Tandem Anniversary

My wife and I recently celebrated an almost blissful 41 years of marriage by visiting a couple of New York breweries and then, on the homeward trek, by stopping in Naples for an ice-cream fix. I enjoyed the (ahem!) fly-fishing fudge, married to a scoop of finely textured coffee. Next morning, I set forth on a visit to a local head water to see if the trout were staying cool enough. I had another anniversary to observe.

beaver-chewed duo

The water temperature in the deep-pool riffle registered at the upper-limit for trout comfort. At any higher reading I would not have made an effort. In likelihood, the browns and rainbows were stressed enough by late-summer conditions, but the watershed had recently experienced some cool nights and sufficient rainfall, so I was back at it. My love-affair with bamboo fishing rods had experienced some pangs of heartbreak recently, so I was on the water with my earliest rod infatuation– a 1973 Fenwick. Yeah, a 50-year-old fiberglass pole.

trout pool on a feeder stream

The year was ’73. My girlfriend at the time broke my first fly rod (an ugly yellow stick that I owned for a decade) when she slammed it in the doorway of my VW Bug. She felt so bad about the accident that she went out and bought me a much-improved instrument, the 5-weight 7’6″ Fenwick. I was thankful for the gift, certainly, and fished it intermittently for the next dozen years but, truth be told, I never cared much for it. I don’t know why. Maybe the “action” was unbalanced; maybe the design was a little goofy, whatever… And it didn’t help to know that graphite rods were becoming hugely popular at the time, no doubt much more efficient (and expensive) than the older glass utensils. I could not afford a decent graphite in those days, but I could dream.

Joe Pye Weed

Fashionable trends are no stranger to the fly-fishing business. I might have been trying to “keep up with the Joneses” back then but, in my defense, I was hitting the learning curve and didn’t really know any Jones people who were fly-fishing at the time. Remember, this was well before THE MOVIE starring that Pitt fellow. Then, by 1991, I acquired my first Orvis Superfine graphite and… it’s been downriver ever since (sort of).

downriver

Graphite came and graphite went. Bamboo came for me and (sadly) split-cane rods eventually lost their edge and went because of breakage and poor relations with custom repairs. But fiberglass arrived again, as vital as vinyl record albums, and I’m pleased with its toughness and its slower (than graphite) casting stroke. I had given the old Fenwick to a neighbor kid who used it for years and then suddenly returned it after he went out and bought his first graphite rod. Anyway, what goes around comes around. I reevaluated my antiquated fiberglass wand and wondered– what the hell was I thinking? I could now make 50-foot lawn casts accurately and with ease. What wasn’t there to like?

well-chewed flies

The only fish rising to a dry fly was an occasional chub. Not a good sign. Then I decided to fish a tandem rig: two wet flies– a Hare’s-Ear for the tail fly and a Green Weenie for the dropper. A drift through the cool deep riffle brought immediate action. A rainbow took the Hare’s-Ear, and a brown trout took the Weenie before the action ended almost as quickly as it started. The fish were set free from the old fiberglass rig, and the present moment melded with the bygone era for a brief but pleasant overture.

first fish

second fish

future fish, too?

Reykjavik Poet

Part 6, probably the final post from Iceland (at least for a while)

The bronze statue of The Unknown Bureaucrat

Stands in downtown Reykjavik,

Its torso thankless, servile,

Lost inside a block of stone.

All around us: bookstores, bars, boutiques,

The ancient scent of fisheries fading

On a breeze of high-technology and art.

We pass by the city’s Lake Tjornin,

The pedestrians calm or hurried, drawn as always

To the clear reflections of pink-footed geese

And tufted ducks that gabble by a park bench

And its statue of another great unknown.

The statue of the city’s Poet Laureate

Sits cross-legged on the bench

Listening to the native birds or maybe

To another poet or philosopher

Reading from a published book.

“Hello!” I say to Tomas Gudmundsson,

“Sorry to break your thoughtful pose

And air of literary dignity. I’m not your

Typical rover looking for a moment

In the sun. Like you,

I’m a stranger when away from home.

Mind if I sit with you for a photograph

And a sharing of a poem or two

From my volume Slow Sea Rising?”

Tomas Gudmundsson says nothing

So I read there like a sober fool

To anyone passing by–

To the pink-footed geese, the tufted ducks,

To the tourists and the bureaucrats,

To my company of Alyssa and Leighanne,

To Tomas who accepts my book

And lays it on his lap

On a warm and beautiful day in Reykjavik.

Whimbrel Winds and Arctic Sun

[Part 5 of the Icelandic series]

The dark gyrfalcon flies along the Westfjords, the Arctic sun its sorcery. I remember my second-grade self, the kid who pasted images of birds– spoonbill, barn owl, snow-white gyrfalcon– squarely on the pages of a scrapbook taken from the Lutheran church, my closing of an organized religion.

Arctic tern (world champion migrator at nesting site)

At Helmavik’s Museum of Sixteenth-Century Icelandic Witchcraft & Sorcery, the pagan realm, the Christian combat, is revisited. The fears and bloodshed fold their wings as we stroll to the next-door brewery, its business just opening (we’re the first Americans through its witchy doors). The dark lager is supreme, its taste feathering motion like a falcon in the sun.

old tales abound

Our camp at Reykhalar is a birding site surprise. The hot springs vent small ponds and grassy hillocks filled with nesting life. Sandpiper, pipit, Arctic tern, ptarmigan, redshank, black-tailed godwit, and common snipe spirit the meadow, marsh and moor, the paths connecting visitor and resident, and every phase of passing time.

Atlantic puffins

Birds screech overhead and dive too closely to our interruptions. Their work is long, and time is short. The whimbrels cry melodiously, whistle their discontent from tundra rock and mossy perch. The whimbrel winds connect us to the bay beyond, to the red-throated divers (the red-throated loons of the polar north) shrieking and yodeling and paddling with their young.

red-throated loons

whimbrel

Arctic fox, or seal, or…

“Rhino Rock”

“Might hafta pour this into a glass”

red-necked phalarope

redshank

streambed

Alyssa sez water clean & tasty

“old goat” w/ a young goat at a farm for a vanishing breed

turf house

common snipe, very common in Iceland

midnight sun (stay tuned for one last post on Iceland!)

Water Works

(Iceland, Part 4)

Water falls across the great escarpments of the east, falls from glacial mountain slopes across the contours of our northward journey. Water tumbles outward, flowing, cleansing, purifying, feeding the ocean shores. Water stirs an ancient memory of the sea, reminding us of origins, providing hope for health and better days. Water moves us and we drink it in.

Seljalandsfoss

Water sprays the thin green moss of lava fields. It seeps from the highland ice and flushes the great black monoliths along the shore. It slicks the fluted columns of basalt, the cliff edge nests of kittiwake, guillemot and puffin. Water splits from the volcano’s snowy cap, from thawing tundra and black sand beaches.

on the black beach

Water on the glacial grounds of Skatofell National Park. Water forms picturesque lagoons assisting the calving of icebergs. Blue and white reflections shimmer when the sun breaks through. The water buoys the barnacle geese that drift along the current in a line. Cold water meets the warming air creating fog that permeates the coastal lands and fuddles our perceptions like a second-rate wine.

glacier bound

Water washes down a bite of dried fish offered freely in a restaurant (one bite is more than enough!). Water falls again and again along our slow descent into Saydisfjordur, floats the ferry at its port, and lures us onward to the northern coast. At Husavik we settle for a whale watch out on “Shakey Bay” (so named for the frequent earthquakes there), the evening bright with promise, with a summer sun to last the night.

at Husavik

Water swells beneath the small boat’s dozen passengers, says “Home!” to the whales and dolphins breaching the Arctic crest, humpbacks leaping, flapping, spouting closer and closer to the deck, 20 whales, 30 whales, extending human hearts and minds across the miles of Shakey Bay, across a world of land and water barely recognized.

whale watch

Water pulls us southward on the fjord trails toward urban Akureyri, Viking spirit in modernity, then north again on streambeds blue from earth blood flowing toward its crust. Water in the Blanda River, Laxa River, salmon ripe. Water is the place for meditation in the fields of Skagastrond, for common snipe winnowing through the air above, for the midnight sun to hover on a far horizon of the eye.

the proverbial midnight sun

there’s a concrete path behind the falls

L. & A. behind the falls (Seljalandsfoss)

one of many coastal formations

where the mid-Atlantic mountains rise above

barnacle geese

(brown-headed) black-headed gull

on Shakey Bay, not far from the Arctic Circle

humpbacks approached much closer than this image suggests, but photo ops were unpredictable

downward

southward past Akureyri, Iceland’s second largest city

the sun hovered long minutes in the midnight hour

a man, a bird, at rest on the bay

When the Land Knows You are There

[Part 3 of the Icelandic series]

In the morning I met Stefan, my fly-fishing guide for the day, and we were off to the Holaa River for Arctic char and possibly a sea-run brown. Since Iceland requires visiting anglers to have all personal tackle certifiably cleansed prior to arrival (a potentially expensive proposition that would also add to the burden of carrying all equipment overseas), I elected to have the fishing guide provide all necessary items for the day, i.e., rod and reel and vest and boots and lunch, etc. The day worked out enjoyably.

tasting the waters

had to use my cheap camera while fishing

Stefan is a relatively young fishing guide, well-versed in political and environmental issues. While suiting up at our vehicle, we met a small group of anglers arriving from Bavaria, not far from where I was born. One gentleman announced that he was now 80 years old. Stefan responded by saying, “Fishing keeps you young!” We walked through sedge grass toward the river while assailed by nesting whimbrels whistling in defiance of our innocent approach. The sun was bright, and the air was heating in what would prove to be an unusually warm day in southern Iceland. Fish were rising in the broad tranquil river, and I felt the old excitement flushing through these angler bones.

my guide from Reykjavik

This stretch of river made me think of a large Western spring creek in Montana or Wyoming, and its wild fish were well-fed and selectively feeding. Arctic char (Salvelinus alpinus) would not be pushovers today. Icelandic Bleikja (or “Pinky”) is the most widespread salmonid in the country. Dropping small flies (#16 and #20 Caddis and Zebra Midges) on the current with a 9-foot 5-weight rod, I managed to finesse my hours enjoyably, landing and releasing a silvery or buttery-toned char occasionally while losing others in a spirited tussle. Arctic char taken in glacial waters are a powerful salmonid reminding me in some ways of their distant relative, the brook trout. Stefan pointed out one cruising specimen that looked to be at least 20 inches long, its color gleaming in the crystalline water.

huge net small fish

Before leaving the river, Stefan asked if I needed to refill my water bottle. “Sure,” I said, not certain how he planned to do that. He took our bottles and stepped out knee-deep in the Holaa, filling them quickly and then, returning to the bank, handed one to me, saying, “Here. Have a taste of Iceland. This is how we drink it.” I could not have done this back home while fishing, but the water here was cold and pure, its taste reflecting the cleanest streams and rivers in the world.

Skogafoss

To get inside a place, to take a measure of its land and waters, it’s a good thing to approach the new life forms and geography with openness. To know a place as much as possible, I like to think that prior knowledge and disposition pay off when allowed to adjust freely. Visitors benefit from keeping their senses on alert, by staying humble and respecting the earth and its constituents. It’s fun to broaden one’s horizon and to buffer the field of knowledge. It may not be an easy task, but the gains will be obvious. The land will know you are there. The mountain slope, the tumbling river, and the ocean beach will say hello.

Siglufjordur, port of the herring industry

seal speak

Eurasian oystercatcher

view from eastern seascape

Skaftafells glacier

we stayed one night in Breiodalsvik

Alyssa (left) at glacial lagoon

whale bone

whooper swans, very common in Iceland

the famed Vestrahorn, eastern shore

north Atlantic

calling

Icelandia, Part 2

[For now, I’m calling it Icelandia– Iceland & my personal take on what we gathered there while visiting this fascinating country. If you missed Part 1, my introduction to the place, make sure you scroll back to my previous post & check out the reflections. Thank you, and please read on!]

Iceland SE on counterclockwise route

We walked gravel paths through the lava fields in mountain country, through the black rocks covered with a soft light-colored moss. Our sole company consisted of occasional meadow pipits, wheatears and golden plovers strutting with their chicks in tow. Other than Arctic foxes, birds, fish, and mammals of the sea, Icelandic wildlife would be hard to find. There are no reptiles or amphibians, no mosquitoes or annoying insects that I am aware of, yet the feeling of life in this open country is supremely vibrant and close at hand.

near Reykjavik

golden plover

redwing (thrush)

Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, melting glaciers, and clear blue waterways surround the visitor and banish any sense of emptiness or desolation.

explorers on a glacial lagoon

Iceland runs on hydrothermal power

all natural

Passing through Greater Reykjavik, the capital and largest city, we would learn that it contains about two-thirds of Iceland’s total population of 370,000 people. It’s a clean city, quiet but lively, with little in the way of billboards, trash, or crime. In fact, for Iceland’s small law enforcement agency, there is seldom any need to carry a weapon. Murder is statistically non-existent. All of which is to say, a high standard of education along with a low rate of unemployment are a boon for peaceful coexistence.

downtown Reykjavik

the city’s highest point

Thingvellir National Park contains the heart of Iceland’s natural and human histories. In 930 A.D., the early settlers of the island formed an Althing, a meeting place for making laws and passing judgement at the “Law Rock.” They formed what would be an annual summer gathering for residents, a tradition and a livelihood that would continue for the next 800 years, before the citizens moved the meeting site to Reykjavik. I first read about the country’s Althing in the old Icelandic tale called Njal’s Saga, and here we were, camping and exploring on this fine historic ground where the principles of democracy were first established in northern Europe.

illustration, Thingvellir National Park

descent into the gorge, T.N.P.

Law Rock (pedestal for the Althing)

The dramatic landscape added a unique perspective to the place, as well. Thingvellir features an accessible gorge where rock walls form the seam of two tectonic plates slowly shifting apart from each other. The Eurasian continental plate has formed the east side of the gorge, and the North American plate has formed the western edge. The Althing had assembled there in its sheltered spaces, well-watered by the clear Oxara River pouring from the eastern wall enroute to the biological richness of Lake Thingvellir nearby.

Oxarafoss (Oxara River falling into gorge at Thingvellir)

The winds rocked our campervan the night we slept in the park. I was anxious for my scheduled day of fishing the Hoala River in the morning hours to come.

moving north & easterly

at the prow

shadowlands

how did THAT form?

maybe Seal nose/knows!

tranquility

[Next, When the Land Knows You are There]

Iceland, an Intro

[It’s taken me a while to process recollections from a recent visit to the beautiful country of Iceland but I’m working on them and now offer something of an intro to July’s visit there, accompanied by Alyssa and Leighanne. Following the slow pace of my posting record of late, I’m hoping to speed up the process of recording our experience of travel through this most dramatic land of glacier, waterfall, volcano, whale, bird, and Arctic char (to name a few of the highlights) for your viewing pleasure. Thanks, and please stay tuned.]

Flying toward Iceland in the comfort of a jetliner six miles above the deep dark waters of the Labrador Sea, I reviewed computer readings saying that the atmosphere outside the plane registered a cool -73 degrees Fahrenheit. We were prepared for chilled Icelandic air but my expectations for the journey were about to get some real surprises (mostly fantastic) soon.

Looking down over the southern tip of Greenland, I perceived what appeared to be icebergs calving from a coastal glacier. I remembered seeing a photograph of Frederick Church’s masterful painting, “The Iceberg,” as we made our slow descent to the island country that was formed on top of a massive underwater mountain range. We were ready to experience a two-week journey which, like the tip of a drifting iceberg, would hopefully provide a genuine, if limited, view of a land we’d never really seen before.

We touched down on a reddish landscape that appeared “Martian-like” at first but darkened quickly to a carpet of white-tipped lupine flowers giving nourishment to a vast field of lava rock. Arriving late in the day (Iceland has no summer night as we Americans are accustomed to), we spent our first extended evening at the home base of our rented campervan, and I was struck immediately by the bird life there, not far from Greater Reykjavik, the country’s capital and largest city. Wow. Great black-backed gulls and common snipe flew above us from adjacent lava fields. Golden plovers, ringed plovers, redshanks, fulmars, meadow pipits, and redwings (an Icelandic thrush that sang from lampposts and the rental company roof) entertained the Viking in me who’d become the usual birding nut. We were off to an exciting start!

the Icelandic flag

the ale that got me there (and back)

the Bruarfoss in a land of waterfalls

Arctic terns, the great migrators, were nesting in many locations

free range sheep in paradise

black sand, great pillars, puffin land

glacial country, still vast but diminishing

barnacle geese

blue ice recently calved

seal in glacial water

black sand, cool temps

turf homes were once quite common

reminiscent of Yellowstone N. P., it boils

Iceland’s Ring Road

whale watch at Husavik

sunset 12:30 am, but it never got dark

one of my favorites… please stay tuned for plenty more!

Voices From the Landscape

Well, I’ve been all over the map recently and sadly lacking a focus for the blog although my busy ramblings have been very pleasant for the most part. I hope to rectify the “lack of focus” by restating my interest in what I call “Voices from the landscape,” a theme I took for my poetry reading in Geneva, NY on June 25th. For the reading I included a paragraph from my book Learning the Terrain:

the wild columbine had called but now has passed

“Voices seem to call us from the landscape. If we heed them and proceed in their direction, we acknowledge that they are more than something mystical; they belong to freedom, wildness, and our own humility. The lost terrain, almost by definition, cannot be found, and yet we sense that it is there. It pulls us out-of-doors to an uncivil ground, a pleasure dome, perhaps, an entity unto itself– indifferent to our cares and wishes.”

I want to include some photos taken from the past few weeks because the “voices” have been calling (as they often do) and I’ve simply had to respond. Hopefully they’ll give a sense of the trajectory taken and open to the latest calling which I’ve heard. I’m heading to Iceland shortly for some fun and learning experiences, and even some fly-fishing. If all goes well, I should have a few good Arctic stories to illustrate for you on the blog. Till then, try to heed those natural voices speaking out to you, and thanks, as always, for your reading.

Early May, we walked out on the partially restructured Kinzua Creek RR trestle near Kane, PA. Half of it had blown out when a big tornado struck in the 80s.

out there, on the end of the trestle walk, the visuals are dizzying…

We hiked the western PA woods (the vast Cook Forest State Park) with Brent & Catherine

old growth hemlocks in Cook Forest State Park (western PA) had us looking up

We had lots of hiking fun attempting to locate access to majestic Sand Run Falls in Tioga County (north-central PA). We’ll find it on our next attempt.

for limestone inserts cleaning up Babb Creek

mitigating coal mine leachate polluting Babb & Pine Creek watershed

at the Landrus blind

Beaver Lodge B&B

at the Babb Creek heights

winding down at 4 Mile Brewery

Icelandic flyfisher (from internet)

an Arctic char dream (pic from internet)

looking down on my Bootleg Hollow falls

local native

a rivertop scene replete with trout

A Plea for a Gentle, Soaking Rain

Spring 2023 has turned out to be one of the driest seasons in years for this section of the country. Woodlands, gardens, lawns, and trout streams are suffering from a current lack of rain. I recently reread a letter sent to me a few years ago from a friend and countryman who really knows his hills and waterways and who, in fact, has flyfished most of these streams for more than the 40-plus years that I’ve explored them.

Oswayo Creek, early May

I wanted to paraphrase the contents of that fishing letter so it might be read as a plea to the gods who have a say in matters meteorological. I would have to be careful with that, of course. Although my friend, JB, would have no objection to seeing his reflections here, the powers that reside in earth and heaven could unleash more than what is good for us (with heavy storms and flooding) so the plea for rain shall be clearly stated. Please, ye gods and goddesses who wield the garden hoe, the lawn rake, and the fishing rod in your honorable domains, hearken to these humble words from a dear old friend, and bring us a gentle soaking rain…

the mist of Pine Creek

“For night fishing with flies, the Allegheny down below Coudersport was great. Above the village, the Delayed Harvest section on the river has been good, and from Seven Bridges to the river top at Raymond, one can fish for wild trout all the way.” Bring us rain, a gentle soaking rain. “The Genesee, flowing north from Gold, can heal your soul despite the beaver dams and silted pools that trip you up. Eastward, flowing into Pine, the Genesee Forks is a pretty stream that can be productive from West Pike up to Cushing Hollow.” Please consider: a gentle soaking rain.

Jim lands one near Cedar Run, the last rain I’ve seen, mid-May

“I think you’re familiar with Pine, the Nine Mile, West Branch Pine and Lyman Run. I love them all! There’s nothing not to love. My favorite place to night fish on Pine Creek was from Phoenix Run downstream to Ansonia. Ah, the Grub Hole!” Bring us rain, a gentle soaking rain. Refresh that beloved trout country, those headwaters from Asaph Run down to Tiadaghton where the fish were large and generous and the hatches unbelievable! Sure, we’re talking years ago, before the alternating seasons of drought and flood brought change, but maybe the Fates will be kind again.

nice brownie, Jim

“Beyond the Pine, my Blue Ribbon streams include Slate Run, Cedar Run, Cross Fork, Kettle, Little Kettle, Hammersley, Young Woman’s Creek– and farther, all those streams around State College. I love their names and watery ways. My Pennsylvania paradise!” Bring on the rain, a gentle soaking rain.

my smallie, near Cedar Run

“With the warmer nights from midsummer through September we loved to fish after dark. There were years on the lower Allegheny when I’d catch more than 20 browns measuring in excess of 20 inches, and the Pine near Watrous was amazing, too. My favorite flies for the night were a big Picket Pin, Professor, and Hare’s Ear (size 4 to 8) and we usually fished two or three flies on the tippet. Most night anglers used big ugly flies, many with no names. We called ’em June bugs. I tied my own leaders. Sometimes the fish would take off and run you into your backing. You might have to run and stumble down the stream, and sometimes the fish would win. It was dangerous sport in the darkest of nights, the time that offered the best chances for a trophy, and it was mainly for the young, half-crazy guys.”

hiking with the not-so-young crazies, World’s End State Park

“At this time of the year, I loved and still love the headwaters here: the wild trout of Slate and Kettle Creek, the drake hatches, the caddis, the terrestrials, their imitations in dry fly, wet fly, nymph, and streamer. All of it. Some of the most beautiful places in PA.”

To the Great Ones in charge, if you hear us at all… Please infuse these places with an energizing flow. Infuse them with a gentle, soaking rain. With thanks, and a Bell’s IPA!

upper Genesee

I introduced Dave to fly-fishing & he caught a nice Genesee brown on a dry fly

A Blue Jay Way

I’m not sure how George Harrison arrived at his lyrical “Blue Jay Way,” but I arrived at mine by heading down to metro Pittsburgh for a Pirates game against the Toronto Blue Jays (the latter slightly favored by most of our group) and to do some fishing and exploring, as well. Son Brent and his wife Catherine had purchased game tickets for the Saturday evening game at PNC Park, but the morning and afternoon were devoted to inspection of the Allegheny highlands about an hour’s drive from Pittsburgh. We visited a “spruce bog” and then the pristine Laurel Hill State Park where Brent and I would do some casting on a popular trout stream.

Walking out to the Spruce Bog was a pleasant birding exercise for us. Catherine identified several songs given by migrating warblers and we were especially pleased to see and hear a male hooded warbler singing from the mixed highland forest as we ambled toward the bog. From a short boardwalk over the placid water, we could study the abundant pitcher plants and the highlight of this unique Allegheny ecosystem– specimens of Atlantic white cedar trees, the only known occurrence of this species inland of the coastal plain.

pitcher plants, Spruce Bog

Atlantic white cedars, Allegheny highlands

After Catherine, Brent and I honed our fly-casting skills at Laurel Hill State Park, Leighanne joined us for a walk along the natural area adjoining Laurel Hill Creek. The trout stream was flowing a bit too high and off-color for successful fly rod work, but Brent and I enjoyed our first round of trouting together in decades. A six-acre old growth stand of Eastern hemlock trees, along with an abundant variety of wildflowers, was a highlight of our walk along this pleasant waterway, a stream well worth revisiting for its fish and other wild things. Also very attractive was Jones Mill Run, a deeply shaded tributary in the neighborhood, a mountain brook containing both stocked and wild trout that we would have to investigate more closely on a future day.

Laurel Hill State Park

a fly-fishin’ Franklin!

hemlocks worth huggin’

foamflowers

Early in the ball game, an actual blue jay flew across the stadium packed with baseball fans as if it were a harbinger of another victory for Toronto. The Jays won the previous game on Friday and would win the last game in the series, on Sunday, for a three-game sweep. I don’t know where the feathered blue jay disappeared to when it left the air space of the stadium, but I hope it was far enough away to escape the impact of an incendiary fireworks display that immediately followed the game. The fireworks exploded over the western rim of PNC Park and the junction of the big three rivers. It boomed and feathered downward on the city like no other I’ve experienced. Truly awesome, if you’re into fireworks, as many people are. I am not a fan of such. The noise of close-range attendance makes a coward out of me.

Jays 8, Pirates 2

skyline from our 2nd-tier seats

ka-BOOM!

On the following day, the sunny conditions clouded over and produced intermittent showers, ideal for indoor events like visiting the National Aviary and sitting around on sheltered patios of Pittsburgh area breweries (of which there are plenty).

welcome to the Aviary

“I’m a Pirate fan. Not a Jay,” sez Hyacinth Macaw

I had heard about the aviary and its eco-themed displays of living birds from far and near, and our visit was both wonderful and stimulating. One great room, filled with active birds from tropical rainforests around the planet, seemed to hold iridescent feathers in the foliage and vegetation like streaming colors of the earlier fireworks display. Without the noise, thankfully enough. It was like a Blue Jay Way to color, form, and vibrancy in the real world out beyond the confines of our civilization. A way toward the reality that contains us all, of course, and one that could use our help for the sake of preservation.

Dormont, PA evening softball game, a few blocks from the Pittsburgh city line

red finch from a distant land, a sunset tone