Burning A Hole In The Clouds

In any location where a cloudy sky meets the horizon, whether a coastal setting or a mountainous one, there will often be interesting interactions of sun light with those clouds. The colors yielded by those sun/atmosphere interactions, especially those on the red end of the spectrum, can often yield gaze-, photograph-, or even poem-worthy responses by a viewer. We’ve all seen sunrises with wispy and discontinuous cloud formations that produced a variety of colors, but I recently woke to an unusual situation. Here the cloud formation was uniformly dense, so that there was no refractive color distribution. The sun seemed to burn a hole in the cloud with a uniform halo of color surrounding it. Still, the sun was so bright that my camera sensor was pushed beyond its recording capability. Technically, there are no data for the sun in this image, and therefore, no color. Probably not a good photograph for some purists, or maybe the question, “Why didn’t you use a neutral density filter?” Well, this was a “grab” shot. I had not the time to apply a filter. Furthermore, what is presented here is closer to reality than a filtered image. In summary, that’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

J…

Waiting for Flight Clearance

Saw these gulls preening and waiting in an early morning fog at a beach on Jordan Lake. Not art, simply an oddity, or maybe not. As inclement weather can keep some airplanes grounded, so might the same prevent some birds from flying.

Grooming while waiting for the weather to clear.

One Must Stare

Our world abounds in Mother Naure’s beauty, much of it in our routine living spaces where we aren’t especially prone to simply pause and feed our visual and esthetic senses. On the other hand there are occasional opportunities where beauty briefly fills our visual space and we have no option but to pause and stare in breathless wonder, thus my experience when I stepped out on the deck this evening.

Long Draw Trip

In multiple ways this trip to Colorado is a feast of memories, some revisited and others to come, some emotional, and all fond.  On a recent memory hunt, I trekked the Long Draw Road that branches off from Colorado 14, the Poudre Canyon Road.  Long Draw doesn’t show well on either Apple or Google maps, and in Southern lingo, it’s “over yonder way” from our Red Feather home, or more precisely, an hour’s drive.  

The Long Draw Road a long, winding affair that ultimately leads to the origin of the Colorado River, which at that point is a trickle in a small marsh.  I last saw the river’s origin thirteen years ago when my son Galen and his son James and I walked across it.  I didn’t go that far on this trip.  Instead, I hiked a short distance into the Trap Park Trail. 

July is wildflower month in Colorado, and along this trail I saw two state flowers in all of their radiance: Indian Paintbrush (Wyoming),

and Columbine (Colorado).

I then followed the trail past the flowers and part way up the mountain to a point where I could see a mile or two and captured this image (I occasionally REALLY like a black and white image.)

At the end of the day, after the hike, the flowers, one moose sighting and a peaceful, rainy drive back down the Poudre Canyon to home, I reminisced it all, including some older memories, with a glass of wine.

Peace and tranquility to all!

Jack…

Tribute to Peggy

We lost Peggy, my dear wife and partner of 58 years, and mother to our four children, November 26, 2023. The following images were taken from a PowerPoint tribute that was shown at the Celebration of Life held in her honor. Time doesn’t heal this kind of pain.

A Deal With the Devil

There is fencing around the entire perimeter of our property with the exception of the entry gate where there is a cattle guard that wildlife and senior humans avoid crossing. Most of the fencing is wire of the smooth/twisted variety and ancient, rusty barbed kind. There is one section along the western side of the property comprised of wooden posts supporting horizontal stringers that, in turn, support vertical slats (see two images below). In addition to containing/blocking large animal movements the wooden fence prevents blowing snow fall from piling up on the driveway. All of this fencing was present when we purchased the property.

I spent several days during our last visit repairing one section of the wire fence that runs along the inside edge of the forest west of the house. As I said in that story, the job was not easy, compounded by black flies, mosquitos, uneven terrain, damaged posts, broken wire and geriatric joints that hindered my decades-ago nimbleness.

Upon completing the repair of the wire fence my mind was on recuperation. But alas, it was not to be! Two old horizontal stringers on the snow fence broke during a windy storm, leaving a blight on what was actually a landmark along the Red Feather Road. We were leaving in a few days, and I questioned whether I could squeeze the repair in. But I didn’t feel up to it! However, a voice urged me to go for it, saying that this job would be easier than the wire fence repair and that my discomfort would be only minimally incremental.

Yeah, sure! I should have known better! That voice has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years. Anyway, I fixed the fence, removing the slats and pulling big nails to remove the broken stringers, putting new 2x12 stringers in place and re-attaching the slats. But wow! For a few days I was eating Tylenol and Advil to ease the cumulative aches. New ones too! In my finger joints! Ankles! Arches! Yep, the snow fence looks good again, but methinks I need to find a real fence repairman for any future jobs! At least this repair job won’t be waiting!

Who Needs TV?

The size of this image might leave smartphone viewers with their smaller screens at a disadvantage here.  

In May of 2015 I was searching for a suitable panoramic scene to be posted in the Red Feather Lakes Community Library as a part of their renovation project. After fruitlessly framing compositions at several locations I finally shot this scene from a peak across the road from our house. A neighbour was kind enough to allow me to park in his yard, from which I hiked up to a higher elevation, camera and tripod in tow. And there is was - exactly the scene I had been searching for! Winds were pushing the clouds about, thus rapidly altering the elements in the scene, and I had to work quickly.

As for the elements of the scene, the light green foreground is part of the Boy Scout Ranch, and the dirt road is, of course, the Boy Scout Road even though it is state-maintained.  Our house is immediately to the right of the picture where we overlook much of what you see here.  However, we cannot see the mountains without hiking a short distance toward the Boy Scout Road.  The two dark layers, green and blue, are the hilly walls of the Poudre River Canyon.  The 2012 High Park fire burned some of that dark green area, and Maggie, my mini-schnauzer companion, and I were the next to be evacuated had the fire advanced further. Although we endured a lot of smoke, we weren't evacuated.  The snow-covered peaks are the Mummy Range, the northernmost mountains in Rocky Mountain National Park.  That snow pack and its run-off feed the Colorado River running westward and the Poudre River heading eastward.  I have hiked to the origin of the Colorado River at the base of the Mummies and stepped across it.  Snowpack of that amount is no more.  

We printed a four foot long metal triptych for the library where it still hangs. Liking that printing so much we ordered another, each section being 24” wide and 36” tall.  IOW, the picture is six feet long.  It hangs on the west wall of our den.  I can sit in our recliner and stare through the window toward the forest and move my eyes a few degrees rightward and gaze at this.

Who needs TV?

Horses and a Rainbow

“There’s a storm across the valley, clouds are rolling in” as the words go in John Denver’s song. It’s fascinating that different elements can come together to create a scene worthy of recording, and here the clouds, mountains, horses, the meadow and a rainbow all collude to offer a photographic symphony. There are four layers: three ground layers and the sky, each distinct with unique textures and lighting. The rainbow appears to descend between the distant mountains and the nearer hills while the horses graze in the foreground.

So much for a “lesson” in composition and opportunistic photography. Maybe verbal fluff too! Otherwise, simply enjoy the picture for its uniqueness.

A Trip To Wyoming

Several years ago I came across a delightful 2009 essay by a Cleveland sports writer, Tony Pluto, in which he described a trip into southeastern Wyoming the day prior to his coverage of a Browns-Bronco game in Denver.  His intent and his writing style were different from mine, so I have simply borrowed the elements from his story that match my observations and which evoke fond memories of our own Wyoming experiences.

For a bit of background about Wyoming, many would say that it is still an untamed land, where the mountains are ever on the horizon and the prairies and grasslands are vast.  Mr. Pluto said, “I have been to Wyoming at least a dozen times. On each visit, I think how the land is not tamed by man. Some mountains are too high, some rivers too wild, some storms too fierce.” Good description!

Nearly half of Wyoming is federally-owned. Cattle ranching is big, and cowboys don’t dress like Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. Mineral extraction and tourism are the primary sources of revenue.  There are boom towns like the coal city of Gillette, as well as the once-boom-town-now-ghost town, Jeffrey City, built on uranium mining wealth.  Wyoming is a mix of ranchers and billionaires, and the first state to grant women the right to vote.  Don’t get the idea, though, that the Equal Rights Amendment is smiled upon in Wyoming; voting women in Wyoming were the wives of voting ranchers.  

The climate is semi-arid, and the forever winds can and do overturn tractor trailers.  Big snow fences are common along strategic roadside sites and Union Pacific railways, and highway gates are used to close roads prior to blizzards.

Mr. Pluto described driving down roads under high skies and huge clouds that seemed to rise up to the heavens. He drove down roads through miles of open “pastures", roads where his cellphone was long out of range. 

Any Verizon towers out here?

Mr. Pluto drove down roads where he saw more pronghorn antelope than cars and people. Yep!  There are more antelope than people in Wyoming. 

And there are loners too!  These critters can hit 55 mph in a dead run. Speculation is that they evolved the speed to elude the now-extinct North American cheetah.  However, they are not true antelope; instead, they are related to giraffes.  Kinda like Spanish moss and pineapples being relatives.

Tony described driving Wyoming Highway 130 into the Snowy (Range) Mountains without mentioning this piece of history, a marker for the Overland Trail where pioneers trekked this open space between the years 1862 to 1868.  The wagon ruts were still present a hundred years afterward.  Another cement post marker can be seen immediately to the right of the dark fence post and slightly below the horizon.  Brave, crazy or desperate?  Who knows?  Twenty miles a day through the territory of people who didn’t want them on their land.  Hardships unimaginable to us!

A bit further along Highway 130 there is the Centennial Valley and the Snowy Range Mountains in the distance. The green area in the left side of the image hides the Little Laramie River which ultimately ends up in the Missouri River system. We had a similar view of the Snowy Range every morning from our third floor apartment in Laramie in 1967-68.

The Snowy Range Road is opened sometime around Memorial Day after the winter snows have been cleared, and June and July visitors can discover a plethora of lakes, small streams and wild flowers such as this turk’s cap.

I mentioned in a previous entry that I had photographed white columbines.  Here is an example of that delicate beauty!

Finally, there is Medicine Bow Peak, elevation 12,014 feet, and Lake Marie.  I’ve hiked around this peak but never to the top. Our daughter, Mary Beth and her two boys have achieved that honour though.  A tragedy occurred here on October 6, 1955 when United Airlines Flight 409 crashed into the face of the peak, killing all 66 people aboard.  Details in Wikipedia!

The Pluto essay skipped from his mention of Highway 130 to his spotting of a moose, omitting the peak, the flowers and the streams.  As with his moose spotting, I saw this big fellow on my way down the Snowy Range, munching on the local shrubbery.  Pretty they’re not, but majestic, yes.  And they jump our fence in Colorado in order to eat the choke cherry twigs, leaving their markings in the driveway.  Oh well, most of our Colorado neighbours have four legs, and we welcome their presence.

Mr. Pluto ends his story with the idea that his trip to Wyoming had given him a glimpse of heaven, a place that he occasionally thought about with the hope of a permanent address.  Here’s a bit of news for him!  Many people, especially urban folk who are accustomed to neon lights and street lamps are uncomfortable in the open, unlit spaces of Wyoming.  Those whom we've accompanied into a Wyoming prairie night are too frightened of that empty space to think of it as an eternal residence.  On a more practical level, a rancher's grocery trips are to buy supplies, not simply some plastic-wrapped chicken tenders.  The Schwann and UPS trucks are harbingers of the outside world, and mailboxes can be miles from the ranch house.  It’s that openness that drew us in, that first view of Laramie and the surrounding plains as we descended the Lincoln Highway, now I-80, in 1967.  Our entire time there was an adventure, physically, intellectually and spiritually, one not easily forgotten.  Tony Pluto found his view of heaven; maybe we found ours.

“Scene” No Longer

Time changes everything as the old Bill Monroe tune says.  And so it goes with our idyllic setting in Fearrington.  No, the parks, trails, the stately oaks and the general nature of the Village aren’t changing, but the visual reminder of an earlier time, of an agrarian life, the last bit of if, when the land was worked and produced goods, is disappearing.  Trees are being cut, and the big yellow machines have begun their scraping, digging and mounding, altering the face of the Weathersfield pasture.  No, this is not a rant against “progress” as the quest for money is often characterized; it’s more like a sigh.  I’m a farm boy derivative, a small-farm boy.  I’ve seen the little family farms of my youth become mega-farms and the larger family cattle and wheat ranches of the American West become corporate entities.  And the local grocery store and the the book mobile became Wall Mart and Amazon. So, what’s my point? Maybe my eighth decade taints my attitude, especially about some small things. So, for me, an unobstructed view of a sunset scene across the Weathersfield pasture, once part of a farm, will be a memory.  The bluebirds will probably abandon the nesting boxes along the fence because the “neighborhood” will lose the openness they need.  And the old ranch gate with its cross-wire support posts, relics of another time, won’t fit the modernized scenery.  “Oh well” as my friend in Fort Collins says.  Time changes everything, including me. I’m a bit slow at it though.

So, I’ll finish this with a few soon-to-be-memories.

Posted 5/23/23

An evening view across the Weathersfield pasture.

A neighbourhood crow amongst the Weathersfield bluebird boxes, calling his chums.

Late afternoon at the Weathersfield gate.

Tree Etchings

The British photojournalist, Sir Don Mccullin, described the winter deciduous trees on his property as looking like etchings, bare and black, silhouetted against the cold grey sky. Upon reflection, his description yielded a different mental framing for that which I had all too often passed off simply as bleak nakedness, or images befitting an Edgar Allen Poe story. With McCullin’s perspective in mind, the etchings metaphor now reveals different shapes for different species, the nests, squirrels, birds, parasites, symbionts and occasional cold weather adornments. Etchings need not be black against a grey sky; aspen and birch trees being exceptions, and the background need not be sky. And questions! Why do twigs and limbs branch off in a certain direction? How does a white oak “know” to build support for an increasingly-heavy horizontal limb, a limb that might not be seen by a casual gaze at a leafed tree? How is a tree structure so wind-flexible yet wind-stable? However, answers are not nearly so necessary as is “wonder” about a tree, whose every carbon atom comes from the atmosphere, a being who, unlike us, gives back to Earth - in spades. I’ve tried to capture some of that wonder in a separate gallery by the same name as this blog post on this site, all toned to create a mood of winter’s coldness, as in the example below.

Camden Park gnarled white oak against cloudy winter sky.

What Is The Next Note And Why?

What I want in heaven is for words to be notes and conversations to be symphonies. Tina Turner

I haven’t updated this blog or this site’s images in a too long a while.  Perhaps I can clarify the issue beginning with the title of this essay.  A bit of a funky title for a photography blog?  Maybe, but let’s see where it goes, and I’ll begin by rephrasing the title’s question: How does an improvisational pianist select her next note?  And why that note?  The same could apply to the birth and execution of many if not most creative endeavors.  In some cases, the next note could be the first note. The musician Sting, who claims to have J.S. Bach as his music teacher, said that if he didn’t realize a surprise within the first eight bars of a composition, he stopped listening.  Beethoven accomplished the surprise in the first four notes of his fifth symphony.  He knew his next note and why he wanted it.  With respect to my creative endeavors, I don’t, and therein lies my problem.

A month before my 79th birthday I purchased a Fender Stratocaster.  An American made one at that.  A few more clams than an Indonesian model, but I figured that a lack of music knowledge need not be complicated by possible quality issues. Seems a bit late, right?  In truth, I wanted to learn about guitar and acquire some proficiency, but not necessarily to become a guitarist.  Music had long been an interest and the guitar seemed to be a good entry point, especially given its versatility, which Segovia equated to a small orchestra. The further I’ve gotten into learning the instrument, the more I realise Segovia’s observation as truth, and the more connected I feel to art in general.

My other hobby, photography, was in decline, in the dumps, so to speak, and I needed another creative outlet. I’ve been down the usual path with picture-taking: teenage twin-lens Kodak, 35mm film later, SLR, light and electron microscopy, in my career, and finally the digital world and its accoutrements, books and YouTube.  I had no professional aspirations, especially upon shooting two weddings for friends. Publish a book?  Nope!  My work is not project-based.  I simply wanted to be good at photography and art-making!  So, why the funk?  I still love a great image, and plan to make a few more.  However, I don’t travel out as much, for non-geriatric reasons, and the on-line image world has become a saturated blur to the point of BOREDOM.  Pretty and impressive pictures?  Even some orgasmographs as Brooks Jensen calls them!  Yes, and lots or them.  But there’s a world of difference between a pretty photograph and one that I would deem as artwork or display-worthy.  Besides, they would have to match my wife’s décor, which is not likely!  Furthermore, “Likes” and “Next” arrows aren’t the stuff of artistic discernment.  And most of the artwork I’ve seen in homes amounts to complimentary color splotches or a reproduction of a Gainsborough landscape, but not photographs.  Cynical?  Yep!  So, it all comes down to “art”, stuff that has some lasting value, even if it is only for the artist’s family.

Back to the music!  I dabbled earlier in acoustic guitar and bluegrass banjo for quite a while, even to the level of a few public appearances with the banjo.  None of it was creative though, just copying.  No music theory, scales, or chord structure!  More recently, I stumbled on the PBS tribute to the blues man Buddy Guy and became entranced by the plethora of guitar-isms, the connectivity to other music genres, originality, skill, etc. In the frustration accompanying my present photographic malaise, I bought the Stratocaster.  That was more than a year ago, and I’m still trying - daily. Minor pentatonic scale!  Major pentatonic scale! Linking scales! Movable scales! Intervals!  Triads!  Sevenths chords!  Chord tones!  The list is longer, but I’ll stop by saying that learning and practicing music theory and overcoming octogenarian fingers are a helluva lot more difficult than anything I’ve encountered in photography.  Hands down!  No contest!  End of story!  However, the bright side is that my labored practice has led me deeply appreciate many genres of music, from Bach to Julian Lage and many between.  No heavy metal though!  Seriously, how did Brahms conjure those two piano concertos?  What led Beethoven to challenge symphonic tradition with his third symphony?  How does composition occur?  Counterpoint? ­­­­­­And all with twelve Pythagorean tones!  Mind-boggling!  However, it all comes down to creativity, and creativity stems from ideas.  Sting, again, says that the notes come from an idea or a short riff, and he sees structure, be it people, actions, or words.  He even alludes to being in a state of grace in which the music flows and writes itself.  His next note appears!

OK, let’s sort this out. First, this is not a turn from photography to music; ­­­­­­­both are creative endeavors, of which there are many.  I like both and admire others!  My personal concerns are probably more brain-related; my brain, in fact.  What is the next note?  My progress and even my interest seem to have faltered.  Yes, I can frame a good landscape composition per Sam Abel and process it along multiple paths.  I can light paint an image.  Intentional camera movement too.  I can determine the key in which a guitar solo is played and copy the basic melody.  But in neither case is that creativity. Therein is my funk!  The next note!  The step toward artwork.  Upon reflection, however, most accomplished musicians began early in life, and perhaps creativity is akin to learning another language or developing perfect pitch: the earlier the better.  Conversely, the older the more difficult, which is where I am.  Creativity was not an emphasis of my youth.  And the plethora of books and YouTube videos that hold the deepest secrets of expression and creativity haven’t seemed to tickle my brain.  So perhaps I should simply continue to plug along my present dual path and enjoy the adventure, that of continuing to grow in appreciation of creativity and art.  And here I must admit that the Buddy Guys, Eric Claptons, Edward Hoppers, Daniel Barenboims, J.S. Bachs, and many other creative spirits pull me in every day.

I’ll close with this thought: Hobbies are damned important, and I have two, music and photography, neither of which will lead me to stardom. The guitar is one device for entry into the world of music, and the camera is likewise for the visual arts.  Beyond the entry point though is a path to be enjoyed, no matter the degree of accomplishment and even if the paths are bumpy for the hobby!  The more important issue though is where the hobby leads you in the larger world of art.  That could be the next note!

And finally, a diversion from this erudite discussion about personal frustration and art­, my absolute favorite photography sage, Sean Tucker, says that the real beauty of photography is to capture and freeze time. With that in mind, we would do well by taking snapshots of our loved ones.  As he said, there are two deaths, the cessation of a heartbeat and the eventual loss of a name or a picture of the deceased.  Perhaps that is a next note that supersedes all the petty ones.

And on that note, say “Goodnight” Gracie!

A Labor of Love

Our present location offers ample opportunities for “street” photography, especially during the early morning hours when many of the residents are walking about, often briskly for exercise, sometimes with their dogs. I recently came upon this scene that did not fit the usual mould, one that was a self-contained story. I shot it from a distance for the sake her anonymity and to emphasize the scope of the story. I’ll leave it for you to interpret.

Red Feather Lakes I

We had the privilege of living in northern Colorado for a few years, and although circumstances brought us back to North Carolina, our home state, we would go west again in a New York minute if it were possible. Our place was located near Red Feather Lakes, a quaint village northwest of Fort Collins, Colorado, that serves as a hub of activity for an eclectic mix of ranchers, artists, commuters, retirees and visitors. It is surrounded by beautiful mountain scenery, lakes and the Roosevelt National Forest. While there are no hitching rails for horses, the streets are still unpaved; hopefully they will remain in that state. There are several businesses, a post office, a fire station, a superb little library, a gallery, a veterinarian and lots of charm.

I photographed the Red Feather Trading Post and adjacent buildings, the business hub of the village, on several occasions. These two images were evening and morning shots, respectively.

Evening in the Business District, was captured after sunset while the Trading Post and Post Office lights were illuminating their environs.

The second, Morning in the Business District, was captured as the early morning sun illuminated the sky, making the scene a bit more colorful that the first. Confession: No, the original image was not the same as the one shown here, and yes, I did enhance the colors a bit to achieve this image. I would posit that image adjustments are as much a part of photographic art as brush selection is in painting. But for any photography purists among you, those who view image manipulation as artistic heresy, I suggest that you take your issue up with my “fixer”, a burly guy named Dwight who resides in Fort Collins. Good Luck :-)!!

Finally, there is much more lore and color around Red Feather Lakes, some of which I will attempt to portray in future posts. Thanks for reading!

The Old Man and the Barn

The barn was on the property when he purchased the place, its age uncertain. The skin was ponderosa pine, and given that many ponderosas in northern Colorado could be 200 years old when cut and milled, the total age of the barn might have been in centuries.  It was a two-horse structure, with stables and corrals and feed and tack rooms, lantern-lit in their early days, all covered by a tin roof.  A mid-septuagenarian, he was increasingly drawn to old things because they revived memories of his past and there were parallels in their accommodation of time.  The barn was no exception; it had endured and been scarred by extremes of high country weather, and past owners had deployed numerous patches and repairs. Yet there was a beauty in the rustic, home-made parts and gnarled wood with its curving and cracked grain, stains, and knots and knot holes, both patched and unpatched.  In color and composition it all added up to the slow acquisition of character as well as a metaphor for his own aging processes. He and the barn were fellow time travelers, and he visited often. The barn was a living thing in a sense, aging with the elements, and offering insights to those willing to be close and quiet.

The barn, a colorful structure of unknown age

Warts and Scars

A repaired hinge

Home-forged latch, rusted but still functional

The Overseer

Patched knothole

Weather-worn door latch

Tack room lighting

Until One Has Loved An Animal....

Until one has loved an animal a part of one’s soul remains unawakened. - Anatole France

Parts of my soul, whatever that is, may be unawakened but not because I haven’t loved an animal. There are times when I could rightly be accused of being a misanthrope, but other than pythons in the everglades I hold no ill feelings toward animals. My dog is in another category altogether though, and I’ll leave it at that. Perhaps the expressions of dog and man shown below will help to illustrate my point.

There are many people walking around Fearrington Village with their dogs, leash in one hand and plastic bags in the other, but this pair was different. I watched them for a couple of days and saw that they were “regulars” in both time and place. He sat on Nana’s bench under the ancient white oak tree with his gray-muzzled friend lying on the ground nearby. So, camera in hand, I asked if he would allow me to photograph them, and he graciously complied. He was standing when I approached, and upon accepting my request, he walked to the bench, his friend wobbling by his side, and they both settled into relaxation. This is the first image in the series, processed in a vintage format. The combined expressions of man and companion defined the image.

Old Friends

Bosler

I’m dreaming of a trailer

In Bosler Wyoming

With tires on the roof dear

And you by my side.

…. From the song, “Bosler” by Jalan Crossland

With all due respect to Mr. Crossland, nobody, but nobody, seems to want to go to Bosler, Wyoming. There isn’t an intact trailer in the town, and no real streets for kids to play in as implied in his song. But his near-comical lyrics about a lonesome city apartment dweller longing for the open plains of Wyoming are an allegorical feast that says much about the spirit of the West. There are times when I feel that way myself.

Bosler was once a cattle town with a railroad mail stop, post office, stores, a school and the usual church. There was even a four-room motel, unplumbed of course, but with “Men” and “Women” privies. The need to use one of those “facilities” in a wind-blown January night would have hopefully been alleviated by chamber pots in the rooms. Bosler remained a colorful pass through as long as US 287 was the main route from Laramie to Jackson, but Mr. Eisenhower’s interstate system nailed Bosler’s coffin shut. So now it looks like Jeffrey City, a once-thriving uranium-mining town a bit further along 287, and other ghost towns in Wyoming. The famous Virginian Hotel, or what’s left of it, is in the crossroad of Medicine Bow, a few miles north of Bosler.

(Note: The following images were processed in a Jack Spencer-inspired style.)

The truck is doing what most vehicles do in Bosler, passing through without slowing. The four small buildings on the right are the remains of the “motel”.

The Bosler Consolidated School sits starkly empty on the plains on the north side of town. As with the rest of Bosler, the school is abandoned - with broken windows, peeling paint on the classroom walls, and the campus a sea of prairie grass.There are miles of open space between the school and the distant Laramie Range forming the horizon. There’s a road over there in the distance, where cars are mere specks.

Bosler is a graveyard for old, abandoned vehicles, of which there is no shortage, some in the open, others behind a decrepit wood fence. A large yard west of the railroad is also filled with junk vehicles, including old school buses.

The last business in Bosler may be Doc’s Western Village. Like the fenced-in junk yard a little way down the road, there is still stuff inside the old store. Somebody is paying a utility bill for it as indicated by a drop cord coming from a side door to an old motor home parked to the right of this image. As Jalan Crossland’s song says, “In Bosler Wyoming there ain’t much to buy”.

So, as the sun began its descent behind the Snowy Range, I got into my car, pulled out on US 287, and headed southward to Laramie, pondering what I had seen and sensed, while the never-ceasing wind and the prairie grass continued their slow reclamation of Bosler.

Thanks, Mr. Crossland, for reminding us that we can dream.

Places of Respite

Lily Tomlin is alleged to have said, "No matter how cynical you become, it's never enough to keep up.”  Ms. Tomlin was correct; in fact, my cynicism is near exhaustion.  In a time when the cacaphonic noise of the day offers little more than profits for the makers of blood pressure statins, when the prattle approaches stacatto noise quality, all ramping up my sense of incredulity over our present collective state, an escape, even a brief one, is in order.  Within my walls, Bach, Chopin, Schumann, Saint Saens and like artistic company are diversions.  Outside, Nature offers a calming sundry of colors, especially green, and and perhaps even moving water. Both, I think, indicate the value of the arts and a presence in the natural world (and both when they can be combined) as placidity for the soul.  I hope that you who are similarly affected by the days' insanity and inanity have similar means of finding respite.  Best wishes.

The Goalie

I originally posted this article on my previous website at the time of the last Olympiad but had the good sense to save it before leaving that host.  Therefore, you will note that some of the content may be dated.  Nevertheless, this is about one of our grandsons who, with the avid support of his parents, remains a dedicated soccer aficionado and player. The included image now hangs on his bedroom wall.

Original blog post:

To say that our grandson loves soccer is a big understatement.  His school attire consists of indoor soccer shoes, high socks and shirts emblazoned with names like Neymar or Messi.  Unlike many youngsters his age, his X-box and iPad run soccer simulations rather than blasters.  He attends practices, camps, professional games and watches matches on TV.  At times, his leisure books are soccer equipment catalogues.  Don't get the wrong idea about him though; at age nine, his math homework has him working with Fibonacci numbers which he understands - better than I.

So, here in the Olympic season, I will use Sawyer's dedication to illustrate a point.  I captured several dozen images of him in a recent scrimmage game, and when I asked him to identify his favorite, he chose this one.  A great choice as you will see.

Here, as the goalie, he's moving to block a kick.  The ball is blurred and partially hidden from us, the viewers, but he has a laser focus on it as is evident in his expression.  His coaches, viewers on the sidelines, team mates and opponents were focused on him with anticipation.  Note number 21's anxious stance.  All of the accumulated data from coaching, practicing, conditioning, observing and love of the game were aligned on his synapses, and with it he reacted and moved with precision.  Did he block the kick?  I won't say.  This post is not about whether he blocked the kick; that's irrelevant. The post is about his total effort, the effort that the olympians and others make in their sacrifices to achieve.  What a great moment to watch!  It was his moment! The supreme moment of the athlete, no matter the age or the game!  It was fantastic!