I like my digital camera, don't get me wrong. In fact, it's one of the few pieces of technology in my house I don't cuss on a daily basis because it (unlike the computer or the cell phone) lives up to its promises of convenience and cost effectiveness. By virtue of its size and weight, it needs no special allowances if I want to stow it in a backback or slip it into a shirt pocket, and it and all its various accoutrements fit tidily into a small pouch for extended travel. It takes crisp pictures, the digital, and I don't have to fret about bracketing exposures or running myself out of film during a protracted photo session as long as I've remembered to charge a couple of batteries to have on hand for spares. Nevertheless, I think in a showdown between the two, I prefer that clunky old elephant in the closet, the trusty Mamiya Sekor 35 mm.

There's something in the hands-on exercise of setting exposure times and f-stops which is more rewarding than selecting from a menu delineating types of interior illumination or ambient outdoor light, a subtlety more expressive of the photographer's true art and skill contrasted against depersonalized generalizations. The end results could well be close approximates of each other, yet the act of doing for one's self what software provides at a touch gives greater satisfaction, and lack of it generates an artificial dependence on the device. With the digital in hand, I find I am less likely to compose a frame, more apt to lean on the crutch of technology and increase my chances for quality, as it were, by taking several shots and picking among them for the better of the lot.

True, digital photography has improved the appearance of the average hobbyist's album at the sacrifice of only a few electrons thrown into unexpected chaos, but overall, when I compare photos taken with the 35 mm. to ones which I have shot in recent years, the best are in the older group. I cannot blame the camera, only my own haste in a needlessly hurried world.

Frost has been but a thought in Nature's mind these mornings, muttered under the breath of a breeze which travels down from the cool high country nights and homeless still in the confines of the valley. Yet in its undertone, a veiled threat has made itself heard upon the grapevine, and the fruits draw themselves up with sweetness to mount their last defence. They are not yet swollen with the vanity of sugar which will be their defeat, waged upon by birds and the husbandman, except in their advancing line where the sun has exposed their weakness. There, they beg to be picked off by their numbers for their sinful, revealing pride.

Yes, the grapes are ripening, and a good twenty pounds or more hang from the rampant canes which cover the long south wall of the garage. Great, fat wood spiders have slung webs among the leaves, indistinguishable except under angled light as anything other than the plastic netting which protects the harvest from enthusiastic jays, strands which the birds perceive and avoid, surely as the mesh. The few bunches which have formed outside protection will be the farmer's tithe to the feathered patrons of the arbor, in fairness to the frustration they must feel upon discovering the greater bounty just beyond reach.

As it leans heavily upon its support, twisted with age, the arthritic vine creaks beneath its burden as warm afternoons give ease to gnarled and tiring joints. Lighted by the embers of the month, the time of harvest home has come. To everything there is a season, and the proud grapes surrender themselves before the chill.

From the parking area at the creek to the boarded-up lookout is a distance of 6.1 miles and an elevation gain of 2700 feet, a modest hike within the scale I set for myself many years ago perhaps, but a bit more of a challenge now, considering my age and infirmity. A radical change of mental gears had been enforced at the last milepost which told me I still had half a mile to go until I gained the top, and I was grumbling rather volubly by the time I reached the summit, shy on both food and water through a stupid oversight which had assumed cooler temperatures than were actually occurring. Nevertheless, I have always enjoyed pushing my physical limits (some might say punishingly so), and despite sweat and short commons, the climb was a pleasant one among the bold colors of autumn and the rocks. If my descent was hurried, it was for enjoyment as much as for good reason. The last 3.7 miles of road were accomplished in a mere hour and fifteen minutes and consequently I arrived home feeling a bit spent and tired. A sound night's sleep was definitely in order, but Fate had another sort in mind.

I nodded off before 9 PM, but was waked halfway shortly past 11 by caterwauling outside the kitchen's glass door. Through the glass, Skunk's suitor's voice was muted, a song of varied pitch and long-drawn vowels which would have done Pavarotti proud. Even as I tried to ignore his complaints, Skunk took issue and raised an antiphon which sounded ever so much like a coyote howling down the moon in soprano, "MiAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWLLL!!!" and since all thoughts of sleep were then banished from my head, I got up to remedy the situation.

Having once been bitten by a surprised Skunk when I crept up behind her unannounced, I gave verbal warning as I approached the door although I had not turned on the light, but her concentration was on the invader. When my bare legs flicked into her field of vision, she (justifiably) attacked what she perceived as an assault from behind the lines and sunk all four fangs into my calf and hung on.

With restraint marshalled from years of experience with animals and the knowledge that struggle against attack will only worsen the damage to the victim, I stooped to free myself from her bite with a gently spoken reprimand but as my hands approached her, she leapt and slashed my forearm, then fled. Her beau also dashed away. In the dark, I could feel a wetness on my leg which I assumed to be cat slobber until I got into the bathroom and turned on the light. I was bleeding, and had left a trail of splatters from one room to the next. I cleaned up the leg, cleaned up the carpet and started back to bed.

Crouched down in the doorway, Skunk was on her stomach, flat as a sheet of typing paper, begging for me to squat down and hold her between my knees as she does when she greets me. It was a posture of apology which would have proven me hard-hearted if I had declined to accept. Nevertheless, the next time the boyfriend comes calling, I'm planning to lob a wet washrag from a safe distance across the room!

Yes, Skunk is learning to appreciate the lap. Perhaps this circumstance is a direct function of cooler days and nights instead of sentiment (although I will not entirely discount the latter), but now for some private reason, she seems willing to seek me out of her own accord. It is not unusual these days to find her beneath my desk chair or footstool when I rise from my occupation, as if she were uncertain of the proper form in which to submit a request for the greater comfort of my sparely padded thighs. Cats are creatures of comfort, after all, and however bony a lap might be, it has the benefit of being warm.

Blanketed in her own fur, warmth might well be the operative in her absence from the bed throughout these last months, for through the summer nights, the house seldom dropped below sixty-five degrees. The fleece throw which had been her accustomed cushion at the foot might have seemed less attractive for its additional insulation when compared to the back of the couch or her carpeted shelf in the cool window, but now as the room approaches the low thermostat setting, she is more anxious to knead a nest into its soft folds.

My pets have ever found me a willing resting place, never one to unceremoniously unhome the one using my frame as a seat or perch despite any degree of personal discomfort. I have dozed off scores of times to the radiated alpha rhythms of a companion or allowed my leg or arm to go to sleep when a friend had found a comfortable position which required me to stay in place. My coffee has gone cold, an inch beyond convenient reach, or my dinner uneaten, and all too often, my bladder has been near bursting before some involuntary fidget caused me to wake a napping cat or sleeping cockatoo.

Yes, I have always prided myself on my talent as a lap, and one available on demand. Thus it was that when Skunk did actually voice her first request to be picked up and held this morning, I did most readily comply and allowed her to remain there for the duration, being stroked and cossetted all the while she purred her satisfaction. I will admit that this one time, I was gladdened when she left me of her own free will. You see, she could have chosen her moment a bit more fortuitously. I stayed in place as my job description delineates but, unfortunately for its measure of inconvenience, I was seated on the throne.

Yes, Skunk is learning to appreciate the lap. Perhaps this circumstance is a direct function of cooler days and nights instead of sentiment (although I will not entirely discount the latter), but now for some private reason, she seems willing to seek me out of her own accord. It is not unusual these days to find her beneath my desk chair or footstool when I rise from my occupation, as if she were uncertain of the proper form in which to submit a request for the greater comfort of my sparely padded thighs. Cats are creatures of comfort, after all, and however bony a lap might be, it has the benefit of being warm.

Blanketed in her own fur, warmth might well be the operative in her absence from the bed throughout these last months, for through the summer nights, the house seldom dropped below sixty-five degrees. The fleece throw which had been her accustomed cushion at the foot might have seemed less attractive for its additional insulation when compared to the back of the couch or her carpeted shelf in the cool window, but now as the room approaches the low thermostat setting, she is more anxious to knead a nest into its soft folds.

My pets have ever found me a willing resting place, never one to unceremoniously unhome the one using my frame as a seat or perch despite any degree of personal discomfort. I have dozed off scores of times to the radiated alpha rhythms of a companion or allowed my leg or arm to go to sleep when a friend had found a comfortable position which required me to stay in place. My coffee has gone cold, an inch beyond convenient reach, or my dinner uneaten, and all too often, my bladder has been near bursting before some involuntary fidget caused me to wake a napping cat or sleeping cockatoo.

Yes, I have always prided myself on my talent as a lap, and one available on demand. Thus it was that when Skunk did actually voice her first request to be picked up and held this morning, I did most readily comply and allowed her to remain there for the duration, being stroked and cossetted all the while she purred her satisfaction. I will admit that this one time, I was gladdened when she left me of her own free will. You see, she could have chosen her moment a bit more fortuitously. I stayed in place as my job description delineates but, unfortunately for its measure of inconvenience, I was seated on the throne.

September's sweetest days are upon us, with summery daytime highs and a nip in the air of night. Skies are crisp with stars and a broad path of stellar milk checked with errant meteors lies like a banner thrown off in auroral winds against the heavens' couch. "It is the birth of autumn," it seems to say. "Come and rejoice in the last of benevolent glory."

The vine has darkened at its tips and the tomatoes' ripening has slowed to a sudden creep beside the faithful daisies which now nod into reluctant retirement. The grapes are yet tart and acidic, waiting for a coarser stroke with frost's brush to set their sugar even while the floral abundance of the garden casts its last seed, hardening its descendents against the onslaught of winter yet to come. The fields are in transition, turning presently within themselves to guard a future generation, marshalling their resources at an inborn mandate of survival.

Nature speaks of renewal in the briefer light, the sleep which restores the face of youth to the ashes of the seasons. In the mirror of autumn, the faltering days of September shall not age and die; they are too filled with hidden life to let go the verdant spirit.

For Mouse, on Dustbin's passing:

When your heart is silent of the sound it longs to hear,
And the warmth of the fire seems hollow,
Remember the one who sought your comfort
In their younger, better days.
They would not have you grieve Nature's course.
If their place seems empty now
And their presence beyond your reach,
Find solace in the gift they have left in passing:
In truth, no creature can ever be said
To have passed entirely from the Earth,
For when Memory lives, Spirit endures.

Some people just aren't equipped for certain tasks. I can't juggle.

Oh, it's not that I haven't tried. I've read the books and watched the videos, taken the suggestion to begin with handkerchiefs which float like feathers on the air allowing the player plenty of time to figure out where they're going. I've tossed high and I've tossed low any variety of objects, and always with the same result: if there's more than one item in motion, I'll drop the other one within three throws.

Recently, I found a set of juggling balls in a cache and couldn't resist the temptation. After all, I'd never tried it with objects specifically designed for the sport, only such things as cat toys, beanbags, yarn balls and the like, and they do say that to do a job correctly, you need the correct equipment, right? Perhaps I could master balls of the proper density and weight for their size. I pocketed the set and left appropriately valued swag in its place and went home happy.

No sooner than I'd stowed my gear and written my log for the find, I knew I had to give it a try. I stationed myself in the center of the living room and sent the first of the three spheres aloft. The second left my hand in short order while my eyes were still on the first. The second ball went wide. The first ball crashed to the ground. The third was still in my hand, so I launched it for no particular reason except to say I'd done so, and despite having nothing else to occupy my attention, it too landed with a splat at my feet. Clearly, something was wrong with my technique.

At one point that afternoon, I managed to have three balls in motion (which is not to say that I caught any of them), and briefly thought I'd discovered the key, but no matter how many more times I attempted to repeat my limited success, it simply would not happen. Time and again, ball after ball dropped to the floor without my hand ever coming near it. I gave up when my back got sore from bending over to retrieve the dadgummed things.

Well, I can't say I've been any more successful since that day, but I keep trying every now and then. The balls sit on top of a shelf of books to remind me of their presence, and every few days, I take them down to waste ten minutes of my life. I'd like to give myself credit for persistence on this score, but maybe it's that I'm just too dumb to know when I'm licked.

Behind their brush piles, the locals are waiting for the county-wide burn ban to be lifted, but our recent spattering of rain has hardly been enough to bind the thistle fuzz together, let alone soak down the dry and crackly weeds. Even now, fire danger is listed as high, and our volunteer firefighters are called on daily to put out small blazes started by a careless match or spark from an engine. We are still in the Dry, for all of how wet it seems, and the ban on outdoor burning remains a necessity against fools.

Burning is governed by permit here (as is most everything except -for the nonce- breathing), and the piece of paper which entitles you to the right to ignite yard debris during the eight wet months of the year must be renewed annually. The applicant must acknowledge in person the conditions which apply to their individual situation before the permit will be issued, and this business is normally conducted at the fire hall in the presence of the district's chief.

One spring, I appeared at the keypad-entry door no fewer than three times, only to find it locked and no one home. As I said, our fire department is staffed on a voluntary basis. It might have been that I was simply hitting moments when the crew was away on a call, or perhaps when no one was available through prior obligations with work or family. Nevertheless, my frustration was growing. I had a large pile of downed branches cluttering up a back yard badly in need of mowing, and I was anxious to be rid of them in a cloud of fragrant evergreen smoke. Phone calls were equally unproductive. No one ever appeared to be on staff. To say the least, this was a bit unsettling. One expects emergency services to be manned at all times, after all, and although a call to 911 would have routed out hands in short order, the absence of a single person in the building struck me as a bit lax.

I was still no closer to having permit in hand a month later, so I stopped by a different engine house in the district and was pleased to find a member of the crew on board. However, he was not authorized to issue permits. I detailed the situation to him and, with the courtesy only found in small towns like ours, he replied that he'd try to raise the chief who was then out on another site inspecting piles at a controlled logging burn. He had to make a few calls before pinning his superior down, and helped me schedule an appointment that very morning at a halfway spot on my way to town, a mom-and-pop near the boat launch and campground.

Upon arriving at the appointed place, I saw no evidence of the chief, neither his vehicle nor his person, so I went inside the small store to wait. Approximately ten minutes later, he came in via the back door in full uniform, took down the necessary information, explained the regulations and handed me the completed permit before he returned to his 'duties.' It was all I could do to keep from laughing at the obvious fib. There was no doubt in my mind as to the activities which had kept him away from the station that morning. On his chin was a smear of bright green PowerBait. I might not have approved, but at least I understood.

The faithful readers of this blog will be pleasantly surprised to learn that my previous and stunning lack of success at vegetable gardening has seen a reversal. I am happy to report a bumper crop of Sweet Million cherry tomatoes sufficient to supply both my snacking urges and my soup kettle from only two plants. In fact, the vines are so prolific that I am having trouble keeping up as they reach the peak of their perfomance, putting forth dozens of 1-1.5 inch fruits each and every day.

The secret would appear to be one of confinement. Early this last spring, I obtained a pot from a friend which had originally held a five-foot tall fruit tree. It measured approximately two and a half feet tall by two feet wide, just the right size for a tomato plant or two. I wanted to have my vegetables easily accessible from the kitchen, so I dug a hole at the end of the flower bed closest to the back door and sunk the tub to slightly over half its depth, ostensibly to aid in the retention of moisture. The lower third of the pot was filled with garden soil, followed by store-bought potting soil liberally augmented with organic compost.

I left the tub to sit undisturbed for two months to allow rain to settle the soil naturally and then I went tomato-shopping. I already knew which varieties were most likely to succeed in my region (Zone 7), and I had learned from previous experience that only cherry or grape tomatoes would have any chance of reaching maturity before the first autumn frosts killed down the vines. My research on the subject had been largely through the Park Seed Co. catalogue (see link at right), and Sweet Million seemed the best choice, if only I could find plants locally.

I need not have worried. My favourite nursery had Sweet Million, and although the plants were on the spindly side, I figured they would fill out with careful pinching. I bought a tray of three, gave one to the person who had given me the tub planter, and carefully husbanded the remaining two on my kitchen counter for several weeks until June rolled around. We have had killing frosts here as late as 22 June, but they occur infrequently after the first of the month, so that is my customary planting date for things which are not hardy.

When I set the plants out, I placed stakes, but several weeks passed before they showed any sign of growth. I was beginning to suspect another failure until a spell of warm nights kicked the vines into action. By the time they had added a foot in height, they were ready to be tied to the stakes and pinched accordingly, even though they were still on the puny side. At this point, a few blossoms began to form.

I remember discovering the first tiny green bead among the leaves as the plants grew taller, bushed out and needed further tying. One led to another, and suddenly, it looked like I could expect a tomato crop after all! I'd have been happy with any, just enough to prove I'd broken the jinx, yet every day's examination of the plants brought more and more tiny green tomatoes to the light. I was definitely on the road to success.

If I now have tomatoes in abundance, the red leaf lettuce I sowed at the base of the pot has grown true to history. At best, my salad will be made with dozens of Sweet Millions, and a few limp, palm-sized bits of green.

Cloudy, cool days and longer nights tell me something: the season of "comfort foods" is upon us, the epoch of soup and hot chocolate is here. Behind the streaky glass, I find the rain less unattractive for the bowl of dense pea slurry in my hand or the marshmallow on its bed of froth in my cup, and if I am not warm of body, at least my spirit may be thawed by a sweet, thick drink. There is something about soup which goes beyond nourishment, whether it be the time-honoured heal-all of chicken broth, a rich and aromatic bisque or simple composite of vegetables simmered in their own juice. Soups are medicinal, regardless of their ingredients. In soup, sorrows may drown, aye, as thoroughly and with less ill effect than in wine.

It is timely, then, that wild mushrooms spring forth as the weather turns damp, for in my opinion, no soup surpasses that made with a fresh harvest of chanterelles and served with hands still chilled from their gleaning. The forests hereabouts once abounded with these golden gems, but now with extensive logging wreaking havoc and commercial pickers combing the hillsides for even the smallest emerging buttons, the recreational hunter has even more cause to savour his mug of golden broth or cream.

In these woods, their discovery is not always easy, although the species is unmistakable in its form and size. I have seen my companions pass by whole clusters within a patch of oxalis or under a fall of fir needles darkened with rain and shadow, and no doubt I've missed a few myself. The eye must be trained to the subleties of hue between autumn's more transparent shed of orangey leaves and the opacity of solid mushroom flesh, and glancing up or down a slope must overlook the general terrain in search of gold.

Then too, there is the problem of access. Nowadays, only the steepest hills remain unsearched and the prizes they hold can only be reached by those of us with the agility of mountain goats and appropriate footwear. However, we are generally rewarded for our all too literal pains in leg and ankle by finding mycological treasures of substantially greater size.

Presently as I watch the falling rain through its Morse tracery on the glass, I sup on soup of green pea (a favourite), but my mind wanders to the woodlands where the chanterelles will soon emerge from hiding to greet the cool and damp, and there to meet my blade. In the words of the immortal Lewis Carroll, "Soup of the evening! Beautiful, beautiful soup!"

Over twenty years have gone since I last made music from my soul, singing of imagined loves or drawing visions of my Dreaming from the harp or keyboard. The Muse's life was stifled by changes in my own, and I no longer attempted to look for her, believing that I was not good company for someone of her youth and exuberance for the world. In the years of hollow, rote performances and greyly echoed melodies, days turned without character. She appeared lost to me and, although I honored her memory with my hands, I would strike the notes only in patterns ordained by those baroque masters who best turned the phrases I could no longer formulate on my own. My fingers found nothing in their explorations of strings or ivory for the hours they played there, and only words would do my bidding, only in the form of prose.

Inspiration can seldom be brought into being by force, and active pursuit often keeps it one step ahead of the hunter; nevertheless, it is often hiding at the sidelines, curious and shy and waiting its moment. It was thus it appeared to me some months ago as a rhyme which I now recognize as the blessing of the long-absent spirit falling across my shoulders. It came with the glory of a rainbow, and opened my life again to poetry and the Muse. I sat last night with a box of words, and when I opened it, its bright music spilled into the room.

I have sung the song once without tears, and that only to the person for whom it was written: a simple piece of lyrics accompanied by piano and my voice now unpracticed and flawed. Its words and melody are his alone, companions to my heart.

The Mountain primped up with a bit of fresh snow yesterday while hiding in the privacy of clouds, a mere tap with the powderpuff to cover the most deeply etched lines of its countenance, and by evening's soft light, the ravages of sun seemed not so harsh as they had been in the latter days of the dwindling summer. It is a mellow face which looks over the foothills, a gentle gaze which addresses the pasture as if speaking to a beloved child.

The Mountain, once a distinctly male personage in my pantheon, has become genderless these days, for I am seeing both the yin and yang of its identity as I myself no longer fear to reveal feminine aspects and soften to the figure who now dominates my horizon in trust and love. My own face surprises me, so long have I hidden it behind a harder mask. Such is his gift to me, the one who has reawakened my own true self with his artistry. Like the Mountain in its new makeup, I am radiant above the dim hills of my life and beautiful for the touch of his timely season.

Rocks. Now there's a phenomenon you take for granted, especially if you live on a bed of glacial till as I do. If you're outdoors, you're never more than an inch from a rock. Rocks are ubiquitous, rocks are everywhere. No matter where you go, there's bound to be a rock.

Sir Joh Mandeville wrote (circa 1330) of the mating habits of rocks. At the time, it was believed that minerals engaged secretly in procreative activities, giving rise to more and more rocks to plague the tillers of the soil. As a child, I often heard my father espouse a similar belief when his shovel brought forth another cobble from earth he'd screened only the previous week. "They must be breeding!" he'd cry as he threw the dirt against the mesh, and five more smaller rocks would tumble to the bottom of the slanted frame.

I grew up fascinated by rocks, intrigued by the diversity of their species. My mother would find agates in my pockets when she did the laundry, or tiny garnets in my lunchpail meticulously picked from the boulder of schist at the back of the school playground. Eventually, I obtained a small field guide for minerals to aid me with their identification, and I'd ogle the images of crystals by the hour, always hoping to have one of them turn up in my own back yard.

As I grew up, I could not pass by a lapidary shop without a peek inside. Invariably, I came out with yet another rock in hand to take a place among a growing collection of thumbnail specimens. I had a cabinet filled with simple treasures of fool's gold, quartz and calcite, ranked beside the more precious needles of stibnite, colourfully banded malachite and showy crystal-lined geodes. I bought a tumbler, then a small compact unit for making cabochons, then a 16-inch lapidary saw.

The tools are gone now, a hobby laid aside, but I still have rocks. Slabs of rock, rough rock, mineral specimens fill two corners of my garage, boxed or crated and piled. I am up to my ears in rocks, pretty rocks and plain. Try as I may to divest myself of rocks by mailing them to friends, more keep coming to the surface. I begin to see my father's point. I think they're breeding.

Well, I was off to a bad start. MapQuest lured me down a road to a gated housing development, and the cache appeared to be in the woods behind a big, fat "No Trespassing" sign. There was no sign of a Mormon church or its parking lot, so I turned around in the cul-de-sac and parked against the curb, the better to curse my fate. Getting out in a fit of pique, I paced several feet with GPSr in hand, and was just on the verge of giving up in disgust when I recalled seeing a spire further down the main drag, so I hopped back in the car and went off for a better look. Whadda ya know? There it was! Maybe this was going to be a good day for caching after all.

Now on the opposite side of the private woods, I could see a trail etched by some type of machine (ATV or lawnmower perhaps) which led along the edge of the forest. The fickle GPSr now pointed in its direction, and a good 90° from the area it had indicated from the other side. Its batteries were low, and I was already well on my way down the incline with nothing but a few pieces of swag in my pocket. The spares were in the car, so I'd be doing some averaging in lieu of accurate readings to grab this one, that was certain.

However, I had another more immediate obstacle to confront. A huge and ghastly specter of white and black approached from behind a clump of brush, a Great Dane which outweighed me by a clear half, purposefully walking my way. We made eye contact at a safe remove, and when I spoke to him, his ears perked, but fortunately, he showed no further interest in the interloper on his well-marked turf.

The church land rose into a small hump atop which a cluster of old cedars grew, their boughs making midnight in the deepest core of the grove. Here no satellite signal could penetrate, and my GPSr flailed in the darkness, searching for a whisper of celestial voice which was not forthcoming. I took the arrow's last direction as a clue, but when I gained the light, it quickly reversed and sent me back into the midst of heavy cover. Indeed, the cache appeared to be hidden somewhere within the glowering shade.

To zero in, I returned to the ATV path and a relatively unobstructed view of the sky. The GPSr disagreed with itself at this stage, so a third reading from another spot was dictated. However, as I walked through the densely packed cedars with the instrument in hand, the distance it showed between myself and the cache decreased at a steady, paced rate. Was it possible that it had obtained a signal from a different satellite and was holding the lock? Yes, when I reached a break in the trees just beyond the crest of the rise, the indicator reversed and pointed a mere twenty feet behind me to an unlikely looking heap of rotten, sodden boards.

My approach to the pile was cut off from that direction by unfriendly nails projecting from the ends of moldy lumber, so I attacked from the grove itself, although I had to brush my way through sweeping boughs which I knew would raise small, itchy bumps on my hide if they came into contact with my cedar-sensitive skin. Truly, the environment is out to get the unwary participant in this sport, and those of us who have allergies need be a bit more cautious than folk who only worry about such hazards as nettles or poison ivy. I dodged all but one spray, and that caught me squarely on the forehead.

At last, I was at Ground Zero. From this angle, I could see a gnarled burl of soggy cedar sprawled across two widely spaced lengths of board. Despite looking like it had been in place for the last forty years of our infamously humid weather, I was sure the crumbling wood would hide that elusive ammo can. My feet were soaked with dew, my trousers dark to the knees with wet. My hands were stained with forest, glasses dewed with rain. Damp and grubby with Pacific Northwest autumn, I had found the reward I'd come for, so I drew the log out of its baggie, signed it with a simple, "TNLN" and my name. Yes, it was a good day for caching, after all.

She made her advance slowly, vacating her position on the back of the couch in slow motion. One front paw and then the other stretched into the gap beside my hip, careful to remain on uphostery. The body elongated and her hindquarters had no choice but to follow as she walked forward on her hands. I lay very still, anticipating her leap across me.

Skunk came to me almost four years ago, a young adoptee into her litter and several weeks younger than her purported siblings. She was a wild little thing, having whupped into shape the two dachshunds who had eaten an older member of her family and she retained a deep scar on her wrist as proof of her mettle. Bearing the marks of her teeth and claws, the dachsies had taken her on as mascot after the attack, wisely befriending the tiny spitfire who seemed to rule the rustic shed and the space beneath it where she often lurked. She'd never known the indoors nor the comfort of a lap when I jammed her into a cardboard box and fastened down the lid to take her home that Hallowe'en night, but she was young and I thought tameable.

We settled down for evening. I set the new kitten on my knees at the computer, so tiny a creature that she might have fit in a large coffee mug, and mostly head. Looking up at me with dark blue eyes, she seemed to question what I was, and what this strange new indoor world was going to hold besides warmth and food. With the floor so distant and her nerves so drawn, it wasn't long before she coiled up nose to tail and slept, and I fell into the belief that I had got myself a lap cat.

Well, youngsters do love to play, and since romping was something I'd had little of in the years I'd cared for an ailing cockatoo, the next few weeks were rather rowdy, and oftener than should have happened, I was guilty of figuratively putting the kitten away like a toy when I'd had enough, going to some task that left her to snooze on floor or pillow. By the time I realized I was neglecting her parenting, her routine had been established, laps were not one of her priorities, and Mama was viewed as something to pounce on and attack. The window of opportunity had slipped closed and neither treats nor physical restriction proved sufficient to keep her near me, and after a year or more of futile efforts to retrain her, I gave up trying and resigned myself to the small satisfaction of having her sleep on the far end of the bed or sometimes under the covers by my feet.

I seldom left home for an overnight stay and never for more than two consecutive nights until this summer's trip to Georgia when I was away from home for almost two weeks. Although my fishing buddy and his daughters checked on her every couple of days, Skunk was alone for the longest period in her life. When I returned, the first night was filled with caterwauling as she told me in no uncertain terms what it felt like to roam an empty house. Incrementally over the next week, her complaints grew less frequent, but her habit of sleeping on the bed had been sacrificed to the more interesting noctural activities of watching raccoons or mice frolic beneath the illumination of the neighbor's yard light.

Nevertheless, the experience was not without its reward as far as our relationship was concerned. She seemed more anxious to involve me in her activites, often winding around my legs or getting in my way to make herself noticed. She made eye contact with me frequently as she had seldom done before, and would seek me out to share some meowed pronouncement about something she thought I should attend. The regular tummy-up greeting she saved for when I came home from shopping was expanded to include my return from the mailbox or even a foray to the back bedroom, behind the closed door and out of her sight. In short, my standoffish cat began to demonstrate an affection for me that I'd not expected.

As she crept down from the back of the couch to my side today, I held my breath. She placed one paw on my stomach, then the other. The hindquarters followed. She turned around once, and satisfied with the cushion, laid down nose to tail for a happy nap, for the first time by her own choice. Tomorrow is her fourth birthday, but I will remember it for when she gave me this precious gift.

Several years back, the railroad got their knickers in a twist 'bout locals crossing the river on their bridge for some strange reason, and one day, those of us who liked to fish the little creek across the way found ourselves up agin' a couple of signs what just didn't read as friendly as they coulda done. "Travel at your own risk" is plenty stern enough to keep a body from tryin' to race the train as my neighbor claims he did once in his younger days, and weren't a one of us who didn't listen for that whistle 'fore we started hoppin' ties. On 'tother hand, "No Trespassing Under Penalty Of Law" smacks a bit strong of Establishment, if you take my meaning well, 'specially when it's put in big red letters and crammed spang in your eye.

Now lemme put you to the rights of this. It ain't like this is Amtrak. We're talkin' a little tourist train here, or sometimes a load of two-by-fours headed down to the port, maybe three runs between 'em if it was a heavy traffic day, and no faster'n 15 MPH at that. Oh yeah, foot-crossing went slow and cautious mostly, for lookin' down between them ties at that ol' river rushin' silty underneath oftentimes made your feet want to tangle in the open spaces, but if you kept your eyes ahead, the dizzy weren't as bad. I knew the count back then, two ties per step for my short legs, and halfway was welcome as a summer rain. I always figgered if train came on me sudden-like, I could hang on the outside, and so long as I didn't drop my pole, I might even get one good wave at the engineer. I knew them faces, see, and they knew mine, even though that string of cutties mighta been behind my back. Bein' the law-abidin' citizen that I am, I mind them signs too well these days, unlike a neighbor or two whose names I'm gonna conveniently forget for the moment.

Seems a pity, this, that the fine fall run of cutties will go to those who break the law, same mind-set that dictates selective gear in the spots so over-run with snagging poachers. I'm mostly off my favorite waters from excessive regulation. Must be a way for an honest fisherman to fill the freezer, but I'll be danged if I can see the how.

It's a bit of a reach to envision summer coming to an end day after tomorrow, but like all things, she has served her purpose and the handwriting is on the wall. The forecast speaks of rain in a serious tone, and charts a course into cloud and grey which is the hallmark of this state's western side. I am sad as the summer passes. She was kind this year, and now she grows old and fades.

I too am older, and perhaps in that, I find her passions more tolerable, glad of blithe nights and rosy afternoons. I am eased by her mothering warmth and do not wish to leave its comfort or its light. Her embrace has been gentle on my shoulders, her company a solace, yet now her time is done. Clouds roll up from the west, the days shorten, and a chill spikes the morning air. Summer is going thither, and I would fly for the winter like the birds, for the South calls my wings and my spirit to nest among the pines.

I tell an abbreviated version of the story these days, a half-truth which is less embarrassing to admit to the populace at large, but on this day, I feel I owe the full facts to the faithful readers who know me better and have some insight into the peculiar format which is my life. I take you now to my Hiking and Climbing Journal, edited for brevity and amended to protect the identity of the location, dated 9-14 September 2001. Far from the nearest trail and only just returned from a foray to a nearby peak, I had settled into my isolated camp to spend the remainder of the afternoon.

I had been perched on Toothpaste Hill for half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, and I was writing, attention fully on the task. That someone could 'sneak up' on me is something which pains me to admit, but I was decidedly startled by a voice which asked cordially, "What are you doing poaching on my territory?"

The visitor was standing beside Knobbly Rock. I laid aside the journal or letter which was in my hands. I managed to say, "Ha! Seems to me you're poaching on mine," more glibly than I felt. The intruder proceeded around Toothpaste Hill's east end, stepped over the guylines of the tent and kinda pulled up short for just a second.

"Do you mind?" the guest asked, with a gesture at Toothpaste Hill's pleasant shade.

"By all means, join me," I said, not feeling a word of it. Might as well fall back on social niceties when all else crumbles.

He shucked his pack and I was too rattled to notice that it was a daypack. Digging down into it, he brought up water and some kind of trail mix and sat there nibbling and chatting about how he'd never seen anybody here in all the time he'd been visiting the place. I repllied, "Me neither, except for a batch who camped up on the ridge once, and I've been here almost every year of the last 25. Missed a couple in there, but not many."

As we chatted about backpacking and camping and I finally realized that his pack was a knapsack and I didn't have to worry about sharing my precious place with an interloper, I felt a bit more cordial and asked, "You wouldn't happen to have a weather report on you, would you?" He replied with the details, but then hesitated before asking how long I'd been encamped. When I told him, he responded by saying, "Well, I have some bad world news." I raised an enquiring eyebrow. "There's been a terrorist attack on New York City. They crashed a hijacked plane into the World Trade Tower and it's collapsed."

I sat there waiting for the punchline with a stupid grin on my face. It smacked of the kind of joke my ex-husband and I would have pulled on somebody who hadn't seen civilization for a few days. "They both collapsed, actually," he went on. "Another plane flew into the second Tower."

"There are two World Trade Towers?" I honestly didn't know that. My visitor affirmed it, and went on talking. "Another place crashed into the Pentagon. There was an attack on Pittsburgh, but that one was shot down. Fighter planes were scrambled over New York and DC."

I still had that stupid grin on. "You're yanking my chain," I said flatly, "and I'm not going for it."

He looked at me poker-faced. "No, I'm not."

"With a straight face, no less!"

"No, I'm not. All the airports are closed."

He's doing this far better than B and I could have managed, I thought. Y'know, I haven't seen any jet contrails. "So when did this purported event occur?"

"Tuesday. Today is Wednesday. Yeah, Tuesday," he repeated, rather uncertainly.

At that point, my leg had gotten quite long enough, thank you, and although I wasn't believing a word of it, I wanted some assurance that it really hadn't happened. "You," I said, "ARE YANKING MY CHAIN!"

The guest never blinked. "I wish I was," he went on, "but it's true." And on he went with details.

I was still wearing that stupid grin. I mean, this was an utterly unthinkable event, something straight out of Hollywood. "Towering Inferno," you know. I made what I thought were polite inquiries regarding rescue efforts and defense strategies, trying hard to dredge up anything I could from my limited mental supply of news and/or political jargon, and even gave the guy a laugh when I explained how out-of-touch I deliberately live. "It was April before I knew who had won the Presidential election, and it was only because my uncle in Minneapolis was complaining about something Bush had done." (That's the truth, too!) No, I was making the requisite comments while trying to find equilibrium between It Happened and It Didn't Happen. I wasn't making much progress.

The whole interchange took maybe 20-30 minutes, and when the interloper stood up and shouldered his pack, I was still unconvinced. I had to entertain the possibility, though. It wasn't going away. I finished with writing a piece on a letter about the encounter, and there was an eerie flavour to the atmosphere that I couldn't quite shake. I tried to lay it on human contact, but that wasn't the whole of it. I felt out-of-body, disjointed, desperately needing grounding in the things that mattered to me. I went for a walk.

I spent the next full day doing the things I love best: bathing in the creek, counting frogs, sitting beneath the trees of Toothpaste Hill, spending precious times with certain significant objects, and walking, walking, walking through September. I kept journal and letter-writing to a minimum, played very little harmonica. I had not one but two baths during the afternoon, however, and a distant encounter with a helicopter. Ah! Things were flying then! Reason to discount that wacky tale of large-scale horror. I put Time on a shelf, and for this day, it barely existed and evening came far too soon.

The following morning, I hiked out, crashed out onto trail, and man! does that inclined trail feel like level ground at first! Passed a couple of sets of hikers between there and a creek crossing, but nobody offered conversation and that was fine with me. Stopped at the creek and there I did encounter a chatty solo lady, and just to let nature take its course, I did not introduce any mention of terrorism into the conversation and neither did she. More people at the overlook. More conversation, no mention of New York. Yep, my leg had been pulled, all right. No mention of aircraft crashing into tall buildings, just cheerful repartee. Not a squeak from any of the various hikers I passed en route to my car. Not a one.

As I threw my pack down at the trailhead, my fishing buddy and his wife pulled up in their car. They caught me up on the family news, asked about my trip...conversation that took us many miles down the road. At that point, my friend asked, "Did you talk to anybody today?"

"Yeah, several people," I said, having a foreboding of what was coming next.

"Did they tell you what happened?"

And Flatland reintroduced itself.

Since that day, I have often said that I had one more day's peace than the rest of the world. In truth, I lived the event as 'old news,' not experiencing the first shock and subsequent terror which those tuned to their televisions were feeling as the events unfolded. As a consequence, I am somewhat less in touch with the significance of this day and how it has affected those around me. Forgive me, my friends, for I know 9/11 reached into your lives so much more deeply than my own.

As I was writing one vignette from my early childhood this morning, I found another which, although rather disastrous at the moment of its occurence, became one of the family favorites to tell. Permit me to dress the stage, the better for the players to move about.

My grandmother's home was large for its day, a great white edifice built on a corner lot, surrounded by shrubbery and flowerbeds. It was a stylish house with a pleasant verandah at the front with pillars and trellises up which various vines climbed. The lawn sloped down gently to sidewalk on two sides, and a small fish pond sat beside the short drive which led to a garage wherein a Pontiac was invariably housed. The longer side of the house shaded flowerbeds where lily-of-the-valley grew thickly, split by a three-step stair and the door into the kitchen, and I often sat on this stoop, revelling in the heady, sweet scent of the lily-of-the-valley (which to this day remains one of the only fragrances I ever wear upon my person). Most of my memories of my grandma's house begin with the opening of the back door.

As you enter, you cast your eyes right to the kitchen sink and a small window above it where lace curtains are tied softly back. The cabinetry is dark with the natural color of the wood and also with its age, cupboards hung on either side of the basin, their doors unadorned but for ornamental pulls. An electric range sits at an L to the sink and cabinets, and adjacent to it is an old-fashioned refrigerator with its round coil sitting like a fez atop its head: "Ice Box Top," a somewhat forbidding presence, but my friend. In the bend of the L is a rectangular table, dark of hue as were most of my grandparents' furnishings, and three or four spindle-backed chairs are arranged around it and the surface has obviously been recently used for kneading bread. There is an open pantry lined with canned goods, a closet beneath unseen stairs, a closed door which keeps the kitchen secret from the living room as was the custom in those times. It is a small and cozy kitchen, primitive by today's standards, but large enough to hold a few precious memories for a four-year old child. Sadly, the old refrigerator has outlasted its usefulness, and thereby depends the substance of this tale.

Yes, my grandmother was a social climber, and nothing would do but what Mrs. R. should be the first in her little town to "out with the old and in with the new." Ice Box Top had been given his death sentence over my laments, and the task of his removal had been assigned to my beloved uncle Gus, then still a teen. Gus, a brilliant boy, knew scads about radio and electricity, but he was about to come up woefully short in the physics of refrigeration.

It happened that menfolk were in short supply that fateful morning, and the old refrigerator was fairly heavy, so after clearing a pathway through the kitchen large enough for my father and Gus to wrestle the body of the machine out through the back door between themselves, Gus set to with a hacksaw, seeing this measure as the simplest and most direct for removing the coil. He knew it was filled with a gas, of course, and his logic was that it would simply dissipate upon access to open air. All well and good in principle, but ah, the fact was to prove differently indeed!

Referring to the encyclopedia, I believe the technical name of the coolant may have been dichlorotetrafluoroethane, a combination of freon-114 and sulfur dioxide. In any event, once the process had been started and the stem of the coil had been pierced by the hacksaw, it was too late to stop. A sulphrous, rotten-egg stench flooded the tiny room and sent all parties but Gus scrambling into the yard. Gus, eyes watering, stuck to his task like a trooper, and when the beast was at last guillotined, my father rushed in to assist in carrying the 'head' into the yard.

It was a sorry morning for that small community when Mrs. R. attempted to move up a rung on the social ladder with her purchase of a new fridge. Whatever the constituents of Ice Box Top's gas may have been, they were detectable in some very few parts per million. As my chum sat on the lawn giving up his life's essence, many of the neighbors in a two-block square area evacuated to a less offensive clime and did not return until late that evening. I rather felt he'd taken appropriate revenge.

Flatlanders labour under an illusion, or at least I did for many years, peering out through my kitchen window (then near sea level) into a thready, penetrating rain which I was certain was only more dense at the base of the state's most notorious weather magnet. I'd cuss the stuff roundly and begin unpacking the daypack I'd only put together the previous night, peeved at the whims of the Weather Gods and their blatant disregard for the many patrols I'd done as a drenched and sodden ranger. Sure, western Washingtonians are used to getting wet, but that doesn't necessarily mean they'd choose to submit themselves to any great length of time in a chilly shower, fully clothed. We do have a few mildew-free brain cells, despite popular opinion, and not all our neurons and synapses have moss growing on their north sides. Yes, faced with the drizzle beyond the streaky glass, I'd unstuff the knapsack, put away the rainwear I'd intended to carry 'just in case' (thinking all the while that by demostrating my devotion to the outdoors, the Weather Gods might choose to favour me with sunshine) and go back to bemoaning my fate for having been born into the Pacific Northwe*t, land of uncountable hiking opportunities and unlimited precipitation.

Ah, but they were having the last laugh, those Weather Gods for often as not, as Flatland is lathered and rinsed in nature's own laundry, the great Mountain looks down upon the sloping washboard of aggregated cumulonimbus as if supervising the task at hand. Today demonstrates the point.

When I rose this morning, the black night sky lay satiny between quilted pads of deep grey, and a few spits of rain had darkened the asphalt beyond the gravel drive. Passing cars threw up no roostertails behind their tires, nor in their headlights was the glint of scattering moisture reflected in the beam, even as a mist. Something vaguely more than dew sparkled in the dry grass, illuminated by the neighbor's mercury vapor light, but the cat's midnight suitor would hardly have wet his belly had he slunk away instead of sprinting off at my reprimand. I saw no sign of anything resembling rain as the sun rose, bringing a brightness to the scene which spoke of clear firmament behind the screen of evergreens, and as I raised my eyes to the Presence in the east, a gown of puffy cotton slipped low and revealed the Mountain's bare and haggard shoulder. Such was the morning near 1500 feet, and a fine autumn day which fairly begged for a short walk.

Meanwhile, down in Flatland...

I could sympathize with my foster sister's plaintive email. Beyond her kitchen window and in the garage, a bicycle was calling for her undivided attention. The Weather Gods were up to their old tricks, and she was going nowhere without water wings. Her subject line read simply, "It's pouring!" Poor, disillusioned child!

I saw the sun rise this morning. I heard coyotes yipping before dawn. There are flowers blooming in my garden, and the leaves are changing color on the trees across the road. My cat is sleeping in the window. Steller's jays and juncos have been dining at the feeders. The sky is blue, and an immense Mountain stands on the eastern horizon.

I am guilty of taking these things for granted.

Today, a friend's son was pronounced free of the cancer which only last week had been believed to be invading his body at a phenomenal rate.

A large miracle returns my eye to the smaller ones for a better appraisal of their worth.

Two days ago, I accomplished something I have been unable to do since my shoulder was injured over a year ago. I performed a single chin-up on the bar which hangs across the bathroom doorway.

Even though my physical therapist had said I'd probably never be able to effect the deed again, I had left the bar there for the eventuality. After all, she had expected only a 60% recovery of my strength and mobility and I had regained a good 90% of range-of-motion with diligent adherence to her exercise schedule. True, there are great areas of ropy atrophy in the bicep of the injured arm and also in the muscles of my back, but 'impossible' is a word I scorn, especially when it applies to something I truly want to achieve. For several weeks, I have been hanging from the bar with elbows bent, simply holding my place for as long as could be endured. I had tried to lift my weight to no avail a few times, so each time I went to the bar, I leapt a little higher, bent my arms a bit more and dangled until my strength failed. Each time, I made an attempt to draw myself up a half inch more, an inch. I got my forehead to the metal one afternoon, failed even that on the following day. But persistence pays. I pulled myself up to lip level a week or so later. It then became clear to me that it could be done, and that was all the encouragement I needed.

When I finally raised my 100 pounds in a full chin-up, I was as proud as if I had taken Olympic gold. To be sure, it ws a slow and pained ascent, and the muscles of my back told the story the following morning. Shoulder tendons crackled afterwards for several hours as they slipped into the correct grooves in the bone, and the muscles of the arm complained a bit, but only due to long disuse. My body graciously accepted the one-day holiday I allowed it, rebuilding muscle fiber to fill in for dead cells. Only tonight, I asked the shoulder to perform again.

Well, the routine was hardly a command performance, but we got there slowly. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't quite a full routine. But who knows? Next, I may be able to swing over the lower bar in the back bedroom doorway, hang by my knees and swing off, skinning the cat.

He did his best to be certain there was no possibility of reproduction, asexual or otherwise. He nuked it in the environmental chamber until he was positive its DNA had been destroyed. "A hundred and thirty-five degrees and five percent humidity ought to do it," he said, but I was careful in my reply not to mention that I really didn't think so. Like the common tick, the stuff is amazingly determined to hold onto life, and I had my fingers crossed. Still, I'd bet he checked for developing seeds because he's very thorough (not a one in evidence). I suppose he might even have suspected me of having the facilities for cloning in my back bedroom for all the precautions he was taking. I know he didn't believe my promises for a minute or else he heard the softly muttered, "...until I leave," at the end of, "I just want it for a houseplant. I swear I won't plant it on the riverbar..." Does Bob not trust me in this matter of a little greenery? Me? The greatest fan of the Vine That Ate The South? I'm hurt, truly I am, wounded to the core!

He was careful in his selection of a three-leafed spray, complete with a full flower spike, and squashed it as flat as possible before tucking it in an envelope (well disguised by thick paper padding and gift wrap) which he hoped would escape the notice of any Agriculture Department official who happened to be lurking nearby. Oh yes! My man is brave in his love for me! After one false start in the hands of a courier, he delivered this parcel to the Post Office in person. Disguised, perhaps? Are those dark glasses in your pocket, Bob? And what's this? A phony moustache and a wig?

Alas, it was thus that Pueraria lobata made its way across 2300 miles in less than viable condition, and Bob foiled my plan to see how long its vine would take to reach the bedroom from the far side of the living room, given appropriate care and feeding. I wanted to watch it chase the cat, but I've been deprived of both opportunities by the heartless cad. I intended to enter a youthful starter in a race with Tetrastigma voinieranum, my mature "Man-Eating Plant" with its growth rate of eight feet per season even though I knew which one would win the prize. I've been outsmarted. My noble vision of something which could heroically conquer the Japanese knotweed (Polyganum cuspidatum) which has invaded the Pacific Northwest has been stymied, and my place in Washington's history denied before submission of the application. Sad, so sad. And me, the Kudzu Queen and all!

As Bob says, "Oy vey!"

From the murk has emerged true treasure: a flower basket quilt handmade by my great-grandmother, in relatively good condition barring a few rust stains on the back and some disintegrated stitchery which can be easily repaired. It is a small piece, not quite twin bed size, done on unbleached cotton in red and an undefinable bluish gold-green which has faded to several different hues along the border stripe. The quilting is meticulous, as was all of Old-old's work, as finely spaced as any done today on a machine. She was a needleworker of great skill, this woman who I barely remember as a feeble, tiny creature with a disposition as sharp as her needles, who undoubtedly contributed to the genetics which incline me toward the finer needlearts.

Although I have another of her quilts (a double wedding ring), I lamented letting a second discovery go at far too cheap a price as I knew I needed to do if it was to find a new home. It was a simple thing, merely tiny squares of dark blue fabric set on a calico with a faint complimentary shade vining throughout and not the masterwork that the flower basket piece is. To my recollection, I had never seen either before Friday when I opened them out to air. It was a hard choice, to keep or to sell, so I compromised and folded my least favorite back across a dresser to be viewed by potential buyers.

In this day of quilting classes in almost any craft store and machines to make the projects quick and simple, antique quilts are often seen in the same light as granny afghans by all but the true connoisseur. As it happens, the mother of one of my yard sale customers makes her living as a professional textile restorer, so when the daughter spotted Old-old's quilt, she swept it up in a heartbeat. My regrets at putting it up for sale were soon diminished as we talked more, and as she seemed to be willing to take steps to preserve my great-grandmother's work, I wound up trying to give her two antique Iranian prayer shawls (silk, and in poor condition), but she insisted on paying for them as well. Nevertheless, as she drove away, I experienced a quick, sad moment when I wanted to run after her van to ask that Old-old's artistry might be returned.

That evening, as I was putting away the blankets and other things which could be damaged by dew, I slid back the door on a cabinet I had thought was empty. There, wadded in a heap, was another quilt, finished but for binding the edge. Similar to the blue one I had let go, this one was larger (double bed) and composed of larger squares. It is in the drier as I write, soaked and gently washed, and now destined to be finished by my own hands in a tribute to the great-grandmother I knew so briefly. Guide my hands, Old-old, that I may do your work justice and preserve your art for another generation.

The shelves have fallen. The afghans have walked off en masse. The yarns have unravelled in less than tidy skeins, and all the old framed photos have faded from memory. In the second day of the current yard sale, two-thirds of the clutter from two lives has gone to new spots to gather dust. I shall mourn bits of it briefly, and then rejoice for the lessening of my imprint upon the environment. Today, I acted the full Aborigine, simply giving away much of what has outlived its purpose with me into the hands of someone with a need. I am preparing for walkabout, that I may act when its time comes due, free to shift my camp without burden or backward glance.

(A vignette...interesting word, that, specified by Mr. Webster as originating from the same source as 'vine,' and in one definition, "a running ornament...as of vine leaves, tendrils and grapes..." Never mind the kudzu! "...put on or just before the title page or at the beginning or end of a chapter.")

If Gus and I enjoyed the protection of the cabin in a way not changed even in this present day, not so the backpacker who went on past the cabin cut-off and to the rustic camping area beside the lake a further mile or so down-valley. At that time, a three-sided shelter stood close to the water (a structure long since torn down and not replaced), and up against one wall, a wooden rowboat leaned, ostensibly for the ranger's exclusive use but often employed by a visitor as well. Ah, those were the times! Folk would take advantage of the ranger's blind eye, fish a bit, and then replace the little craft exactly as it had been found; a gentleman's agreement, as it were, and as long as the boat was cared for, the ranger was willing to look the other way from his official stance.

One early morning, the two of us set forth to attempt to entice a change from pancakes to the breakfast table, for nothing is as good to the early riser as a fresh-caught trout, lightly dipped in meal and fried to a delicate crispness. The small boat was in its accustomed spot, and only a brief portage was required to launch it on the glassy water with two passengers aboard. As the sun rose, threads of mist thickened into a soft mass hanging on the lake's surface, and a haze appeared to blank its reflective sheen as if pollen had blown in and sugared a polished crystal plate. Into this Camelot, my uncle rowed until we could anchor ourselves at a respectable distance from the shoreline, and then with some moderate degree of expertise, he rigged two poles with the time-tested array of bobber and worm and cast the baits out toward the lake's deep center.

With the accuracy that only hindsight provides us, I see now that my uncle was no fisherman, for this water is best worked with a lure resembling a frog and cast from shore to the edge of the dropoff created by an ancient lava tube. It has provided me with many fine trout over the years, fat and healthy rainbows left to grow wild from the stocking practices of Gus' era, but bobbers were what he knew then of fishing, so fish with them was precisely what we did.

My experience with the Art Piscatorial at this phase of my life was the delight of hooking bullhead after bullhead from a local pier. The thought that something edible could be withdrawn from the water intrigued me, but as children are wont to do, I allowed my attention to drift from the appointed task, and at exactly the wrong moment. My bobber lived up to its name unnoticed by me, but when Gus alerted me to its sudden disappearance, it was already too late to set the hook. The one chance I had been given by the Fish Gods was gone and with it, all chance of breakfast for not another strike was forthcoming. Two skunked fishermen replaced the boat beside the shelter and climbed the route to the cabin empty-handed, and to yet another pancake feed.

Was it yesterday or the day before when the significance of this series of vignettes registered with me? I don't recall. The subconscious mind is a tricky little fellow, able to get inside the densest overgrowth to reach some hidden root. I count back the years...ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty...and almost to the date, I am there again with Gus, celebrating a milestone anniversary. The vine is in full bloom, and in kudzu's blossom is a fragrance sweet as memory.

(A glad, good September Morn to you, my faithful readers! As promised, I am continuing the epic...)

The story goes that once upon a tour of duty, my uncle Gus sallied forth shortly after supper intending to pay a brief visit to the one-holer behind the cabin. He had taken the Readers Digest, the better to "cogitate" (as he expressed it), but as he read, the light of day seemed to fail untimely. He looked up. Much to his surprise, the open doorway was filled with a hirsute torso, the forequarters of a massive bear resting on the roof of the privy.

Now knowing the size of the average black bear, I can say with some certainty that this tale is exaggerated. However, a bear's body blocking your only exit from a structure not known for the durability and engineering of its design might tend to jade one's view. As the story was related to his friends and family, Gus remained seated, fearing to move a single muscle until dawn of the following morning when the bear casually strolled away. I do know there was truth in a parallel story: that an old rogue had to be shot in the same area because he was vandalizing campsites, so I do not doubt that Gus saw a bear from his inconvenient viewpoint, but I do question the estimation of its size and the duration of my uncle's purported reign.

With these two stories in my child's mind, I dearly wanted to see a bear, and to that purpose Gus applied himself to building an excessive number of pancakes for breakfast the subsequent morning. The stump outside the kitchen window had served before as a table for wildlife, so as we ate the fluffy, pockmarked pancakes which had cooked on the stove's griddle portion, Gus placed another outsized one where we could watch from the safety of the cabin. We waited. A few grey jays came and made short work of the hotcake, so Gus replaced it with another. Again we waited. Alas, our offerings were for naught, or at least as far as witnessed. At no point during our tenure did a bear show its muzzle, although we continued feeding the jays each morning, much to their delight.

Walking from the cabin southwestward, one could reach a reedy meadow surrounded on three sides by craggy peaks. It was here that Gus took me one morning and described most beautifully a place beyond the rugged horizon, a valley wide and deep, ribboned with creeks and tinted with every hue of wildflower ever seen. He himself had never been there (few had been), and as he told of it, my soul felt the pull of this mysterious place as if it were my long-forgotten home. My enchantment with it even then superceded my hope to someday climb the Mountain, an undeniable and unfathomable necessity, moreso than any mere desire. And someday, long into the future, I would indeed be reborn there in a September (a story which select readers already know and understand, so I will not re-tell it here).

As we left behind the marsh marigolds and knotweed, we had another mission to accomplish: filling the water containers from the giggling creek which refreshed a small, deep lake a mile or so beyond the cabin. We rounded a huge grey erratic, meaning to dip from the deeper pool which had formed at its base, and my eye caught a glimpse of white which begged a closer look. The object was soon to become a literal 'bone of contention' between Gus and me because I was as determined to take it home as he was that I should leave it. I know now that it was the thighbone of an elk although at the time, I was convinced I had found a bona fide tyrannosaurus rex's knucklebone.

This bone hefted slightly over two pounds. From learning that, you will no doubt draw an obvious conclusion. After many attempts to relieve me of my prize, the final round was my victory. When we packed to leave the cabin for the last time, I determinedly invented an excuse to make a last patrol behind the building with my pack (with my pack, mind you!) to the spot where I was sure Gus had hidden it. I tucked the bone tidily beneath some clothing so no telltale white glint could give me away, and Gus did not discover my subterfuge until we unpacked in my mother's kitchen. Tyrannosaurus' knucklebone remains one of my most prized possessions to this very day, resting on a faded and worn silk pillow which my great-grandmother brought across the country in a covered wagon.

(A quick mental review suggests that there is at least one more memory to be plucked from this vine, so I will beg your indulgence once again. Kudzu! It grows and grows and grows...)