the approach of darkness (and the residues of hotel food and drink) could smooth the edges of frustration. Vanishing light was like a poem that’s listened to– its music more than just a literary ornament.

The night simply opened with the rhythmic calling of a whip-poor-will at dusk along the Pine. It opened with the spread wings of a luna moth floating through the headlights on the homeward drive. Like the best of poetry, it spoke with a minimum of words but resonated through a distant range of wonder.

*

[The following photos, taken experimentally with a new Nikon camera, are from various locations visited this past Spring. I hope you enjoy the backward glance, as Summer beckons to us all…]

a wild buddy, Greenwood, NY…
fishing the Rapidan (VA) in April…
former home of golden eagles…
in the Whites…
at Franconia Notch, NH…
Battenkill, Vermont…
White Mountain rambler…
Blue Ridge rambler…
Mockingbird…
fox pup, Owl Farm…
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Deerpath, Native Trail, Expressway

Flowing water can erode the toughest hills. The stream and river banks can guide the deer and other wandering creatures that adopt the simplest, most efficient routes for finding sustenance. The native tribes and pioneering humans came and walked the animal trails then built their homes and villages nearby. The centuries passed, inviting paved expressways to loop over hills and valleys on the most significant paths and walkways of our time.

Wild roses scent the morning air. I clear high grasses from the paths across my acres, the metallic blade swinging back and forth against the lush new growth as if retracing the original routes of man and deer. I listen to the rapid, rolling zi-zi-ZI notes of a prairie warbler and the dulcet tones of a wood thrush drifting across the hollow. I am drawn by the romance of frontier life and the unsettling notion that our early history and heritage become increasingly remote with time– a stream that’s swallowed by a river waving into the sea. A wild yellow iris captures and sustains my attention for a moment where I skirt a wetland near the house.

At its summer meeting on Pine Creek, the Slate Run Sportsmen group voted to deny support of a state proposal to increase ATV trails near the pristine waters of Slate Run. The group said (in essence), Not So Fast: development of motorized recreation might be good for area business but would be an incompatible use of public funds for a green place currently enjoyed through quieter activities such as fishing, hiking and canoeing.

I repaired from the meeting to the nearby gorge at Cedar Run. With fly rod in hand, I followed the trail of the wild trout, mountain laurel and water-thrush. Ah, yes! Here, the slower ways of nature, with a happy voice inside my head– an echo of those voices that could help apply the brakes to an expressway through the woods.

Wild brown rose & missed the barbless fly then hooked at the rear. It was quickly released…

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“Bonus track,” from my new sea & island-drenched collection Slow Sea Rising… available at Amazon as well as here….

For Tarpon

I cast long feathers on a hook,

Wishing I had fins.

My dreams lie underneath the waves.//

Learning how to snorkel

I can hear the mouthpiece say–

Nothing fits! Your brain is like coral

Scattering the blues.//

I cast long feathers every day.

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