What's a Cur For?

 

I will admit that when I brought Curtis home from Columbus Humane Society’s Animal Shelter, I did not know what I was getting into. I knew he was smart, intuitive, handsome and kind. I didn’t yet know what he was, and I didn’t know what he was made for. 

Literally one of the first of 10 million photos I have taken of this dog.

 

It’s important to know what a breed was made for. I had lived in the lap of luxury with Chet Baker, Boston Terrier, for almost 12 years. Because Boston terriers are made for lovin’,  keeping people company, and making them laugh. They weren't bred to kill anything, herd anything, guard anything...they were just bred as fun little pals. Chet hung on my every word and move, and he believed his highest purpose in life was to keep me company. (here, he's helping me sign books at a show). Boy, did I need that then. He was the perfect dog for me, a busy mom trying to keep my career afloat while caring for three other people. Chet never wore a collar because he never strayed far enough from me to need one. The only time he was ever on lead was in town, and that wasn’t very often.

Photo by Jenny Bowman at the Midwest Birding Symposium, 

Lakeside, OH, 2013. Bandana by Jen Sauter!

 

Because I hadn’t yet figured out Curtis’ breed, or if he even was anything other than mixed, I didn’t know how to work him. Work, as in David Byrne, asking, “Well, how do I work this?” I decided to trust him, and I let him out of the car without a leash on his first approach to his new home, and he peed on the forsythia bush, where he pees to this day, and walked up the sidewalk to the front door as if he understood perfectly that here he would live for the rest of his life. That night, I took him out for a pee before bedtime, and he perked up his ears and headed into the backyard, me close behind with a flashlight. And he was gone, running pell mell through the ruined orchard, crashing and leaping. And that, as Lyle sings, was when I made my first mistake.

 

I called and yelled and hollered and he didn’t come back. Oh boy. I’ve done it now, stuck my foot in it bigtime. He eventually appeared, eyes glowing in the flashlight’s beam, a wide grin on his face. 

Runs After Things in the Night. Check.

Ignores Frantic Calling When Running After Things in the Night. Check.

Needs to be Leashed After Dark. Check.

 

By the next afternoon, I’d done some thinking about how to work this animal. I had to know what he was made for. I decided he was far too delicate in structure to be a pitbull mix. I thought he looked like some kind of southern cur-dog, so I started by Googling Catahoula Leopard Dog, then “brindle cur.” Bingo!  I had a Mountain Cur, more specifically Treeing Tennessee Brindle. I had never even heard of the breed, but it seems I had rescued a hunting dog! Well, dip me in chocolate. Wonder what that'll be like?

 

Being a hunting dog means a lot of things. First, he’s a fine companion, and he seems to be able to read my mind. He loves to go out into the woods with me, but he doesn’t  stick close by my side, the way Chet did. He leads! He has a job, and that is to find edible things. Things made of meat.  Curtis might have written the line: “If God didn’t want me to eat animals, why did He make them out of meat?”

 

Now, this strike-out-on-your-own tendency Curtis has normally manifests with a lot of chasing and very little eating; high, excited yelps; crashing through briars; stripping himself of collar attachments such as tags, bells and trackers; and a resultant need to wear said tracker at all times. As I look back, I have been remarkably sanguine about the possibility of losing this dog. Something in me has known from the very start that he’s too smart to run willy-nilly, in a straight line, headed for the next county. That’s not who he is or what he's made for. He does, however, run after meaty things. If they can climb, he trees them, and tells me with excited barks just what he has and where it is.  Being human, I have been slow to awaken to the part he wants me to have in all this, which is to come join him, raise a gun and shoot the coon, possum, squirrel or what-have-you that he’s found for me. Then, in Curtis’ ideal world, we feast.

 

It is said that this is the breed that helped settle America; part hound, part Staffordshire terrier--which is where the brindling comes from--, part Indian village dog--which is where the brains come from. The mountain cur was bred to track and hunt anything, his highest mission to put food on the table for his family. And so when he trees a squirrel, he circles the tree, harassing and herding it around to my side, to give me the best shot. And still I don’t shoot. Poor Curtis must think I am either very stupid or very well-fed, because he keeps trying; it’s in his DNA to try. He wants to work with me, wants to be a team, but I just walk along with my head in the clouds, binoculars on my chest, and a trek stick in my hand, when I should be packing a thunder-stick.

 

I like to think I hold up my end of the pact pretty well, even if I don’t dispatch his quarry. I do take him out every morning without fail, and we are rarely gone less than three hours, rarely roaming less than three miles, either. He, of course, traverses far more ground than I do. I will linger in certain places, gazing around, and that’s when my wonderful companion invariably takes off. But only yesterday did I figure out why this happens again and again. I think that in stopping to gaze, I'm inadvertantly sending him the signal to go find me something to shoot.

 

I was standing at the overlook, the mile-long trail to which I have laboriously cleared this winter, enjoying the shifting light as it broke through high clouds and started raking the snowfields. I was peering, looking for the castle my neighbors are building to the east. It was vanishing in and out of the morning mist. Curtis, of course, had just ditched me, gone on a toot. Suddenly, the wooden fireworks of a startled flock of wild turkeys exploded deep in the valley to the east. Three, four, five, seven, they flapped noisily and then planed out over the holler. It was a stunning sight. For maybe ten seconds I simply stared at the silvery sunlight hitting off their bronze backs. They were too far away and I had only my phone, but I dug it out of my pocket and hit Video anyway. And so it was that I had my iPhone SE out of my pocket, turned on, and horizontal, even! when THIS happened.  

Of all the videos I've taken recently (and ask my laptop and it'll respond with a small, choked sound that means "a lot"), this is my favorite. It's perfect, perfectly focused, and perfectly unrepeatable. And I have Curtis to thank. Because it was NOT an accident that those five wild turkeys flew right the hell past my face. It was Curtis' plan. His design. This is how this dog works, and I have been too dumb, to asleep, to even know that.

Here he came, immediately on the spurred heels of those turkeys.

Had I had a gun on my shoulder, or even a goshawk on my fist, we would have eaten for a couple of weeks. 

Curtis tries, again and again. It's what he was made to do, and he is damned good at it. He emerged from the brush, glanced at me, knowing I would have blown this PERFECT SETUP AGAIN, WILD TURKEYS FIVE OF THEM MY GOD WOMAN WHY DON'T YOU SHOOT?? then shook off his disappointment and came to join me. Imperfect, clueless me, who he somehow manages to love anyway, because I love him so much. 

I'm no Annie Oakley, but we're a pair. 

A Great Big Post About Babies, Dogs, Owls and Trails

It's been quite a weekend, and it's only Saturday night (though you'd never know it by my plans, which include eating, blogging then...yum...sleeping). Temperatures here in southeast Ohio hit 65 on Friday and 58 Saturday, which constitutes a great big cattle prod to me to get out and do something productive.

Cutting a trail down to the orchid site (which is deep in the stream valley in the middle of this shot)

ignited a fire in me to revive the Loop Trail, which my old pals may remember kept me sane throughout my kids' infancies. I would put Phoebe down for a nap, grab the baby monitor handset, and absolutely gallop around this self-made loop, laboriously cleared with hand clippers, watching birds on the fly and drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of the woods, which are so very different from those of the nursery. 

When she was old enough to carry in a backpack, I'd do that, and we had some fun struggling up and down the slopes together. I fashioned a little rear-view mirror so I could see her sweet face. Usually a line of drool ran down and pooled on the shoulder strap. Oh, for those days, and how it felt when she'd fall asleep and turn into pudding in the pack. 

Later, Liam loved to ride in the backpack, until he got so fat his thighs got pinched! Ha ha! I remember how sad I was when I had to retire the baby pack.

I wanna know what happened to my spherical child. He's all stretched out now.

When I began running with Chet in 2009 or so, I forsook the forest with its upsy down struggle and took to the roads. I had a dog who was absolutely reliable, to the point where he didn't even wear a collar, because Job One for Chet Baker was sticking with Mether. I could tell him what side of the road to run on and he'd click right over. Bless his sweet little pied soul. 

Curtis Loew has other priorities. Oh, he loves to check in on me, finding me wherever I might wind up in the forest, but clicking along at my side is not his jam. I have run with him on a leash, and he's very good, but I just don't like keeping this dog, or any, on a string. 

So running has given way to hiking, and that's just fine with both of us. I can stop and examine whatever I want; clamber, slip, and slide, and Curtis can memorize every hill and holler for a couple miles around us.

I don't know exactly what makes me pop out of bed and say, "I'm going to clear trails today!" but sunshine is one of them. I don't eat or drink--I just suit up and head out into the morning with my old buttonless Carhartt jacket on, and my Foxgloves gauntlets. I love these gloves--they protect my hands and arms from thorns and Lord knows there are plenty of those. I feel absolutely naked without them when I'm gardening! As close to an evening glove as I'm ever gonna get.

Also pictured: the smaller of my two Fiskar's boltcutter style clippers. Using them to clear a mile and a half or so of trail is like doing a thousand flexes and squats. As I sit here writing, everything hurts. I only know how to go all in, so that's what I do, time after time. I go out before 8 and get home at lunchtime, and I'm done with a capital D.

While I toiled away on Friday, I heard Curtis give the deep, throaty roar that means COYOTE. He stood and challenged it (them?) for awhile, then ran back and glued himself to me. I'm so glad he's wary of coyotes and has such a keen nose. He was not going to leave me alone with those characters around.

Some crows flew over, cawing, and Curtis tracked them through the trees. 

One of the things I love about cutting trail is that Curtis can do his thing, coursing the woods all around, sniffing in brushpiles and digging holes, even treeing a fat opossum! while I do my thing. I can usually hear his bells ringing, but even if he's out of earshot, I know he's dropped a pin on my location. That dog can cover an amazing amount of ground, and unerringly find his way back to me, or home. For that, I am so grateful. 

To learn this about him, of course, I had to let him go. 

That has been one of the biggest leaps of faith I've taken, to let this dog go. 

Curtis has a lump on his lower neck, a cyst most likely formed when he was chained out in his former life. His veterinarian keeps an eye on it, but she says it's nothing to worry about--just a souvenir of when he was a dog, not a demigod. Just a dog, not my familiar, my best friend and co-adventurer. Just something to be chained up when he gets in trouble.

I look at this dog, this beautiful shooting star, and thinking of him staked out and chained almost brings me to tears. All that was locked up in him, and all the trouble he got into, because he had not yet found his place in the world. His place is with me, and my place is with him.

                                           

 The way he finds me in the woods just kills me. He'll go off on his gigantic circular rounds as I work, the happy jingle of his bells falling to silence as he leaves. I'll shake my head and think, "He'll be back." And sure enough, he finds me, wherever I happen to be. I'm sure he can smell me for a mile. I probably smell like a porkchop to him, since I cook so much. I pulled on yesterday's shirt and thought, "Porkchops! I must smell great to Curtis!"

Part of the goal in clearing this mile of trail was to hack my way to this beech-dominated part of the forest, always a favorite in any season. Barred owls have nested down here for years. I've found their pellets full of crayfish; I am still finding their droppings, and Phoebe has even caught them on a trailcam! 

Please, click on this magical shot to see a barred owl making its living in our little creek.

I can't believe it's ever this green and lovely down there, but it is, and it will be again. And still I love it in winter as well. It's all so beautiful. I can't believe it's ours.

I see marvelous things while clearing. This is a giant buck scrape that's still being used, kept clear and scored every few nights. For those who don't have occasion to see them, these scrapes are the calling cards of rutting whitetail bucks. They clear the duff, paw with hooves and score with antlers, pee in them, and thrash the vegetation all around with their antlers. There are almost always broken twigs right overhead; they push the twigs into the orbital glands below their eyes to leave scent there too. It's the buck's way of advertising his availability. 

I cleared a lot of brush and briars down through the woods so I could break out onto this old logging road. Then I cleared the logging road of multiflora and briars. 

Sometimes clearing is no big deal, and sometimes it's a real pain. 

Cutting a trail through our blackberry patch hurt!

This passage was hard-won, as it was full of Smilax (catbriar).  You can see the green haze that says "You ain't walking through here today" on either side of the new trail.  I can spend hours in a thick place like this, making it walkable. It reminds me of doing the painstaking step by step drawings for animation. It can take you hours to clear a trail that you then walk through in seconds without even thinking about it. 

But that's part of the beauty. That's what makes it so worth doing--that grin I get when I stride smoothly through what used to be a briar patch, on my way to the Lycopodium Rooms. 

Here's the portal to the Rooms. It's kind of a trackless place, so I flagged my trail with little pink ribbons. 

The thing is to have destinations--beautiful places that move my soul--and to be able to get to them easily. To see that Certain Slant of Light and think, "Oh, wouldn't that be gorgeous down in the Chute?" and then take off on a newly cleared trail and get there in good time and without falling down. 

I love to gaze on these huge beech trees near our southwest border. 

   

  

Shila takes it all in.

This passage of forest is especially nice on a winter afternoon, when there is a boy and a dog for scale and sweetness. How good of the boy to wear beech-trunk gray, and of the dog to wear leaf-litter camo!

Curtis looks grand against beeches, moss and leaf litter.

Even when he's got a snagglepuss.

I laughed for about ten minutes when I blew this shot up. Toof.

I absolutely love this clip. We heard a huge tree fall somewhere upslope, and he was all afire to figure out what was happening up there. This is going to sound weird, but the fact that Curtis is able to pant noiselessly (and does) is just one more wonderful thing about him. Chalk it up to my being a birder, and always listening--who needs to listen to loud panting? 

   

 

Finding Frost Flowers

It was a typical crisp blue morning walk, November 18, with Curtis in high spirits and me following his lead. I love how his bells give a Doppler effect as he comes tearing by like a tiger train. 

 I never know where we'll end up on beautiful mornings like this. We often end up in strange places on gray mornings, too. 

It was a rare morning with the temperature around 28 degrees in this beautiful, protracted autumn. I was drawn down a trail I've recently re-opened, one I last cut when Phoebe was in a backpack on my back! I remember swinging the boltcutter style clippers as her sweet drowsy weight shifted from side to side. I was a pack mule then, and I still work like one. I have this idea that I'm going to cut trails to all my favorite places on our land. It's rather a big job, but oh what a delight it is to be able to walk without getting whipped and snagged! I'll git 'r' dun!! The trick is taking tiny bites of the 1,000 pound pumpkin,  not trying to eat it all at once. 

We came out into a badly overgrown gasline cut and my eye was drawn to white structures in the weeds.

First I saw one

and another, and another...

and it's fitting that this one is shaped like a heart, because I love love love finding these little things on a frosty morning!

Frost flowers! FROST FLOWERS!!

blooming only when the nights dip into the 20's (Fahrenheit)

followed by bright sun (or not, as I think about it; I don't think the sun has much to do with it, except that sudden dips of temperature like that generally are followed by bright sunny mornings)

The best ones look like ribbon candy. Far as I can figure out, frost flowers form when very cold temperatures shatter the cells in a still-moist plant stem, creating thin fissures through which water and

sap ooze. The liquid freezes as it is extruded, and the plant just keeps taking up water, probably through capillary action, because at that point, like the Wicked Witch, it's not only merely dead; it's really most sincerely dead. 

Now, I've seen people claim that the only plant that makes frost flowers is wingstem Actinomeris alternifolia, and I've seen them on wingstem, but I've also seen them on asters. And these were a first for me, because they were all on pennyroyal Hedeoma pulegioides! (Update: Nope, this is American Dittany, Cunila origanoides)

This is Ditanny,  after frost, of course. It smells divine, even then. A very potent inhabitant of dry  clearings. 

My father Dale Z. called it pennyroyal, and pronounced it "PENnaroyal" and, as was his way, sought out herbal drops containing it, many decades before that was considered a cool thing to do.  He was fascinated with horehound, too! My dad, man. What a guy. So I knew the smell of "pennaroyal" somewhere in my bones, knew that's what it had to be the first time I ran into it in this clearing back in about 1993. "Huh!" I sez to meself. "That must be pennaroyal!" And I was close, but it's dittany.

 I'm so curious now, to know what makes a plant eligible to produce frost flowers. Wingstem and asters are composites, but dittany is a mint. I looked and couldn't find frost flowers on anything but pennyroyal in this clearing. More data needed. More data is always needed.

Frost flowers, to be quite honest, look at first glance like Styrofoam packing peanuts scattered in the leaf litter, and I'm sure many people don't even think twice to wonder what they are when they see them, but do please think twice, and get down and admire them before they're gone.

The best ones look like ribbon candy, spun silk. You have to get down on all fours to shoot them properly, on elbows and stomach to shoot them best

and I am happy to say that I am still vulnerable to dog bombing while trying to make photos of them.

This dog is not as liable to step on my subjects as the first one was, but like The Bacon, he seems to linger in the background longer than might be expected or even proper

and what are the chances that a photographer would end up with two dogs in a row who are terrible camera hogs

who know exactly what they're doing and even leer a bit as they zip through my careful compositions

two dogs who are shameless, deliberate photobombers

unless that first little photobomber somehow arranged to have another sent my way

or perhaps is coaching him from his pile of fleecy blankies inside a Dogburger of softness in the Great Beyond?

It's thoughts like this that flit through my mind when certain dogs do certain things that fill me with joy 

and make me wonder if somebody somewhere is pulling strings so I won't miss him so terribly on those cold crispy mornings that Chet, having practically no fur on his undercarriage, wasn't so keen on

the mornings Curtis loves like I do.

Missing Chet Baker

Looking right into my soul, he was. Because he was a higher being, and because he wanted a bikkit. I have been missing this little feller so much lately. It's almost been worse lately than right after he left. Been needing kisses, and not getting any. Missing the popcorn smell of his pawdypads, the click of his toenails, the inkblot in all my landscape photos. Missing everything about him.

It's been an even year and a half since Chet Baker left us, and I have steadfastly refused to consider replacing him. I have straight-armed any number of kind people who suggested that I should consider another dog. It had been just too damn freaking hard to lose him. I didn't want to have to go through that again, ever. My heart couldn't take any more. Plus, I said, I have no backup; nobody else in the house to let a dog out, to feed one when I'm called away. I'd been enjoying the freedom of coming and going without a thought. Can't tie myself down like that again, I said.

In the stone-hard center of my heart, I knew that there was a dog out there waiting for me to find him, but I would never have said that to anyone but Shila. OK, I did say it to Shila.

When the time is right, I thought; when I'm finally ready, the Universe will present a dog to me. I will NOT go looking. He will just appear to me. Maybe come up to my door, dirty and starving. That was the scenario I most often imagined.

And it will not be just any dog. It will be The Dog. 

I will feel an instant connection, and I will know this is it. There will be no room for doubt. If I have any doubt, it isn't the one.

Scrolling through my Instagram feed on Saturday, Feb. 16, my heart gave a flip when I saw my sweet friend Kelly's post about a Valentine's fundraiser for CHA, the private animal rescue organization which runs an exemplary shelter--clean and spacious-in a Columbus industrial park. Kelly volunteers there, placing dogs in need with people in need of dogs. Kelly knew Chet Baker. She knows a good dog when she sees one.

 

If you click on the photo you can see that Curtis' tail is blurred because it's wagging so hard.

I really liked this dog's size, carriage, and looks, but I liked Kelly's description of his personality even more. Whoa. This dog is up for adoption? Throwing caution to the wind, I left a public comment:

 "Is he already someone's darling?"

 If you know me, you know that this is atypical. I am much more a private message kind of inquirer.

When Kelly didn't reply, I tried to forget about Curtis. I waited a few hours, knowing I often don't see my Instagram comments or messages for days.  Oh, screw it. I'll message her.

So I sent her a text. And she replied, "I'm sorry, but I believe Curtis was adopted this afternoon." 

My heart had floated up to the ceiling, and now it sank back down like a tired balloon.  Too late. 

I guess it wasn't meant to be. Put Curtis out of your mind now, Zick, and listen to your more sensible self.

Thanks to a huge winter storm and flight cancellations, it took about 34 hours to make my punctuated way to a deliriously wonderful time at Klamath Falls Winter Wings Festival in Oregon. I had two talks to give, and a field trip to help with, and a whole lot of fabulous birds to photograph. And I was just winding down from the festival on Sunday afternoon when I got a text from Kelly. 

"It turns out Curtis is still available! I was mistaken yesterday. Because he strikes me as a potential match for your lifestyle and desired dog personality, I wanted you to know he's still adoptable. Of course: no pressure. And shoot me a text if you have any questions."

Oh, I had questions. And man, the whiplash of thinking Curtis was inaccessible, talking myself down with all the reasons I didn't need a dog in my life, and then wha wha whaaa? He's available after all? 

I replied,

"Wow. Thank you for letting me know. Gotta think about that. I wasn't expecting that. I don't get into Columbus until nearly midnight Monday, unfortunately, if all goes well." At that point, I was only wanting to go home. I was dead tired. Winter travel during huge snowstorms will do that to you. Staying another night in Columbus to meet a dog I'm not even sure I should be looking at? Mmmm. Hmmmm. Derr.

"No problem. It's a huge decision (at least, it should be). By all means, let it simmer."

I got Curtis' story (more on that later) and I thought about it all evening. I was thinking about him when I woke up to start my journey from Medford OR to Columbus on Monday. I texted Kelly. 

"I feel like I should meet him before deciding anything. Obviously." 

Kelly said she'd see if he was still there when she went on shift Monday afternoon. I would be flying all that day. When I landed in Phoenix, I saw some messages from Kelly.

"Well Curtis is still here! I'm very surprised. Thought he'd be snatched up already. He's 4 yrs. old, 38 lb. As far as breed, straight-up Heinz 57."

I stared at the photos. This might be the perfect dog. Fabulous personality, and this beautiful?  Striped like a gol-durn tiger??

With a completely black face and soft little black ears that flop over? And a great big spoon-tongue for kissing? (Also, how cute is Kelly here? Look how she lights up around this dog!)

 The first two photos hooked me, but this last one killed me daid. Thanks a LOT, Kelly, you minx.

There is someone in those eyes, an  old soul. Someone with a sense of humor and a strong sense of self. Dogs who will look directly at a camera are very, very rare. Dogs who enjoy it are rarer still. I had one of those rare ones for twelve beautiful years. I know. Now here this dog was, looking at the camera like Chet used to. I could see him bombing all my flower photos, durn him, just because he thinks he's a better subject than some little flar.

Torturing myself, I went online to see if I could find Curtis. OMG. There he was, looking perky af, for any Tom, Dick or Mary to set their sights on.  Gulp. Who else was looking at Curtis tonight? The shelter wouldn't open until noon on Tuesday. Would he still be there when I got there? If I could make myself DO this?

This is probably the worst cliffhanger I've ever posted. Sorry.

 NOT SORRY!!

 Yep, that's me, cackling. 

This Sunset Went to Eleven

In social media, I too often forget that anybody can read anything I say about anything. I frequently get asked what camera I use, and enjoy confessing that all my landscapes and cloud shots (practically everything I post here, save close-up wildlife shots) are taken with my iPhone 6. I was extolling the virtues of this deceptively humble camera in a Facebook comment thread when this bit of utter inanity flew out of my fingers: "I don't always expect Ansel Adams-worthy results, but more often than not, I get them."  I certainly wasn't comparing myself to Ansel Adams. I was trying to say what a good camera lives in the iPhone 6. 

Leave it to Corey Husic to excise my words from context, plop my head on the Most Interesting Man in the World's body, and make me laugh so hard my stomach hurt. Love my fancy watch; my hairy wrist! ahhh I'm laughing again. Thanks, Corey.

Another February day, another possibly nice sunset brewing. I looked out my window at the small cumulus clouds floating over at about 4 pm and knew we were in for an amazing sunset. With sunsets, it's all about the clouds. Come on, Bacon! Let's go someplace good!

I feel very lucky to be able to get to several sunset promontories on foot from my house. 

The one I had in mind was about two miles away. We were heading out before rush hour, and we'd head home after it was over. Yes, those cumuli held a lot of promise. 

By the time we got out to the main road, the show was starting.

It's absolutely amazing how fast things change when the sun's going down. Or coming up, for that matter.

 I was walking backerds down the road, shooting as I went. My favorite color scheme: cerulean on cream.

''

And turning around, a scene that could easily be in Tuscany. But we're in a somewhat depressed region of Appalachian Ohio, and that's fine with me. Fewer people to mess it up.

It just doesn't get any better than golden light slamming up against a broken sky.

I was all over that underlit belly of the big cloud.

We were hurrying to get to a favorite overlook for the big show. It's really something, to be minding your own business, and then have this spectacular thing get going in the sky, and have to scramble yourself out the door and to your nearest viewing spot. It's a great motivator to move your lard, that's for sure. Here, I am referring to my own lard, not anyone else's.

Come on, Bacon! Move your lard! 

Thank you for striking such an elegant pose, with the wind bending the grasses just as you are leaning! This sky, worthy of Francis Lee Jacques, the great muralist and diorama painter.

I thought as I took this photo that that is probably the single most photographed mobile home in Ohio. It was looking pretty grand in the bounce light, with an inkblot in the foreground, and the little bluestem on fire.

I thought we could make it to one last promontory before the show was over. I caught my shadow hustling along, agog at the fire in the grass, the clouds pouring from it like prairie smoke. Only nothing was on fire but my lungs.

We stopped briefly to shoot what's left of the lady's slip that's been hanging from the second floor of an old barn I call The Toothless Lady. I'll never wear it now; it's in tatters.

We hustled through a holler and climbed the last hill.

Things were changing quickly to the west.

Alas, things were beginning to fade to the east. But oh, they were fading beautifully, like old baby clothes.

While to the west, sunfire combed through winterbare trees and melted the sky.

We weren't sure where to look. Old baby clothes and warm russet grass, or sunfire?

Agog. Sunfire wins. 

Whoops. Until we saw the pink glow. This is an excellent dilemma upon whose horns to twist. 

Then there was that moment when the western clouds became a school of king salmon, swimming north. 

And a great gray veil dropped to the east.

I had to capture all of it. Time for a panorama. The tiny camera in my pocket leapt to its duty. The inkblot in the foreground looked quizzically at me. I got the shot.

It was time to turn toward home. Puddles caught the last light, punching holes in the dirt road.

We got to the Toothless Lady and I paused to shoot her, the white slip still hanging from her gum, the last lit clouds drifting over toward nightfall.

And from just behind the little shed built of Osage orange, the first woodcock of spring began to peent.

Or perhaps it was the last woodcock of winter. It was February 6. I'd never heard a woodcock sing that early. They usually come in around the 19th of February. 

Whichever. It was magic on top of magic, and I was there to hear it, there to see it, there to drink it all in like the most luscious sky martini ever shaken.

It was completely dark by the time we crested the last hill. I looked at my Fitbit. 

11,111 steps. Well, what do you know. This evening went to eleven!