Over the roughly 10 years since I bought my first digital camera, my wife Linda and I have become immersed in digital photography.  In 2004, we got our first taste of wildlife photography on a trip to visit my brother and his family in Houston, Texas.  Linda and I took a day trip to Galveston Island and stumbled on a tidal wetland with a rich population of birds.  We spent a giddy afternoon there and we’ve been hooked ever since.

Now our travels revolve around photographing wildlife.  We travel as often as possible, and when we’re not traveling, we’re planning or preparing for a trip.  We also try to go on photographic forays while we’re at home to take advantage of the rich opportunities in our own backyard, but the demands of home life, work, and volunteer commitments often interfere.

My kit

My photography kit is designed to give me varying degrees of portability, while allowing me a high likelihood of success at capturing subject matter that presents itself.  On the minimalist end of the portability scale, I have a Canon SD800 miniature point-and-shoot camera that I can slip into my pocket and use for discrete shots while traveling.  My SD800 is useless for wildlife, but very good for landscapes.  It has a limited zoom with a very wide-angle to moderate telephoto range.   I also have a compact camera, the Panasonic FZ100 that I discuss in detail below.  Like the SD800, it has a zoom lens which is very useful for landscapes at the wide-angle end.  But, unlike the SD800, the telephoto end of the zoom is quite well suited for wildlife photos.

My single lens reflex (SLR) kit includes 3 digital bodies that I’ve accumulated as advances made upgrading sensible.  For the most part, I’ve kept my older bodies.  I currently own and use a Canon 20D (8 megapixels), a Canon 40D (10 megapixels), and my newly purchased Canon 7D (18 megapixels).

It also includes a range of lenses:

• A Sigma 17-35mm, f/2.8-4 DG HSM wide angle zoom
• A Sigma 24-135mm, f/2.8-4.5 – the first lens I purchased and still my favorite landscape/portrait lens
• A Canon EF 100-300mm, f/4.5-5.6 Ultrasonic (non-IS) – the second lens I purchased and, for a couple of years, my main wildlife lens
• A Canon EF 300mm f/4 L-series
• A Canon EF 300mm f/2.8 IS L-series
• A Canon EF 600mm f/4 L-series
• 2 – 1.4X Canon L-series teleconverters
• A 2x Canon L-series teleconverter

And other necessary accessories:

• 2 Manfrotto tripods – an 055ProB aluminum and an 055CXPro4 carbon fiber
• A Manfrotto monopod with a Manfrotto 484R2 ball head
• A Manfrotto 3030 pan/tilt head
• A Manfrotto Proball 468RC fitted with an Arca-Swiss-style clamp
• An Acratech Long Lens tripod head
• Various filters, spare batteries, battery chargers, memory cards, etc.
• Bags (mostly Lowepro) to carry it all.

What makes a good wildlife camera?

• A quality lens with a focal length of at least 300mm and preferably 400mm or more
• A relatively fast lens – f/5.6 or faster at 600mm, and no slower (higher f-number) than f/5.6 if shorter
• A body with enough resolution to allow cropping without sacrificing image quality to the point of uselessness
• A reliable auto-focus system
• A viewfinder/preview function that provides enough detail to accurately judge the focus and composition of your subject

Other valuable features include:

• Image stabilization (also called optical stabilization) – not absolutely necessary, but recommended
• Focus tracking (useful for keeping a bird in flight in focus)

Other photographers might include additional features in this list, such as the ability to capture images in RAW.  Ready access to image assessment tools, like histograms, might deserve to be included too.  They can be a great help in avoiding the disappointment of discovering that all the photos you took of that once-in-a-lifetime rare bird in your backyard are overexposed.

Compact Cameras

So-called compact cameras are “SLR-like”, in that they look very much like single-lens reflex cameras, but there are some notable differences.  Probably most significant is the fact that they don’t have interchangeable lenses – whatever the focal length range of the attached lens is (usually given as “35mm equivalent”), defines the limits of the camera’s ability to capture near or far images.  It’s true there are extenders available for many compact cameras, which extend the length of the attached lens, but they are usually pretty unsatisfactory.  On the plus side, the lack of interchangeability means your kit is going to be much smaller and less expensive.

Another significant difference between compact cameras and SLRs is the viewfinder.  One of the defining characteristics of an SLR is the viewfinder that allows the photographer to see what the camera sees, using a mirror and prism to reflect the scene captured by the lens to the photographer’s eye.  This “through the lens” viewfinder becomes very important when a wide range of focal lengths is available, like with a zoom lens.  A rangefinder – a camera style that lacks a through the lens viewfinder – may do an adequate job of approximating what the camera sees, but it’s still an approximation.  The “live view” common on digital cameras has made through-the-lens viewfinders a less important distinction, but live view isn’t always satisfactory for composing and focusing, especially when photographing wildlife.  Compact cameras have a hybridized viewfinder that acts like the through-the-lens viewfinder of an SLR, but, like live view, uses circuitry and a tiny LCD screen to project the view that the camera’s capture device – the sensor – is seeing to the eye.  Because of its small size, the LCD screen in the viewfinder is usually quite pixelated, obscuring fine detail.

Yet another difference between compact cameras and SLRs is weight and size.  True to their name, compact cameras are about 80% of the size of an SLR with a normal range (24-135mm, for example) lens mounted.  When compared to an SLR with a lens mounted that is a good length for wildlife photography (300-600mm), the difference in size is much more marked.  Compact cameras also weigh less than their SLR cousins – a lot less when the SLR has a long lens mounted.

For a photographer on a budget, a compact camera can be a very good choice.  With the recent trend of greater and greater zoom range (currently up to 35x), and the incorporation of image stabilization, a single compact camera can handle everything from landscapes, portraits, and macro-photography (close-ups of flowers and insects, etc.), to wildlife and action photography.  To do an equivalent job with an SLR with such a wide range of potential subjects would require a number of lens changes.  Cost-wise, a compact camera will cost about $400, while an SLR kit that will do an adequate job with wildlife will cost at least double that ($809.01 for the Pentax K-r Digital SLR Camera with 18-55mm F3.5-5.6 DA-L and 55-300mm DA-L Zoom Lenses at B&H Photo).  The Pentax SLR (and other similarly priced SLR kits) has a maximum nominal focal length of 300mm, while a $400 compact camera might have 600mm or more.  The 300mm of the SLR will give an effective focal length of about 420mm, due to “cropping factor” – a result of the size of the sensor, compared to a 35mm film frame.

So you may be wondering, why spend the money on an SLR?  My answer is: choice, quality, and extendibility.  There is a broad spectrum of SLR choices, both in bodies and lenses – much broader than in compact cameras.  Because of the interchangeability of lenses, a photographer would be smart to choose the brand of camera he or she will use based on the lenses available for it.  An investment in a good lens will continue to pay off as fast-changing technology makes bodies obsolete.  An attractively priced camera kit will lose its economy if it must be replaced in its entirety in order to get the lens length or features you find you need.  Such is also the case with compact cameras – if one aspect of it proves unsatisfactory, the whole camera must be replaced.

The quality of SLR lenses, especially among the leading brands, draws on a long history of development for, and use by, film photographers.  There is a mind-boggling array of lenses, ranging from inexpensive and consumer-targeted to those built for professionals that cost as much as a decent used car.  With a few exceptions, any of them will work with any SLR body, as long as the mount matches.  That means a photographer can upgrade lenses as goals change and budget allows.  The quality of both bodies and lenses is generally superior to compact cameras, even in the lowest priced kits, but especially in the mid-priced to pro classes.

Finally, as I alluded to already, an SLR gives the photographer many options for extending its usefulness.  Chief among the options is the range of lenses available, but it doesn’t stop there.  There is a bewildering array of filters, flashes, and sundry gizmos that are made for the popular SLR brands and models.  Many of these will also work on compact cameras, but often less effectively than on the SLR they were designed for.  Of course, the main class of extendibility options – lenses – is useless to compact camera photographers.

Lastly, a word about focal length: more is not always better.  With the zoom capability of compact cameras making greater and greater focal length available, it would be easy to fall prey to its allure.  But, greater focal length comes at the cost of amplified camera shake and diminished light collecting ability.  These tandem penalties conspire to make ultra-long focal lengths ineffective.  Image stabilization helps to mitigate the camera movement problem, but it can only go so far.  The diminished light collection results in a slower lens, requiring longer exposure times for equivalent conditions.  Since wildlife has the annoying habit of seeking out dark hiding places, the long exposure times required can make hand-held shots virtually impossible.  The conventional wisdom known as the “hand-held rule” recommends that the shutter speed of a shot should be equal to one over the focal length.  This translates into 1/600 for a 600mm lens, and so on.  Image stabilization makes slower shutter speeds possible, but the “one over” figure is still a good goal.

The best way to overcome the dual penalties of camera movement and diminished light collection is to look for the lens that has the largest aperture at the longest focal length (along with image stabilization).  A typical lens is rated by two sets of numbers: focal length (range in the case of a zoom lens), and aperture (again, range for zooms).  My top pick (and the one I own) among the compact cameras listed below has an effective focal length range of 25-600mm, and an aperture range of f/2.8-5.2.  That means that at 25mm, the lens is a fast f/2.8 (the lower the number, the larger the aperture and faster the lens).  At the 600mm end of the zoom, it’s a respectable f/5.2.  By comparison, the Fujifilm Finepix S3200 has slower lens speed throughout its range (f/3.1-5.9) and a shorter focal length range of 24-576mm.  The lower the f-number, the more effective the lens is at collecting light.  Lens speed is also frequently expressed as a ratio (such as 1:2.8), as the f-number is a comparison of aperture diameter to focal length.  The effect of a lower f-number at a given focal length is a faster shutter speed for given conditions.  Summing up, under the same conditions, the Fujifilm will require slower shutter speeds than the Panasonic, even though the focal length (and resulting magnification) of the Fuji is slightly less than the Panasonic.

My top picks

What follows is a list of compact cameras that, in my opinion, would be good choices for wildlife photography.  It shouldn’t be considered to be all-inclusive, but rather a starting point for your own investigation.  I judged these cameras as a potential buyer might (and as I did when I shopped for my own camera last fall) – basing my picks on available information, including specifications.  I have not tested any cameras in the list other than the Panasonic FZ100 that I own.  I did research my choices fairly extensively last fall, reading numerous reviews, but time marches on, and new models and refinements have been introduced in the interim.

All information included below (except my brief narratives) was collected from the B&H Photo website (www.bhphotovideo.com).  Bullet points are quoted from that source, so any qualifiers (“stunning”, “advanced”, “easy”, etc.) are theirs, not mine.  Many terms used are proprietary labels.  I make no attempt to explain them – determining their meaning and relative value should be part of your investigation.

B&H is only one of a number of reputable sources for camera equipment, and you should not view this as a recommendation.  As with camera selection, you should choose your own camera retailer, based on your own criteria.  B&H usually has a very competitive price and their selection is as complete as any retailer.  Therefore, I feel comfortable that their selection and pricing represents the overall market very well.

My #1 pick:

Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ100 Digital Camera – $399.95 (B&H Photo)

• 14.1 Megapixels MOS Sensor
• Leica 25mm Wide Angle 24x Optical Zoom
• 3″ Rotating LCD & Electronic Viewfinder
• Venus Engine FHD Image Processor
• Optical Image Stabilizer Stills & Movies
• Intelligent Auto Mode Stills & Movies
• AVCHD Full-HD Movies: 1920 x 1080
• 11 fps Burst Mode at Full Resolution
• High ISO Sensitivity (1600 – 6400)
• Manual Control for Stills & Movies

This is the camera I chose last fall.  My chief deciding factors were the lens (Leica brand, very good focal lengths at both ends of the range, good aperture across the zoom range), and the MOS sensor which enables the 11 frames per second burst rate.  Another attractive feature that I was unsure of the usefulness of, but which seemed worth trying was the articulating LCD screen.  I have found it useful for shots where neither the viewfinder nor a fixed LCD would be available.  I used it for an overhead shot with my camera mounted on a tripod where I couldn’t get above the camera to look into the viewfinder and where a fixed LCD would have been equally inaccessible.

I didn’t care about the 14.1 megapixel resolution – I would have preferred something in the range of 10-12 megapixels (the sensors in these cameras are tiny, and I’m not convinced that anything is gained by cramming more and more pixels onto them).  I also didn’t care about the video capability, but it may come in handy at some point.  Virtually all current compact cameras have video capture.  If it’s important to you, this camera still stacks up well against the other cameras in its class.

I’ve been impressed with the menu and the access to it in use.  It is a very sophisticated camera in a small, lightweight package.  I bought it for those occasions when my SLR kit is too much baggage, in the hope that it would allow me to capture photo opportunities that require a long, fairly fast lens.  It has served very well in that function.  I can carry it with me easily and, with a few minor quibbles, it takes very good pictures under a wide range of conditions and of a broad spectrum of subject matter.

Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ40 Digital Camera – $315.83 (B&H Photo)

• 14.1 Megapixels
• 24x 25-600mm (35mm Equiv.) Optical Zoom
• 3.0″ LCD & Electronic Viewfinder
• Venus Engine HD II Image Processor
• Optical Image Stabilizer Stills & Movies
• Intelligent Auto Mode Stills & Movies
• AVCHD Lite Video w/ Stereo Sound
• My Color Mode
• High ISO Sensitivity (1600 – 6400)
• Manual Control for Stills & Movies

This was a very close second.  The main differences that swung me to the FZ100 are the CCD sensor that limits the burst rate to 1.8 frames per second at full resolution, and the fixed LCD.  If burst rate isn’t important to you and you think the fixed LCD will serve you fine, this should be an excellent camera at a very good price.

Other frontrunners:

Fujifilm Finepix HS20EXR Digital Camera (Black) – $424.95 (B&H Photo)

• 16MP Back Side Illuminated CMOS Sensor
• 3″ 460K Resolution LCD
• 30x Optical Zoom (24-720mm Equiv.) Lens
• Stunning 1080p HD Movies
• Motion Panorama Mode
• Tracking Auto Focus
• Smile/Blink Detection Mode
• Face Detection/Red-Eye Removal
• EXR Auto Recognizes 27 Scenes
• Quick & Simple Uploads to Facebook, Etc.

This camera had not been introduced when I made my selection.  I don’t think it would have altered my choice.

Fujifilm Finepix S3200 14MP Digital Camera (Black) – $199.95 (B&H Photo)

• 14 Megapixel Resolution
• 24x Zoom W/Wide-Angle 24-576mm Lens
• Large 3″ LCD, at 230K Resolution
• Stunning Panoramic Shots
• 720p HD Movie Capture
• Smile and Blink Detection
• Dual Image Stabilization
• Easy Upload Facebook and YouTube Feature
• Tracking Auto Focus (AF)
• Full Manual Controls

Fujifilm Finepix S4000 14MP Digital Camera (Black) – $232.95 (B&H Photo)

• 14 Megapixel Resolution
• 30x Zoom W/Wide-Angle 24-720mm Lens
• Large 3″ LCD, at 230K Resolution
• Stunning Panoramic Shots
• 720p HD Movie Capture
• Smile and Blink Detection
• Dual Image Stabilization
• Easy Upload Facebook and YouTube Feature
• Tracking Auto Focus (AF)
• Full Manual Controls

This camera was a contender.  I ended up choosing the FZ100 because, like the FZ40, this camera has a CCD sensor that limits the burst rate.  From available reviews, it appeared that the advertised burst rate was overstated and the camera couldn’t live up to it under real world conditions.  As I stated earlier, I also chose the FZ100 based on its Leica lens with its combination of relatively large aperture and comfortable focal length range.

Canon PowerShot SX30 IS Digital Camera – $399.99 (B&H Photo)

• 35x Zoom Lens (24-840mm Equivalent)
• Zoom Framing Assist for Telephoto Photos
• 14.1MP High Resolution
• 2.7″ Wide Vari-angle LCD Display
• 720p HD Video With Stereo Sound
• Use Stabilization & Zoom for Video
• Advanced Smart AUTO for 23 Situations
• Optical Image Stabilizer for Sharp Pix
• Powerful DIGIC 4 Image Processor
• Lithium-ion Rechargeable Batteries

The Canon that was available when I was making my selection had a 24x lens.  It was on my short list, but I chose the Panasonic.  As I recall, the burst rate was the main criteria.

Nikon Coolpix P500 Digital Camera (Black) – $399.95 (B&H Photo)

• 12.1MP CMOS Sensor
• 36x Wide-Angle 22.5-810mm Lens
• Full 1920×1080 HD Video W/Stereo Sound
• 5fps at Full 12.1MP Resolution
• 3″ Vari-Angle Hi Res 921K-Dot Display
• 19 Scene Modes
• Sensitivity Up to 3200 ISO
• 5-Way VR Image Stabilization
• Smart Portrait System
• Dual Processing–Improved Quality, Speed

An earlier Nikon with a 24x lens was the camera that got me thinking about a compact camera.  I saw one in use by a fellow painter at an art show opening reception that I attended last summer (2010).  Among other differences, the burst rate swung me towards the Panasonic.

Other useful review sites

http://reviews.cnet.com/digital-cameras/

http://www.dpreview.com/

http://www.safari-guide.co.uk/

http://www.digitalcamera-hq.com/

We’ve had a very good year, filled with adventures and free of major problems.  Although we had to cancel our planned trip to Newfoundland, we had a great time in Maine.  Our three week “substitute” trip was much more relaxing than the trip we had planned to take would have been.

I’m looking forward to the New Year, anticipating a fresh round of adventures.  I’m extremely fortunate to have the life I do.  I never want to take it for granted.  I have a wife who loves me and loves to share in most of the same kinds of activities I do.  We’re not especially well-off financially, but we have enough to pay our bills and, as long as we plan well and we’re frugal, we have enough to do the things we want to do.

Happily, I love to camp and Linda, while she doesn’t love it like I do, is willing to accompany me, loving the good times and tolerating the challenges.  Camping makes it much easier to finance our travels.

I’m also fortunate to be able to find satisfaction in simple things, and very fortunate that Linda is too.  We’ve never been to Disney World in all our trips to Florida.  I’d rather walk the ancient streets of St. Augustine or watch the birds at Fort DeSoto than spend an afternoon at Disney.  I have no quarrel with those who prefer Disney-style entertainment.  It’s just not for me.

May your New Year be filled with good times with people you love.  May you find satisfaction in the adventures that come your way, whatever they may be.  Here’s to good health, good cheer, prosperity enough to live comfortably, and the good sense to appreciate it.

Ever since our week in Errol, New Hampshire in 2007, when we had come so close to getting the moose photographs we were lusting after, moose cows and pre-rut bulls with immature antlers had lost some of their thrill.  As much as we still liked seeing them, they only whetted my appetite for trying again for a bull at the height of his majesty – overrun by hormones and thinking only of cows in estrus.

Linda went to work looking for accommodations and we checked the calendar for a sweet spot between our commitments and before hunting season.  Meanwhile, I fell back into my workaday routine, catching up on bills and work that had piled up and meeting my cycling and music-playing buddy Carl for rides and rehearsals.

Linda found an interesting rental opportunity in Bethel Maine, just down the road from the place we had stayed at in July.  The price was attractive and there were several one- and two-bedroom units available during the period we had settled on.

We had invited our daughter and her husband to join us for a few days of the last week of our summer trip – the week at our home resort in northwest Massachusetts.  That gesture hadn’t worked out as we had hoped.  The tension was thick, draining the enjoyment from the visit and leaving Linda and me feeling relieved when they left.

Despite the reservations our recent experience had left us with, I still held out hope that we could re-capture some of the camaraderie we had shared on our first couple of trips.  I suggested that we invite them to join us in Bethel.  I laid down ground-rules for the visit – best behavior, no fighting, no uninvited guests, etc. – to which they agreed.  It would cost an extra $100 for the two-bedroom, but Linda and I would also have the benefit of a larger, more comfortable bedroom and private bathroom.

With assurances that everyone would get along, we set the date and made the reservations.  It would be the week beginning September 24 and ending October 1.  This all happened within the first two weeks after our return home from our summer trip.

The month remaining before our newly-made reservations would pass quickly.  On top of our regular work and town commitments, we had the annual Josh Billings Runaground triathlon – a race that Linda and I have run the finish line at for some fifteen years – on September 13, and Carl and I were preparing for a music gig on Columbus Day weekend.

On Tuesday, September 8, our whole world was turned upside-down when I crashed on my bike, breaking my hip and ending up in the hospital.  I wrote about that mishap in a previous post (“An Unwelcome Adventure”), so I won’t repeat the story here, other than to say it put our plans for a moose safari in jeopardy.

Linda checked into the possibility of getting our money back on the condo reservation in light of our situation.  The rental policy stipulated a 50% penalty for cancellations with such short notice.  The manager graciously, if reluctantly, offered to make an exception due to the circumstances we were faced with.

I held out hope that we’d be able to keep the reservations and follow through on our plans.  I reasoned that the condo in Bethel was as good a place to rehabilitate as home.  We waited anxiously to see the surgeon for my post-op appointment – I wanted to have his blessing on the plan.

Everything was carefully choreographed – there were two weeks and a day between my surgery and our scheduled departure date.  We got a follow-up appointment precisely two weeks after the surgery – the minimum that the doctor felt necessary.  I had been diligent in following the instructions of my nurse and my physical therapist and that, on top of the general level of fitness I had attained from riding 2500+ miles in the preceding months, helped me to gain the confidence of my doctor.

He was concerned about the five hour drive, but, with assurances from me and a conspiracy of restrictions between him and Linda, he assented to letting us go.

Meanwhile, our daughter’s marriage collapsed.  It began to appear that we would be spending the week alone.  The likelihood that we wouldn’t have company was a bit of a relief, not only because we’d be spared the turmoil of the end-stages of the marriage, but also because the master bedroom was up a flight of stairs, while the smaller bedroom was on the first floor, along with the living room, kitchen, dining room and second bathroom.   In my newly hobbled state, I welcomed the prospect of living on one floor.

September 24th arrived.  We packed the van and headed for Maine.

Bethel is located in the region identified in state tourism literature as the Western Lakes and Mountains.  It’s very near the New Hampshire state line on Rt. 2.  This location means the area is about equally convenient to I-91 as to I-95.  Leaving from western Massachusetts, the drive on I-91 to northern New England becomes increasingly scenic and less congested – not so the route via I-95.  We set out for St. Johnsbury, Vermont.

Upon leaving the interstate, “moose crossing” signs begin appearing along the sides of the road almost immediately.  Those who know what to look for will also see considerable moose sign – tracks and wallows – to lend credence to the signs of the highway department variety.  Despite both classes of signage, we have yet to see a moose along Rt. 2.

Whenever the opportunity presents itself, and the drive either to or from Bethel is a perfect opportunity, we like to drive Rt. 16 through 13-Mile Woods from Milan to Errol New Hampshire, then past Lake Umbagog (pronounced um-BAY-gog) and through Grafton Notch on Rt. 26.  That route takes in some of the best and most productive moose territory we’ve explored.

On our way to Bethel on this trip, we got to 13-Mile Woods at around 6:00.  In what might have been an omen, we didn’t see any moose, but we spotted some wood ducks in a backwater along the Androscoggin.  We drove through Grafton Notch, passing the state park sign as darkness fell – a time when moose in the road change from welcome photo-op to deadly, hard to see hazard.

Both Linda and I had a fair idea where our accommodations were, but neither of us knew exactly.  We had good directions though, and, after having stayed in the area several times before, we were quite familiar with the roads and the landmarks.  We followed our directions and found the complex easily.  On locating our unit, we were chagrined to find that there were two flights of stairs just to get to the front door.

Linda has a difficult time with stairs, ever since injuring herself falling through a snow-covered hole in the jetty at Rock Harbor in 2003.  She intended to carry our luggage, hers and mine, to spare me taking unwise risks with my newly repaired hip.  On seeing all the stairs, we realized that wouldn’t be possible, so I pitched in, juggling cane in one hand, bag in the other and wondering whether it was better to limit the weight I was carrying or to limit the number of trips up and down the stairs.

Once inside and having surveyed the unit, we decided we might as well take advantage of the master bedroom (subscribing to the “in-for-a-dime-in-for-a-dollar” rationale).  We carried our bags up those stairs and collapsed in exhaustion on the sofa.

Through the slightly over two weeks since my surgery, I had been going through a progression of various discomforts and palliatives – a progression that intensified in Maine.  Percocet was prescribed for pain management.  It worked quite well, allowing me to get much-needed sleep, but it had a nasty side-effect.  It induced constipation the like of which I had never experienced in my life.  I couldn’t wait to get off it.

Between weaning myself off the Percocet and becoming increasingly active, I began to wake in the middle of the night with a throbbing pain in my hip.  Rather than take more pain medication, or while waiting for those that I allowed myself to take effect, I iced the affected area for relief.  The ice helped, but brought its own brand of discomfort.

I fell into a pattern of staying awake and active as long as possible, tolerating the pain until I couldn’t stand it any longer.  Once past the point of tolerance, I would allow myself some pharmaceutical relief, usually falling asleep in exhaustion, only to wake a few hours later to start the cycle over again.

Consequently, I found myself waking in pain at around 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning.  On the positive side, it made it easy to be out at first light.  The downside was that by mid-afternoon I was worn out.

Our first full day in Maine dawned bright and sunny.  I know because I was awake to see it arrive.  I woke Linda early and suggested we do an early morning cruise for moose.  As I recall, she groaned, but tolerantly got up and dressed.  We drove up through Grafton Notch, passing countless wallows and moose trails but seeing nary a moose.

I delivered Linda back to the condo to shower and rest up from being woken at such an early hour.  I was tired too, but I was determined not to squander daylight hours, especially ones so glorious.  I drove over to the Artists’ Covered Bridge – a well-known bridge (reputedly the most painted and photographed in Maine), just a mile or so from where we were staying.

It’s always good to have a fall-back objective when out to photograph wildlife, just in case the wildlife has other ideas.  Covered bridges are predictable in their habits and make excellent alternative subjects.

The foliage was just beginning to change color.  The leaves on some of the understory were turning yellow, but the stars of the annual show – the maples – still clung to their summer green.

I climbed out of the van, grabbed my photo bag and tripod from the back seat, and picked my way carefully down the path to the riverbed.  I set up my tripod and camera on the gravel, hooked my cane over the strap to keep it within easy reach and began a series of shots using different filters and settings.

My goal was to capture the best photo I could of the classic New England scene before me.  I had a beautiful blue sky with just a few fair weather clouds, a picturesque bridge and river, and foliage with a touch of fall color.  I was in no hurry, enjoying the warm sun.  I shot a number of series of photos, moving the camera/tripod setup from vantage to vantage.  It was a splendid, relaxing morning.

After about 45 minutes and several dozen shots, I packed my gear, flung it over my shoulder, and trundled back up the path to the van.  I drove back to the condo to eat lunch, rest up from the morning’s activities, and study my photographic haul.

In the afternoon, Linda was still puttering around, not ready to go out, so I decided to take another series of bridge shots in different light.  I returned to the riverbank and repeated the morning’s movements.  The mid-afternoon sun lit the scene quite differently, and the clouds had thickened, making the light conditions very changeable.  It took a little more patience, but I was able to capture the scene as I had hoped.

Having gotten shots from various positions under a variety of light conditions, I felt satisfied with the day’s work.  I hoped to have another sunny day later in the week to give the foliage a few more days to turn.  In the meantime, we had another job to do.

I went back to the condo, picked Linda up and we went out to take advantage of the late afternoon light scouting for moose.  We headed down through Evans Notch to a bog we had learned about from one of my nurses.  Unfortunately, the dam that flooded the bog was being rebuilt, so there was both very little water and too much construction activity to be conducive to wildlife.

We cruised the dirt roads of the Maine White Mountains until the light failed, but came up empty.  As evening fell, we headed back to the condo, stopping at the grocery store to pick up the makings of dinner on the way.  It was a full day for me and I was tired and achy.  I rested and iced my hip while Linda fixed dinner.

I allowed myself a Percocet at bedtime to help me sleep.  I woke at about 4:00 with a throbbing in my hip.  Unable to get comfortable, I got up, went downstairs and iced my hip again.  After a half hour, the pain had subsided enough that I was able to doze off, but not for long.

So the pattern went: rise early in pain, ice, drive for hours looking for moose, return for lunch and mid-day rest, ice, then drive for hours in the afternoon looking for moose.  We searched north, south, east and west.  The only day the pattern varied was the day we drove around the long loop through Grafton Notch to Errol, New Hampshire, south through 13 Mile Woods and on to Gorham, and back to Bethel.  That day, we ate lunch on the road, so the morning cruise segued seamlessly into the afternoon cruise.

Still – no moose.

By Monday afternoon, I was beginning to lose hope.  We had driven hundreds of miles through known moose territory; we had staked out prime wallows; we had tried early morning, late afternoon, mid-day and dusk.  No moose.

We were running out of time.  Monday was another beautiful fall day, so I took advantage of it by photographing Artists’ Bridge again.  At least I would bring home a fine collection of landscape photos.

Bill, the manager of the condos we were staying at, had told Linda that he could recommend some likely places to find moose.  Having come up empty so far, Linda called him to get his recommendations.  One place he suggested was a pond right at the Maine/New Hampshire state line on Rt. 2.  Since that was an easy jumping-off spot for other likely places in case we struck out again, I decided we’d try that in the morning.

As had become the pattern, I was up early icing my hip.  The day dawned overcast.   I woke Linda and we set out by around 7:00.  We passed the pond, did a u-turn and I pulled onto the shoulder to park.

As I gathered my gear and my chair in preparation for a stake out, Linda surveyed the pond from the passenger seat.  When I asked if she was coming, she said no, but told me I should go ahead.  Unhappy, I said I wasn’t going to leave her sitting by the side of the road while I went off by myself.

I stowed my gear and climbed back into the van, biting back my irritation.  I began driving to no place in particular. Since we were pointed in that direction, I drove back into Maine.  I was driving in the direction of the condo with no particular plan to go there – it was more intuitive than by choice.

We were driving along the Androscoggin.  I was in a frustrated funk.  The week hadn’t gone at all as I had hoped.  The gray morning matched my mood perfectly.

Linda announced that she thought she had seen something.  I was skeptical, but I knew better than to ignore her.  She had been wrong many times, but she had been right more.  I backed up to where we had a view through the dense roadside trees.  Sure enough, there was a moose cow in the river.

I pulled forward and parked in a roadside pull-off.  We shouldered our gear and made our way down a dirt road in the direction of the river.  We found ourselves in a mown right-of-way that led to a ford of a backwater off the main river.  It was difficult to tell which water body we had been looking at from the road.

I limped towards the main river, while Linda headed for the ford.  I worked along a path out to a ledge jutting out into the river where it met the backwater.  I looked back to where I had left Linda just in time to see a big bull moose trot out of the woods across the backwater headed right towards where I had last seen Linda.

Two thoughts rushed into my mind as I raised my camera with its 600mm lens and squeezed off several shots: 1.) I hope Linda is safe; and 2.) I hope Linda’s getting these shots.  There was no way I could cross the distance to where Linda and/or the moose were with my injury, so Linda was going to have to keep herself out of harm’s way.

The moose disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. I limped back along the path to rejoin Linda and make sure she had escaped unscathed. She was fine, but she had quite a story to tell. A cow had emerged from the woods with the bull close behind. The bull had stopped at the woods edge, watching as the cow cavorted across the meadow. I never saw the cow, but Linda had been eyeball to eyeball with her. The bull had hung at the edge of the woods until either he was sure Linda was no threat or lust got the better of him – we’ll never know which – then trotted determinedly after his paramour.

Whichever it was, he had passed quite close to Linda, but his mind was on the cow.  While he had made Linda a bit nervous, she never felt threatened.  She had also gotten a very nice series of shots.

With that, the trip was a success.  It’s funny how quickly fortunes can change.  We continued to search for moose for the rest of the day and again on Wednesday after packing for leaving.  We had no more luck, but we had accomplished what we had gone for.

I left feeling much stronger than I had when we arrived.  The week of walking up and down the numerous stairs and into and out of wildlife viewing spots had been useful exercise for my healing body.  We returned to Massachusetts feeling content with our year’s adventures and prepared to face the long winter, if not happy about it.

At the end of 2008, I set myself a goal of 3000 miles of cycling for the 2009 year. It was a modest goal compared to my racing days, when I rode more than double that in a year. But it had been a long time since I had accumulated that much mileage. I thought it was both a realistic and a worthy challenge.

By the time we returned from our summer trip, I had logged over 2000 miles. I was well into my mid-season stride and racking up mileage at an average rate of about 125 miles a week. I was closing on my target quickly and the question of whether I’d reach it was becoming one of when, and by how much, I’d surpass it.

All summer long, I had been riding to Westfield in the late afternoon to meet my good friend Carl and ride back to Huntington with him. Carl lives in Middlefield, a couple towns to the northwest of Huntington, and works in Westfield, two towns to the southeast of here. He commutes to work by bike, usually driving the roughly fifteen hilly miles to Huntington and riding the rest of the way.

Carl’s normal daily bike commute is about thirty miles. Depending on how well I timed my departure, I’d usually meet him somewhere on the outskirts of Westfield, making my ride total about twenty or twenty-five miles. As the year progressed, that distance wasn’t satisfying me, so I began leaving home earlier and taking a longer route to Westfield, usually taking in a good hill climb on the way.

Carl and I have a lot of common interests. We’re close to the same age (Carl is slightly older than me). Obviously, we share a love of cycling. We’ve both been riding most of our lives. We also play music together, gigging sporadically, playing folky acoustic music. Our musical tastes, instrumentation, and limited ambition for playing out mesh well.

On Tuesday, September 8, I left home at about 4:15 and headed to Westfield by way of Dickinson Hill in Russell – the next town to our southeast. Dickinson Hill is a particularly nasty climb in a region that’s known for fairly steep climbs.

The hilltowns of western Massachusetts are connected by roads that attack the hills directly. There are many roads in the region that include climbs of 12-15%. The climbs aren’t that long compared with other regions of the country, but what they lack in length, they make up for in steepness.

Dickinson Hill begins at the bottom with a sweeping S-turn that tops out at close to 18%, then climbs straight up the escarpment in a series of ramps separated by false-flat landings. Each of the ramps is between 12 and 15%, while the landings are about 5-8%. During my brief amateur racing career in the early to mid 1990′s, I raced the Westfield Classic three times. The Westfield Classic was a 100K race through these same hilltowns, punctuated with a number of hard climbs. Dickinson Hill was the last of the hard climbs and was the hardest of them all – known as “the wall” by the competing cyclists.

In recent years, I’ve periodically challenged myself with hard climbs, including Dickinson Hill. I do it to harden myself mentally as much as physically. In my home region, it’s hard to go anywhere without being faced with a hard climb or two. These climbs can become impediments, real or imagined, to the notion of riding to a particular destination.

I’ve made it a matter of personal pride to not be intimidated by any of the hills in my area, so I continue to challenge myself with the hardest of them.

Back to September 8th: I climbed Dickinson Hill, testing myself against the time it took me to climb it on previous occasions during the summer. I was feeling strong and my time was marginally better than it had been. I rode out to the end of the road and turned left on Rt. 23 to descend back to the valley.

Rt. 23 took me back to Rt. 20 – the direct route between Huntington and Westfield. I rode into Westfield, making it almost to the center of town before meeting Carl. Carl had his co-worker Brian with him. Brian had ridden with us once or twice earlier in the season.

Brian is younger than Carl and I by probably about ten years. He’s a strong cyclist and usually has Carl and me struggling to stay on his rear wheel. Despite his relative youth and strength, he lives with a medical condition that causes his heart rate to rise suddenly and apparently unpredictably. When that happens, he has to lay back until his heart rate drops back to a normal level. He’s had an episode each time we’ve ridden together.

On this occasion, we headed out of Westfield towards Huntington in a pace line with Brian in front, Carl in the middle and me bringing up the rear. After Brian had taken a fairly long pull on the front, I checked behind me to make sure the road was clear, and pulled around Brian and Carl to the front to take my turn in the wind.

I wasn’t in front very long when Carl came around me to take a pull, but Brian didn’t follow him. I looked back and saw that Brian had fallen back. Concerned, I called up to Carl asking if Brian was alright. Without waiting for a response, I looked back over my shoulder again to see if Brian was signaling us to wait or to go ahead without him.

About this time, our pleasant ride took a nasty turn. Apparently, when I called up to Carl, he slowed slightly so my front wheel came alongside his rear wheel. As I turned back towards the front, I must have swerved to the left. The sidewall of my front tire touched the sidewall of his rear and I found myself hitting the pavement hard and sliding across the travel lane of rush hour Rt. 20. I don’t know how I managed to hit a lull in the stream of fifty mph commuters.

As soon as I came to a stop, acting on pure adrenaline, I scrambled crab-like to the side of the road, pushing my bike across the pavement in front of me. By this time, Brian was back with us. He and Carl worried over me as I tried to stand.

I had a sinking feeling of déjà vu as my left hip refused to support my weight. Thinking I could use my bike as a rolling support, I leaned on it with the intention of hobbling towards a log on the side of the road that I could sit on. The sudden fire in my left shoulder let me know that my injuries weren’t just to my hip. My plan to lean on my bike wasn’t going to work.

Feeling utterly helpless, I accepted the assistance of Carl and Brian, limping between them for the painful twenty yards or so to the log. I lay down in the grass, propped against the log, coming to terms with the ramifications of my accident. I called Linda on my cell phone and told her I’d crashed, asking her to come pick me up.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I knew I should go to the hospital, but the notion hadn’t fully formed. Speaking to Linda, I didn’t give her any details about the crash or my injuries – I was thinking only of getting myself off the side of the road and releasing Carl and Brian from their babysitting duties.

Linda made good time in arriving at the scene. She also had the good sense to realize that I must be seriously hurt to ask for her to pick me up, bringing my medical card with her. She surveyed the carnage and asked Carl and Brian to help me into the passenger seat of the van.

In the meantime, both an off-duty nurse and cop stopped to check on us. We assured them we’d be alright. The policeman was reluctant to leave us without calling an ambulance, but Linda insisted that, as long as she had help getting me in the van we’d be okay.

The hospital was only a couple of miles away. Linda drove right into the space reserved for ambulances, rushed in and argued with a couple of skeptical hospital staff members until they reluctantly came out and helped me out of the van and into a wheelchair. They were sure that if I didn’t come by ambulance, I should be able to manage on my own.

I was wheeled into the crowded ER to wait to be processed and attended to. I sat in my colorful cycling jersey and shorts, now scuffed and torn, in a wheelchair in the entryway of the waiting room. I struggled to get comfortable and Linda sat across the narrow hall from me looking worried.

I felt like a bit of a spectacle. I sensed skepticism from a number of my fellow unlucky visitors to the ER. After all, I wasn’t bloody. Nor was I moaning or crying out in pain. In fact, other than the damage to my clothing, I didn’t appear to have anything wrong with me.

After sitting for twenty minutes or so, I began to get chilled. I asked Linda to get a blanket I keep in the van. She did and I wrapped myself in it.

It was probably about an hour before we were finally taken into a small room for processing. The same woman who had been so reluctant to give Linda help getting me out of the van took my information and sent me back to the purgatory of the waiting room, still skeptical that I wasn’t just looking for attention, distracting the staff from people who really needed to be there.

The crash happened at about 5:30 and we arrived at the hospital at around 6:15. By about 9:00, I was wheeled into an exam room. A young doctor listened as I related the details of the crash. He poked and prodded a little, then left to make arrangements for X-rays.

After awhile, I was wheeled out of the ER and into an X-ray room. I was transferred to a cold metal exam table and told to move my leg into positions it didn’t want to be in and hold it there. The pain of trying to maintain the necessary positions nearly brought me to tears. Between the cold of the table, the chill from the shock I was probably suffering from, and the strain of trying to force my unwilling leg to maintain the positions demanded of it, I couldn’t prevent my leg from trembling badly.

Finally, back in the ER exam room, the doc said the X-rays confirmed that my hip was broken and that I had also broken my collarbone. There was nothing that could be done with the collarbone other than allow it time to heal. I had broken a nub off the shoulder end of the bone. It was painful, but not debilitating.

The doc wanted a CAT scan done to give him a better look at my hip.

I lay on the exam table trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. Sometime after 10:00, I was wheeled through the hospital to the CAT scan facility. The technician had to try two or three times to get a useable scan, scratching her head over a mysterious zipper that kept interfering. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that she was seeing the zipper I had sewn into the blanket I was wrapped in.

I was wheeled back to the exam room to await the verdict from the ER doc, in light of the CAT scan. When he came back in, we spoke about my earlier surgery in 2006. Linda and I explained the complicated reasons I ended up having it done in Boston. We had gone there to avoid having the second opinion we were seeking from being tainted by the reputation of the doctor who had given us the first opinion on my surgical options.

Behind the scenes, the ER doc and the orthopedic surgeon, and ultimately Linda debated whether to send me back to Boston for this surgery. When Linda got her turn, she argued that our reasons for going to Boston last time didn’t apply to the present situation and that it would be better to have the surgery done locally.

At around midnight, the admitting nurse who had been so skeptical looked in on me on her way out. Her skepticism having been proven unfounded, she was almost apologetic in wishing me well.

Finally, at about 12:30 in the morning, after a final phone consultation with the orthopedic surgeon, I was told I was being admitted and that I’d have hip surgery in the morning. I was taken upstairs around 1:00. After being transferred to a bed and having my vital signs taken for about the tenth time that night, Linda and I finally said good night at about 2:00.

Linda left after what must have been an exhausting night, charged with the task of making arrangements with the insurance company first thing in the morning, so we wouldn’t get stuck with the bill for the surgery. I tried to make the best of the situation and get some rest. To this point, I don’t think I had been given anything for the pain.

After a very restless night, during which I was woken to take vital signs every hour, seemingly immediately after I had finally nodded off, I was awakened at about 6:00 by the orthopedic surgeon. We spoke briefly about the procedure and he asked if I was in any pain. I said I was, to which he expressed surprise. He asked if I had been given the meds he had prescribed. I replied that I hadn’t had anything for the pain. He immediately called the nurse and had some bliss-inducing narcotic injected into me.

As relief rolled over me like a wave, I told him I wanted to wait for the surgery, to be sure I wouldn’t wake up on the other side of the procedure irretrievably in debt. He shrugged his shoulders and replied that insurance wasn’t his concern. It was his job to make me well.

He left and I drifted into the first real rest I’d had since I’d arrived – at least until it was time for the nurse to take my vitals again.

I was scheduled for my surgery at about 10:30. Around 10:00, a nurse came in to prepare me to be taken to pre-op. I explained to her my concerns about insurance, as I had with the doctor. She was much more understanding and said we could wait until I felt comfortable with having the surgery.

About 10:15, apparently after a flurry of phone calls between Linda and the insurance company, and Linda and the nurses’ station, of which I was blissfully unaware, the nurse came back in and told me that everything was taken care of and I didn’t need to worry about a thing. The proper paperwork had been faxed to the nurses’ station and everything was in order. I telepathically congratulated Linda.

I was rolled out of the room, into an elevator, and on into pre-op. I vaguely remember the operating room and my surgeon in his mask, but after that the entire episode is blank.

I woke up back in my room feeling the residual pain of the surgery – the incision and the other various indignities that were visited on me in my stupor – but feeling that my hip joint was again acting as it should. The ball of my thigh bone was moving in unison with the rest of the thigh, rather than being dragged along behind it.

The accident happened on Tuesday and I had my surgery on Wednesday. I spent the next two nights in the hospital, doing physical therapy during the day and resting at night, all to prepare me for going home to the stairs and other challenges of our house.

Through the whole time, Linda was a rock. She dealt with the insurance company with authority, making arrangements to spare us from unnecessary expenses and to prepare for my return home. She visited with me in the hospital, staying beyond the normal visiting hours with the help of the excellent nursing staff, who also looked after me extremely well.

On Friday, I saw my surgeon and my physical therapist. My therapist needed to feel confident in my ability to negotiate the unavoidable stairs of our house before she would allow me to be released. I wanted desperately to go home and reclaim some sense of normalcy, so I was determined to do whatever it took to give her that confidence.

We walked – or rather, she walked and I was wheeled – to the physical therapy room. My therapist, Nancy, set me up with crutches and gave me a quick lesson in getting up and down the stairs with them, then turned me loose on the training stairs. I managed them with no trouble. Nancy was as pleased as a young mother watching her child take his first unsteady steps.

That morning I had been in my room when the lunch and dinner orders were taken for the first time since I had been admitted. I had the opportunity to order what I wanted instead of having to settle for whatever the default meal was.

After my physical therapy session, I was sure I’d be going home. I hadn’t been given the official word, but I expected it anytime. In the meantime, feeling confident with my success on the stairs and bored with staying in my room, I decided to give my crutches a test drive.

First, I visited the bathroom in my room. I hadn’t been able to get to it since I’d been admitted, using a plastic urinal bottle instead. Having tried out the facilities, I hobbled out to the nurses’ station. They weren’t as glad to see me as I’d hoped. They chided me as they ushered me back to my room.

Soon after, a man was rolled in to occupy the empty bed next to mine. The nurses pulled the curtain separating the beds as they got my new roomie situated. As they worked, I heard the now-familiar sound of the lunch cart roll up outside the door. Mine was the window bed, so I couldn’t see anyone entering the room and nobody could see me either.

I heard the nurses on the other side of the curtain exclaim to the man they were helping into bed that he had gotten there just in time for lunch. I waited for my lunch to be delivered from beyond the curtain, but heard the cart rolling away instead. I realized quickly that my lunch had been given to my room-mate.

Unhappy and hungry, I waited until the nurses finished and pushed the curtain back a little. I couldn’t see my room-mate, but I could tell he was an older man who was suffering from dementia. His wife seemed to have seized the opportunity to leave the responsibility of his care to the nursing staff.

Eventually, a nurse came in to check on me and I lamented my lost lunch. The nurse set to work getting me a replacement immediately. I turned on the TV while I was waiting. I had the volume on low, but within a few minutes, I heard from the other side of the curtain: “yak, yak, yak, yak, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK.”

I turned the TV off.

I got the word that I was going home about the time my lunch came. I was very hungry and my lunch was even tastier knowing I was being released. Before long, the man in the bed next to me began to cry plaintively that he wanted to go in the living room. A nurse came in and explained to him that he was in the hospital and there was no living room to go to. He seemed to accept the news stoically.

My sister visited. She sat by my bedside and we talked quietly. Before long, we heard “yak, yak, yak, yak, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK, YAK” from the other side of the curtain. My sister gave me a “what’s that all about?” look. I shrugged my shoulders. I was becoming more anxious to leave by the moment. My sister and I cut our visit short.

Not long after my sister left, my room-mate began to cry “Help me! Help me!” in a pitiful voice from the other side of the curtain. When nobody responded, I climbed laboriously out of bed, grabbed my crutches, and hobbled around the curtain to the foot of his bed. I asked if I could help. In a perfectly normal, sociable voice, the man replied, “No thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer”, as if he had completely forgotten his cries for help.

Meanwhile, Linda was shopping and making other preparations for my arrival back home in my newly incapacitated form. As a result, she was later than I would have liked, in coming to collect me. Dinner was brought around while I was waiting. I saw no reason to pass it up, so I had another meal.

Finally, Linda arrived. I don’t remember ever being so happy to see someone. I had gotten dressed hours earlier, once I knew I’d be leaving, so we gathered my few belongings onto my lap as I sat in the wheelchair for my ride to the van. We said our goodbyes, thanking the nurses for all their help.

Linda and a staff escort rolled me to the elevator, down to the ground floor, and out the front door to the waiting van. I was able to negotiate the shift from wheelchair to front seat with the support of my crutches. Linda drove us the short distance to Huntington, both of us feeling very happy.

My total mileage for the year was 2477 after my ill-fated ride of September 8 was added in. The recovery from my surgery forced me to stay off my bike until October 4 when I took my first easy spin on my trainer. I eased back into riding with the blessing of my doctor (and dire warnings about the consequences of crashing). By the end of the year, despite what I thought would be an abrupt end to my years riding, I managed to make my goal, finishing with 3036 miles after a 25-mile ride on December 27.

If this post and the last one about my 2005 accident have you thinking I crash a lot and wondering why I continue to ride, let me point out that I’ve ridden many years and many thousands of miles and, until these two crashes, I’d led a charmed life. The superstitious side of me would have me believe that it was turning fifty that jinxed me. Whatever the cause, I plan to ride as long as I’m able.

We left home on April 21, two days before my fiftieth birthday. By the time of this entry, we had been to Kiptopeke State Park in Virginia, Huntington Beach State Park in South Carolina, and St. Augustine, Florida. We had visited our son in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, then crossed the state to Naples.

This entry is from our first day at Fort DeSoto – a Pinellas County park off the southern tip of the St. Petersburg peninsula. We had checked into the campground the previous evening and gotten tips on places to bird from the ranger.

I got up around 7:00 and watched the bird life on the shore. Linda got up and had a cup of tea, then we drove to the other end of the park to look for the great horned owl that the ranger had told us was predictably there every morning. He had said something about it being at ‘station four’, but we hadn’t thought to ask of what. We stumbled around the Arrowhead picnic area until we happened on a self-guiding nature trail. It occurred to me that that was probably where station four was, so we walked it.

Sure enough, we found station four, but we didn’t find an owl. We walked the length of the trail, chatting with a young couple from Gainesville whenever our paths coincided. We didn’t see much, except a redbellied woodpecker or two. We eventually emerged onto the main road through the picnic area again.

Near the restrooms, there were several birders with expensive cameras. They seemed to know the area and be familiar with the birds. We hung around them trying to glean some useful information. I happened to be walking near a parking area just as a woman was parking her car. She climbed out, Canon camera around her neck with a long ‘L’ series lens mounted on it. She saw me and, apparently sensing that I was a novice, said, “You’ve got to go where the flock is. They’re over here in this grove of oaks.”

I followed her and almost immediately she spotted a Blackburnian warbler. We both shot it, then it flew to another tree. We followed it to where it landed in a low branch, caught a fat caterpillar, then sat there eating it, allowing us shot after shot. Linda had disappeared and missed the whole performance. We searched the oaks and saw a few other warblers, but didn’t have any other opportunities like that one.

The very helpful lady, Lynn Atherton, is a well-known local birder. She spends most days at Ft. DeSoto and places like it, photographing the birds, giving many of the photographs to the park to encourage other would-be birders. She and her friends were extremely generous in the time and information they gave to Linda and me. We asked about the owl after we’d been looking for songbirds in the oaks for awhile, so she led us through the nature trail looking for him. We didn’t find him, but she pointed out a yellow-billed cuckoo, which we would have missed.

When we were unsuccessful in finding the owl, Lynn told us of another place we might look for him, then told us of other places that we should look for other birds. After we’d stayed much longer than we’d planned, we realized we needed to get back to the ranger station and extend our stay at the campground.

We headed back to the campground and took care of business, then returned to our site. Linda wanted to take a shower, then head to Karen’s and Grace’s, so I decided I’d take a quick bike ride. I knew I’d have at least an hour, so I figured I could ride the bike path on the park as far as I could, which would be somewhere around 20 miles. I changed up and headed out.

I rode back toward the bridge to the end of the bike path, turned around and headed back past the campground. The bike path was laid out in swooping turns, which I was having a good time riding through. I was feeling good – it was beautiful day, we were in a beautiful park, and I was on my bike. I rode out to East Beach, past the park headquarters, the pier and the fort. I rounded the corner, headed out towards Arrowhead and North Beach. I passed the bike rental concession.

As I was nearing Arrowhead, I noticed a car parked between the bike path and the woods, which looked like a car that belonged to one of the birders from the morning. One of the places that Lynn had told us about was the area around a nearby communications tower, which, in my newness to the park, I had been thinking was on the other side of the road. I realized, on seeing the familiar car, that this was the place that she had been describing.

I continued past Arrowhead, sweeping around the circle at the north end of the road and into the North Beach parking lot. I circled the parking lot, then headed back the way I came. As I passed Arrowhead, I began looking closer at the service road at which the familiar car was parked. I crossed the service road and looked up in time to see that I was headed straight towards an iron bollard intended to prevent motor vehicles from driving on the bike path.

I was only riding at about 15 mph, but I crossed the distance between me and the bollard in a matter of seconds. I reacted quickly, veering to my right, and almost cleared the bollard – but not quite. My left brake lever clipped the top of the bollard and my momentum carried me to the right. Before I knew what happened, I landed hard on my right hip.

I lay there stunned for a few seconds, then dragged myself up. My right leg couldn’t take my weight. I realized I couldn’t walk. I was three or four miles from the campground and Linda was unreachable. I was utterly alone. I thought about flagging a passing pickup truck and asking for a ride, but my pride wouldn’t let me. I’ve been with people on several occasions who crashed and made it home under their own power, most recently last year, when my friend Don rode about 65 miles after crashing. I decided that if they could do it, I could too.

My first obstacle was getting on my bike. I couldn’t raise my leg high enough to clear the saddle. I lowered my bike enough to roll it between my legs. Then came the challenge of pedaling. I found that, while I could pedal with my right leg, I couldn’t sit down and do it. I rode standing on the pedals as long as I could stand the pain, then I un-clipped my right foot from the pedal – excruciatingly – and pedaled one-legged with my left leg as far as I had the strength.

By alternating between the two methods of pedaling, I was able to ride the distance back. I endured the humiliation of having to ride past the bike rental concession guy, as well as a few walkers I had passed in my earlier incarnation as a happy, fit cyclist. I finally rolled into our campsite, dismounted and began the painful process of getting ready to take a shower.

I got a change of clothes and my toilet kit out of my bag, then limped to the blockhouse, each step nearly bringing me to tears. I got myself mercifully into a shower stall, only to discover that there was absolutely no way I could get my shoe or sock off of my right foot. Feeling abject, dismal failure, I retraced my painful steps to the campsite and sat on the bench of the picnic table to wait for Linda.

When she came back from her shower, she sunnily asked how my ride was. I told her that I had a story for her. I filled her in on the highlights and saw her good mood replaced by shock and worry. She offered to help me with a shower, but there seemed to be no way to do that, so I suggested we just go to her aunt’s, as we’d planned, but with her driving.

We drove out of the campground to the office, where she insisted that a ranger look at my bloody arm, at least. The next thing I knew, a park vehicle was pulling up behind the van with its emergency lights flashing. A paramedic jumped out and I got out of the van enough so he could clean my wound and wrap it. Linda asked about an ice pack, which he didn’t have with him. He offered to give us a couple if we followed him to the headquarters, which we did.

Linda drove us over to the mainland, where I asked that she find a CVS or the like, so I could get a cane or crutches. We found one almost immediately. I got out of the van and limped to a shopping cart, which I used as a support to get me through the store, then back out to the van. As I was making my way in excruciating pain through the store to find a support, I caught a young couple making fun of me- as if I hadn’t already suffered enough humiliation. I found a cane, then left Linda to attend to checkout and went back to sit in the van and wait.

Finally, at about 6:30, we made it to Karen’s and Grace’s. Karen was out, so we visited with Grace after calling Karen on her cell phone to tell her we were there. Karen had fixed lasagna, which we ate soon after she returned from the beach, where she’d been visiting with some friends. She wanted us to spend the night and stay the weekend, especially in light of my injuries, but I insisted that we return to the campground. We had to pack our tent and the rest of our belongings and check out anyway. It was going to be very difficult under any circumstances, but if we had to drive there first thing in the morning, it would make it even worse.

We returned to camp around 11:00 and I turned in for what I was sure would be a very painful night.

Postscript

I’ve undertaken a self-administered therapy program that includes cycling for the benefit of the low-impact rotational exercise, and Glucosamine and Chondroitin in the hope that it will help prevent the deterioration of the joint. This coming March will be my fifth anniversary of my surgery and my hip seems to be doing fine.

Where our spring trip to Florida was crammed with adventure, interspersed with lots of setting up and striking of camp, packing and unpacking, and several thousand miles of driving, our summer trip was more relaxed, but ultimately less satisfying. It was three weeks in New England, with a week in each of three different places. Two of the three weeks were in time-shares.

We’ve owned a time-share for the last ten years or so. It’s brought us a mixed bag of pleasure and frustration. On the one hand, owning it has spurred us to find creative and portable ways to maintain an income while we’re on the road. Before buying the time-share, we seldom went away for more than a week in a year, and there were years when we didn’t get away at all.

Once we had invested money in a yearly get-away, we adapted quickly to our new lifestyle. Suddenly we had entrée not only into our own resort, which we liked very much, but also a huge selection of other resorts all over the country and the world.

In order to make the most of the money we had spent on our yearly week, we had to begin planning our travel months or years in advance. Planning for travel suddenly became a priority, rather than an afterthought.

We also began to take advantage of “Extra Vacations” – reduced-price weeks at resorts that are under-booked. Linda was still working a regular job at the time we bought our week, so we had to work around the time she was allotted for vacation, but we began to spend a lot more time thinking about getting away.

In 2005, Linda left her job, which freed us up to travel as much as our commitments and resources would allow. That year, we took our first extended trip to Florida, took a short trip soon after our return to Baxter State Park in Maine, did a driving tour around the Bay of Fundy, culminating in a week in Nova Scotia, and spent a week at our time-share about an hour away from home.

That’s been the pleasure side of our time-share ownership. The frustration has come from the considerable yearly expense of maintenance fees and our lack of a voice in how it gets spent. It’s also been frustrating trying to make the best use of our investment without tailoring our trips around available resorts – being limited by the destinations and schedule available, rather than the choosing what we really want to do.

Our love of camping has complicated the situation further, while at the same time, it’s given us options and greater flexibility. The complication comes from being torn between wanting to camp and having a limited time to use the time-share week(s) we’ve already paid fairly substantially for, or risk losing them and wasting the money we’ve already paid for them.

That was our situation in 2009. We had two weeks banked which were approaching their expiration dates, and we had our regular week for the year that we either needed to use or have it add to the accumulation of weeks. At over $700/week, we couldn’t bear the thought of letting a pre-paid week slip through our fingers.

After a less than satisfying search for available weeks, we decided to exchange into a resort in Bethel, Maine. We had been to Bethel several times before, but had only ever stayed there in disappointing accommodations for a week in November. We took a hit on our week, exchanging the two-bedroom unit we own in a very nice resort for a one-bedroom in a fairly tired wing of a somewhat less nice resort. The exchange fee of more than $150 pinched a little too, but at least we’d be in a location we liked and wouldn’t waste the week.

We decided to use the week we owned for the current year too, choosing to go back to our home resort for the first time in several years. We booked the two weeks with a week in between to give us the opportunity to camp. We settled on Brighton State Park in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont for that week – a region we had never explored at all.

Our trip began on July 24 with a late departure and a five-hour drive to Bethel. We arrived at the resort at about 9:00 after driving directly there, rather than taking the more circuitous route I prefer through Errol, New Hampshire to look for moose. We unpacked the van and unwound from the tension of the long day.

On Saturday, our first full day away, I rode my bike through Grafton Notch to Upton (just short of the ME/NH state line) and back. It was a ride I had wanted to do since I first drove through the notch. By the time I returned from the 50-plus mile ride, I was in full relaxation mode, filled with the satisfying feeling of a good ride through beautiful and unfamiliar country.

During the balance of the week I logged another 150-plus miles on three rides for a total of about 205 miles for the week. I did the climb to Evans Notch twice. The tiny state highway through the National Forest is beautiful and seems to be endowed with a perpetual tailwind on the climb out of Gilead.

We took full advantage of the opportunity to explore the region for moose and birds. I had purchased the excellent Maine Birding Trail guidebook (by Bob Duchesne), which we made good use of to find out of the way places and improve our success.

Brown Creepers at Grafton Notch

During the week, we spotted eight or nine moose – a record for us – including a bull with a fairly well-developed set of antlers. On Sunday, the 26th, we drove through Grafton Notch, stopping at Spruce Meadow picnic area. The spruce and pine trees were crawling with brown creepers. I had seen single brown creepers a couple of times before, but never so many at one time.

On Monday, we drove through Evans Notch to visit Basin recreation area – a spot that I had read about in the birding trail book. It was a bit of a disappointment, but Linda had a memorable experience with a female redstart that flitted between the underbrush and a small, overgrown asphalt sidewalk. The redstart repeatedly flew out of the brush, landing on the pavement almost at Linda’s feet, then, after hopping around for ten seconds or so, flying back into the lower branches of the surrounding bushes.

We also explored the National Forest from the east side, accessing it off of Rt. 5/35. We drove in to Patte Marsh and Crocker Pond, but found little to get us excited wildlife-wise. Admittedly, we there in mid-afternoon, which is probably the worst time of day for wildlife viewing.

Grafton Notch moose

The week was far less productive photographically than any of the three weeks of our Florida trip, but it was relaxing and enjoyable. We came away having learned a lot about the Bethel area. It’s best known as a ski town, but the town has a lot to offer in the summer too.

On Friday, July 31st, we packed our belongings under threatening skies and headed off to northern Vermont. Since the drive would be short, we chose not to take the most direct route, opting instead to drive through 13 Mile Woods, along the Androscoggin River in New Hampshire. Once in Vermont, we planned to drive through Victory Bog on our way to Island Pond and Brighton State Park.

About the time we entered Grafton Notch State Park, the skies made good on their threat as a steady rain began to fall. The rain continued through the rest of our drive, dampening our enthusiasm as well as our chances for wildlife photography. We did photograph a doe and her fawn as they forded a small stream on the far side of the Androscoggin in 13 Mile Woods.

In Lancaster, New Hampshire, just as we were approaching the bridge that would deliver us across the Connecticut River to Vermont, I spotted a bald eagle in a treetop. The steady rain, low light and distance between us and the eagle made any worthwhile photographs impossible, but it was a welcome sight nonetheless.

The drive through Victory Bog provided us with nothing except muddy road conditions and a cursory familiarization with the area. We arrived at Brighton State Park and checked in at around 4:30 in the afternoon.

Fortunately, the rain let up just about the time we located our campsite. We set up camp and settled in for the evening.

We had selected a site on the waterfront near the north end of the campground. The rest room and shower facilities were a short walk up a fairly steep hill. Our site had an easy path to the waterfront, but the view of Spectacle Lake was limited by the fact that our site was in a cove.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny. I rose fairly early and puttered around the campsite, exploring the cove and enjoying my morning coffee. A gang of loons patrolled Spectacle Lake, which Brighton State Park campground faces. The early morning call of a loon is an unmistakable sign that you are in the boreal zone.

Most of the time the loons co-existed peacefully, but occasionally they erupted into noisy altercations. They were entertaining to watch. Loons can swim underwater quite a long distance. It was intriguing to watch one slip under the water, and reappear halfway across the lake.

Our campsite was frequently visited by ovenbirds. The hillside on the opposite side of the road from our campsite was wooded and the ground was covered with low shrubs. The ovenbirds would appear out of the under-story, cross the road, and work the edges of the campsite. If we were still enough, they would come quite close.

In the afternoon of our first day, we visited Wenlock Wildlife Management Area and Moose Bog. Of course, with that name, we hoped to see moose, but I was also hoping to catch a glimpse, or better yet, a photograph, of a spruce grouse. According to Birdwatching in Vermont, (Ted Murin and Bryan Pfeiffer) spruce grouse nest at the end of the trail into Moose Bog from Wenlock WMA.

Purple Pitcher Plants

We saw neither. In fact, the most exciting animal wildlife we saw was a leopard frog that climbed onto the boardwalk. Still, it was an enjoyable visit. The roughly fifty-yard wide edge of the bog, over which the boardwalk conveys visitors, is thickly carpeted with purple pitcher plants (Saracenia pupurea).

Purple pitcher plants are carnivorous and attractive. They are broadly distributed up and down the east coast, and are able to tolerate cold northern zones like the Northeast Kingdom. Despite their broad distribution, we had never seen them before.

We left Moose Bog and explored the roadsides in the township of Ferdinand. The edges of the road showed abundant moose sign, but we saw no moose. In fact, during our entire week in the Northeast Kingdom – an area that’s reputed to have more moose than people – we didn’t see a single moose. That fact was both disappointing and surprising, given our success in Maine.

On Sunday, I took the first of my three bike rides in the Northeast Kingdom. I rode to the Columbia Covered Bridge, crossed it into New Hampshire and returned – a distance of about 50 miles. Otherwise, we stayed around the campsite enjoying the relaxation and letting the wildlife come to us.

Miller’s Run covered bridge

On Monday, we drove to Lyndonville, the self-described “Covered Bridge Capital of the Northeast Kingdom”. There are five covered bridges in the little town, most still open to traffic. We photographed all five of them.

On Tuesday, I took the longest ride of our summer trip – a 70-miler that took me almost into Canada at Norton, then to Canaan, very near the northeastern-most corner of Vermont, then along the Connecticut River back to Rt. 105 in Bloomfield, which eventually brought me back to our campsite. After my long ride, I was happy to relax around the campsite, but we ventured out in the late afternoon to try our luck at Wenlock WMA again.

On Wednesday, we drove to Victory Bog. I walked the boardwalk into the bog, but Linda chose not to. I flushed an American Bittern that was hunting from the vegetation just feet from the boardwalk. I watched it as it flew off, but I wasn’t able to find it again.

On Thursday, we explored Nulhegan Basin in the Silvio Conte WMA by car and made one last stab at Wenlock WMA. The Conte WMA produced nothing, but it’s a vast area and we only saw the most accessible part of it.

Our week in the Northeast Kingdom over, we were left scratching our heads about the scarcity of wildlife and the complete lack of moose. We joked that all the moose in Vermont must have gone on vacation in New Hampshire and Maine. I had looked forward to a rich Boreal experience, but, despite our concerted efforts, the Kingdom had failed to reveal its riches.

Friday was travel day. We struck camp and drove the four or so hours to Bentley Brook, located at Jiminy Peak ski area, in the northwest corner of Massachusetts. It was a beautiful afternoon and we enjoyed the drive. After stopping to shop for groceries in Williamstown, we got to the resort at about 5:00.

We had invited our daughter and son-in-law to join us for the first few days of our last week to celebrate Linda’s birthday on Sunday. They arrived with our grandson around 9:00.

The weekend was interesting. Our daughter’s marriage was in trouble, creating a palpable air of tension. I was happy to escape for the solitude of my bike.

On Saturday, I did a loop that took me over the top of nearby Mt. Greylock – at about 3600 feet, it’s the tallest peak in Massachusetts. I did the climb from north to south – the steepest approach. Mt. Greylock has always figured prominently in our times at Bentley Brook. With the exception of our son-in-law who was napping, we all visited the peak that afternoon to climb the tower and hike one of the trails.

Sunday was dreary. In the afternoon, I went for a ride with our grandson. In the evening, we managed to cut through the thinly-veiled antipathy long enough to share dinner and a birthday cake.

Monday morning, I did a ride that’s become another fixture of our Bentley Brook visits. It’s a tri-state loop that takes me through the southeast corner of Vermont, across the state line to New York near Hoosac Falls, then south to re-enter Massachusetts by way of Petersburg Pass.

In the afternoon, our guests left. Linda and I shared a collective sigh of relief. The rest of the week passed as if in preparation for a soft landing – we were in our own backyard, with only a few days respite between us and the commitments and responsibilities of our day-to-day lives.

Tuesday, we visited my aunt and cousins in nearby Charlemont. We always enjoy visiting there, but, despite the fact that it’s not much further from home than from Bentley Brook, we have difficulty finding the time except when we’re at the time-share.

On Wednesday and Thursday, I got in my final two rides of the trip, bringing my total for the three weeks to a fairly respectable 555 miles. For the entire week, the only wildlife we photographed were a small herd of deer that we spotted crossing a neighboring field and a cottontail rabbit.

On Friday, we packed up for the hour-long drive home. The entire last week felt like an extended transitional period as we slid smoothly, but reluctantly back into home-life – the answering machine was full, the lawn needed mowing, work demands had piled up. By mid-week of our first week home, our trip was just a dim memory.

The vaguely unsatisfying nature of the summer trip left us wanting another adventure before our winter hibernation. We began making plans for an autumn trip almost immediately. The numerous moose sightings of the first week whetted our appetites, so we began looking for a way to return to Bethel in September or October.

In the meantime, we settled in to make the best of our time at home.

It’s been a long time between posts. I expect that those few who had become interested in my musings have given up on me and moved on to other, more reliable sources of amusement. I’ll have to post this in the perhaps vain hope that someone is paying attention.

It’s been a busy, eventful year or so since my last post, but I make no excuses. The self-administered pressure to post regularly diminishes proportionally as the gap grows since the last post. It becomes easier to succumb to all the other demands of daily life. I decided it was finally time to break the silence.

At the time of my last post, we had recently returned from our spring trip to Florida. We left in mid-April, with our New England home still in the grips of winter. The Northeast was hit with a devastating ice storm in December of 2008 which, in our part of the region, was limited to elevations above about 1200 feet. Our house, situated in the valley of the Westfield River, was spared any damage. The worst effect for us was that we lost power for the day.

Back to our April trip. As we drove over the hilltops on our way to pick up I-84 and begin our southward journey, we were amazed at the extent of the damage from the ice storm so recently revealed by the melting snow. Coming down out of the hills, we passed ice formations along the side of the road near the Massachusetts/Connecticut state line – reminders that, while the calendar said it was spring, winter had yet to give up its grip.

We stayed in Aberdeen, Maryland that night and, by the following day, winter was far behind us. After a second night on the road in Florence, South Carolina, we arrived at our first destination: Little Talbot Island, near Jacksonville Florida.

We spent three days at Little Talbot with the goal of photographing painted buntings. There’s a bird feeder by a deck off the park headquarters building that reduces the challenge to the “fishing in a barrel” level. We took some “insurance shots” there, then went bushwhacking in the hammock looking for our prey in more natural surroundings.

We were successful in our hunt, bagging photos of not only painted buntings, but black-throated blue warblers, great-crested flycatchers, and a variety of other birds that slaked our thirst for color after our long northern winter.

After Little Talbot, we visited our son in Port St. Lucie for the weekend, leaving on Monday for a couple of nights at Lake Kissimmee. The cattle ranches along Canoe Creek Rd. and Joe Overstreet Rd. always yield an interesting mix of wildlife species. We photographed snail kites, swallowtail kites, bald eagles and our first fox squirrel.

After leaving Lake Kissimmee, we drove to St. Petersburg to visit Linda’s 101 year-old aunt Grace. It turned out to be our last visit with her, although we promised to be back the next spring (this year). Grace passed away last January, just short of her 102nd birthday.

While we were in St. Petersburg, we spent time at Fort DeSoto. It’s become a “can’t miss” place to visit for us. We also took a drive down to Cape Coral on the suggestion of a photographer we had befriended a week before our trip. Our new friend Dan told us about the burrowing owl population that has made the empty residential lots of Cape Coral their home.

We weren’t prepared for the experience as we drove through subdivision neighborhoods. Residents watched us in amusement, resignation or vague hostility as we drove up and down the side streets, inspecting burrows for signs of life. We found an occupied burrow shortly after arriving and photographed a mated pair as they stood guard over their nest.

After shooting dozens of photos of the pair and probably providing entertainment for the surrounding neighborhood, we moved on in search of our intended quarry: a burrow with chicks. Within a short time, we located one. It was fairly close to the road and also surprisingly close to the driveway of the house on the abutting lot.

It was comical to watch the chicks poke their heads up over the rim of the burrow to watch us watching them while one of the parents stood guard, patiently keeping an eye on his or her charges. We photographed them for some time while the human residents of the neighborhood went about their daily lives.

On leaving St. Petersburg, we drove up Highway 19 to Perry, Florida, then along the Apalachee Bay to St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. After a couple of too-brief visits to the refuge on previous trips, we had planned to stay at a county campground just outside it on this trip, to give us a better opportunity to explore it.

The visit was enjoyable and productive, but it left us feeling that we had once again failed to really tap the refuge’s potential. I got some good shots of a least bittern and I had a memorable close encounter with a 10- or 12-foot alligator while on a bike ride, but the visit fell short of my expectations.

From St. Marks, we drove north through Georgia, staying one night at High Falls State Park, then continuing on to Grayson Highlands State Park in southwest Virginia. We had arranged to meet my brother and sister-in-law at Grayson Highlands. They drove up the day before and secured sites for us.

After a long drive through north Georgia and Tennessee, we arrived at Grayson Highlands just at dusk. With my brother’s help, I set up camp quickly, finishing just in time for the arrival of a thunderstorm. Linda and our sister-in-law Chris prepared dinner while Ron and I were pitching camp and we took shelter in their screenhouse to eat dinner as the rain poured down.

The storm passed through fairly quickly. We spent the evening visiting, catching up on Ron’s and Chris’ adventures on their January trip to the Grand Canyon. As bedtime drew near, I took the short walk to the restrooms for my evening ablutions. I found it filled with and surrounded by teen-agers.

The inner door to the men’s room was locked and the small ante-room was filled with about six or eight kids. As I was trying to decide what to do next, a man came in and took over, demanding that the inner door be unlocked. It was and I went in and took care of business.

As I left the men’s room and started back to our campsite, a man (probably the same man) approached and explained apologetically that there was a youth group staying at the campground for the weekend and there had been tornado warnings issued during the storm. The kids had been evacuated to the restroom facilities as they were the only shelter available that might withstand a tornado, if one should hit.

I returned to the campsite and related my experience and the storm news. Fortunately, the storm had passed and the threat had gone with it. I turned in for the night.

I awoke sometime later with the bed still half empty. I looked at my watch and discovered that it was after 2:00 am. I immediately began having visions of Linda wandering the woods of the campground, lost, cold, and frightened. I thought she must have gone to the restrooms and been unable to find the campsite again in the dark.

I got up and quickly dressed, then walked over to the restroom facility, preparing to find it empty and speculating wildly about my next move. As I approached the women’s side of the building, I began to hear muffled voices. I knocked on the door and called Linda’s name and was relieved to hear her respond.

With the crisis defused, my fear turned to reproach. I informed Linda of the time and asked if she was ever going to come to bed. She apologized, explaining that she and Chris had gotten caught up in talking. I went back to bed and Linda joined me shortly afterward, but the whole evening had taken on a surreal quality.

The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully. We had a nice visit with Ron and Chris until they left on Sunday. We stayed on and climbed up the ridge to visit the wild ponies that wander the highlands on Sunday afternoon.

We awoke to the threat of rain on Monday morning and began the ritual of striking camp. We were packed and ready to go by about noon. I waited for Linda to finish her shower – the final act in most of our departures. She got back to the van by about 12:30 and I turned the key to start the van.

The starter clicked – the depressing sound of a dead battery. Ron and I had used the van’s power to look at photos of their travels on his computer and had depleted the battery. My stomach churned as I looked around at all the empty campsites and wondered how I was going to get us on the road.

I left Linda in the van and began walking around looking for anyone who might be able to give us a jump. The campground host was nowhere to be found. I had seen some construction equipment near the entrance to the campground, so I headed over there, but there was nobody there either.

I began walking towards the campground store in the vain hope that I’d find someone there – I hadn’t seen any sign of activity there all weekend. Meanwhile, I was formulating a plan to extricate my bike from the packed van and ride to the park headquarters at the base of the mountain.

As I approached the store, I heard a car behind me. I flagged it down and asked the driver if he was stopping at the headquarters on his way out. He said he hadn’t planned to, but would be willing to. I explained our plight and asked him to tell the rangers. He promised he would and we parted ways; I returned to the van to wait and he drove out of the campground.

I hoped he would make good on his promise and I hoped the rangers had a contingency plan for knuckleheaded campers who get stranded. Fortunately for us, within about fifteen minutes of my return to the van, my hopes were fulfilled. A truck pulled up and the friendly ranger climbed out, pulled a purpose-built car battery jumping device out of the back and hooked it up to my battery.

I turned the key and was rewarded with the satisfying whir of the starter as the engine came to life. I thanked the ranger and we began our day’s journey, albeit quite a bit later than we had planned.

We drove to Winchester, Virginia for our last night on the road. Since we had planned to stay at a hotel for the night, our late start was just an inconvenience. We arrived in plenty of time to get dinner and relax for the evening.

One of the main attractions of this particular hotel, for Linda especially, is the hot tub. Linda loves to indulge in those whenever the opportunity presents itself. When we finished registering, Linda asked the concierge about the hot tub hours. She groaned at the news that the hot tub was closed. The concierge graciously offered an upgrade to a suite with a Jacuzzi tub to console my bereft wife. She beamed at the offer.

We ferried our luggage to our unexpectedly nice suite as Linda congratulated herself on her excellent choice of hotel. Since we had the Jacuzzi, I took advantage of it. Clean and refreshed, we walked across the parking lot for dinner in the local sports bar. Hearing the cacophony from the dozens of TVs, every third one apparently tuned to a different sporting event, we decided to order our dinner to go, and make use of our suite’s dining table and private TV.

It was an excellent choice. We returned to our room, kicked off our shoes, tuned the TV to one of our favorite programs and had an enjoyable dinner.

We arose the next morning to a sparkling day. We checked out and began the last leg of our journey. We arrived home at about 9:00 in the evening after being on the road for about 3 ½ weeks. While we were gone, spring had returned to our valley.

What springs to mind when somebody mentions New Orleans?  Probably Mardi Gras and the French Quarter, right?  How about Minnesota?  If you’re a Garrison Keillor fan like me, you’re probably thinking Norwegian bachelor farmers.  Likewise, reference to Pennsylvania Dutch conjures images of horse-drawn wagons, women in bonnets and bearded men in black wide-brimmed hats.

This country has many distinct regions, each with its own character, dialect and customs.  Some are very identifiable, others more subtle.  But the differences, obvious or not, are part of our American identity.  Our heritage as a nation of immigrants makes it so.

There is a trend that has gained tremendous momentum in recent years.  Our national culture, in all its richness and variety, is being homogenized.   This trend toward one bland sameness is robbing our country of its regional distinctions.  A Wal-Mart in Austin, Texas is barely distinguishable from one in Springfield; McDonald’s Restaurants are reliably the same from Boston to San Francisco.

National corporations see this trend as a good thing – a dinner at Olive Garden will be roughly the same, whether the plantings around the parking lot are Florida palm trees or Vermont maples.  It’s true that the corporate approach reduces the risk of a bad experience, but it also effectively eliminates the likelihood of a really great experience.  We’re trading the qualities that make various parts of the country unique for predictable mediocrity.

Local specialties are part of the charm of visiting a region.  Think Coney Island hot dogs, Maryland crab cakes or Cajun jambalaya.  You can probably get a Maine lobster in Nebraska, but it won’t taste the same after it’s been shipped halfway across the country in cold storage.

A friend, speaking about recycling paint, once told me that if you mix all the colors together, you’ll end up with beige or taupe.  Think of it – all the brilliant decorator colors mixed together, in all their richness and variety, to produce taupe!  That’s what we’re in danger of doing to our vibrant cultural palette.

The Pioneer Valley has its own rich tapestry of culture that is worth preserving.  We have Chicopee kielbasa and Hadley asparagus.  We have soul food in Mason Square and Vietnamese cuisine at the “X.”  There’s a Portuguese community in Ludlow, a French-Irish heritage in Holyoke, and Swedes in Southwick.  We have the rich history of the Jewish community and the vibrant culture of the Latino population.  Asians, Poles, Greeks, Ukrainians and Russians have all added to the cultural landscape of the Pioneer Valley.

Regional identity is constantly evolving.  Change is an integral part of it.  We should be accepting of change, but discriminating.  To be discriminating is to make thoughtful choices.  It shouldn’t be confused with racial or cultural discrimination, which is thoughtless intolerance.  We should pay attention to what is genuine in the menu of changes that comes our way and not be quick to reject customs or marginalize people simply because they’re different.  An immigrant culture, by holding onto some of its defining customs, adds to the character of its adopted community.  Assimilation doesn’t need to mean rejection of one’s traditions. Sometimes, a surprisingly pure reservoir of a culture’s tradition can be found in an ex-patriot community.

I have a friend of Greek lineage.  He told me recently about his 95ish mother traveling back to the “Old Country”, and bringing baklava to give to her relatives.  My friend initially scoffed at his mother, thinking it silly to bring the national treat back to the country of its origin.  He was shocked to see how enthusiastically it was received.  Come to find out, the Old Country Greeks had largely abandoned home-made in favor of packaged, store-bought and mostly inferior baklava.

Another time, I had an enlightening conversation with an Acadian who was working at a visitors’ center in Digby, Nova Scotia.  He pointed out that, because the Acadians had left France in the 17th century and had lost contact with the French culture over time, their customs and language had evolved separately.  The traditions of modern Acadians are more closely associated with 17th century France than the France of today.

In both of these cases, the ex-patriot community represents a kind of “core sample” of its native culture.  Each has also contributed the traditions it has preserved to its adopted culture, adding depth and texture to it.  The result is a rich and unique blend.

Likewise, the cultural identity of the Pioneer Valley has been molded over hundreds of years.  It stretches back to the Native Americans from whom we adopted so many of our place names: Agawam, Tekoa, Nonotuck and Connecticut, to name just a few.  The farmers who settled the fertile valley in the 17th and 18th centuries began a tradition that continues today.  Sweet corn and asparagus grown in the rich soil of the Pioneer Valley still have a wide-spread reputation for flavor and quality today.

The Pioneer Valley has been home to many people that helped to define both our region and our nation.  Jonathan Edwards, the firebrand Puritan minister, lived and preached in Northampton.  Pelham farmer Daniel Shays and his confederates in the rebellion that bears his name, helped to give the region its reputation for Yankee independence.  The abolitionist John Brown lived in Springfield during the years he was forming the beliefs he fought and died for.  Calvin Coolidge was mayor of Northampton before becoming our 30th president.

Theodor Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, was born in Springfield and wrote about the city in his first book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street.  Poet, journalist and long-time editor of the Saturday Evening Post William Cullen Bryant and Temple University founder Russell Conwell were both born in the Pioneer Valley.  Emily Dickinson lived and died in her family’s Amherst home.  Journalist, publisher and political activist Samuel Bowles lived in Springfield.

I’m sure I’ve missed many other cultural luminaries who have called the Pioneer Valley their home, which only goes to show how rich a heritage we share.  The richness extends well beyond literature, politics and philosophy too.

It’s well known that Springfield is the birthplace of basketball.  Springfield College physical education teacher Dr. James Naismith invented the game in 1891 as a way to distract rowdy athletes during the long winter off-season.  The local origin of volleyball is less well-known.  Holyoke YMCA Phys. Ed. Director William Morgan is credited with inventing the game in 1895.  The Springfield area also has a long association with hockey; the city has been home to an American Hockey League franchise since the 1920′s.  Star Boston Bruins defenseman Eddie Shore (“Mr. Hockey”) ruled the Eastern States Coliseum and the Springfield Civic Center (now the Mass Mutual Center) as owner, first of the Indians, then of the Kings, long after his playing days were over.

Industry has played a huge role in defining the identity of the Pioneer Valley.    George Washington commissioned the Springfield Armory in 1777 to arm the soldiers of the Revolution.  He chose Springfield for its combination of strategic location, ample waterpower and skilled workers, giving birth to the local machining industry.  Holyoke began as a planned community, developed around a network of canals and mill buildings in the early days of the industrial age.

One of the first builders of passenger cars for the railroad, Wason Manufacturing, was located in Springfield.  The Duryea brothers of Chicopee built the first automobiles ever offered for sale.  Indian Motocycles (the company’s spelling) were built in Springfield for more than fifty years, and Rolls Royce built Silver Ghosts and Phantoms there for ten years.  Up and down the Pioneer Valley, entrepreneurs and innovators harnessed the power of the rivers and leveraged the rich natural and human resources of the area, from the toolmakers of Millers Falls, the Florence silk mills, and the button factories of Haydenville and Easthampton, to the buggy whips of Westfield.

The character of the Pioneer Valley community is the sum of all the groups and individuals who have called this area home and have stamped it indelibly with their collective personalities.  But it goes beyond that.  It’s a continuum.  It’s what has been, what is, and what will be.  It’s the products we make, the produce we grow, and the food we prepare.  It’s the unique stores and businesses that line our streets and provide a tax base for our communities.

Local character is something to take pride in, in all its diversity.  It’s delicate and easily lost.  But it’s also messy – constantly shape-shifting and blending with neighboring regions.  It’s difficult to pin down, to sort into neat boxes.  So how can we preserve it?

The first step is to recognize that it exists and that it has value.  The second is to learn a little bit about it.  You don’t have to enroll in a local history class or read dry, dusty historical treatises.  Go to local museums, attend cultural festivals, go to one of the regional fairs, drive the back roads, walk around your neighborhood, talk to old-timers from the area – have fun with it.

Thirdly, identify the defining characteristics of the valley that are important to you and support them.  Get involved in groups that are actively preserving or creating valuable aspects of our regional identity.  There are worthwhile organizations and activities all around us that need our help and support.

Shop local businesses.  Corporate chain stores are corrosive to regional character.  Local businesses add to the distinctiveness of the region, while big-box stores move the region towards a bland, characterless uniformity.

With the pervasive and seductive influence of mass-media advertising constantly pulling us in the direction most favorable to corporate interests, we can’t afford to be passive, to allow ourselves to be led like so many sheep.  If you give your patronage to corporate franchises over local independents, that’s your right.  But please do it thoughtfully, because YOU choose to do it.

Support local agriculture.  Farming is a vital part of the Pioneer Valley and we allow it to be eroded away at our peril.  Treat yourself to some locally-grown asparagus, corn, strawberries, or other fresh-picked produce from a farm stand.  Join a CSA farm program.  Look for locally-grown produce in your supermarket.  Plan your meals around produce that’s in season here in the valley.

Be proud of our home, proud of our Pioneer Valley in all its variety.  It’s easy to become jaded – to get caught up in the negativity of daily headlines.  It’s tempting to think our best days are behind us.  They are only if we allow it to be so.  History is comfortable – it’s solid and definite, unlike the future.  Also unlike the future, history can’t be changed.

We have the opportunity to help shape the future of the Pioneer Valley.  In fact, we shape it whether we intend to or not.  We should relish that opportunity – seize it enthusiastically.

Let’s go boldly forth and create our own piece of our regional identity.

Originally published in The Handy Helper, June, 2009

A few weeks ago, on a warm Sunday afternoon–warm for February in New England that is–I took a bike ride.  I rode east, out of the still snow-bound hill-towns, to Westfield, to enjoy the clearer roads and slightly warmer temperatures.

As I rode, the cold, crisp air purged my lungs of the staleness of the long indoor winter, and the blood pulsing through my arteries scrubbed the cobwebs from my mind.  Freed from stress and the shackles of confinement, my thoughts probed forgotten corners and recesses, just as my body was rediscovering muscles that had been lying dormant.

No matter the season, a bike ride always stimulates my thoughts.  I don’t know if it’s the air, or the circulation, or the endorphins, but I often have some of my best, most creative ideas while I’m riding.

On this occasion, I began thinking about writing.  I’ve recently begun contributing a column to a local monthly magazine (my weak excuse for the lack of posts here lately).  This Sunday followed the completion of a several-day-long process of revising and polishing the first of my articles.  My success put me in a reflective mood.

I’m not sure what planted the thought in my mind, but I found myself comparing writing to gardening–a pursuit that I have no interest in.  It may have been the lawns and plantings that were emerging from the receding snow-banks.  Or it may have just been the promise of the coming spring season, inspired by my invigorating ride.

Whatever it was, once planted, I found myself intrigued by the idea.

I know almost intuitively that writing, or at least my writing usually needs to mature, to ripen, before it’s worth anything.  I’ve leaned on the rewrite to smooth out the jagged edges of my first drafts, and to illuminate the thoughts that I’ve developed incompletely or not at all.

In the metaphor that developed in my mind as I rode, I saw my writing growing wildly, with thoughts crawling across the ground like the unruly vines of a squash plant, or words filling every available space like the weeds that spring up between the neat rows of carrots and peas, needing cultivation to fulfill the garden’s promise.  I likened the clever wordplay of a passing phrase, or beautiful description of some insignificant dongle to the showy flower that must be clipped to allow the less flashy, but sturdier supporting plant to thrive.

As with most pursuits, my best writing often just happens.  In those rare cases, revision is more a matter of tweaking than major surgery.  Those are the stories that either spring from a topic that I’ve grown comfortable with, or the ones that develop almost independently of me, as if I am conduit, rather than creator.

Most often, though, inspiration begins the process, but hard work and whatever craftsmanship I can bring to the task complete it.

Gardeners will probably find fault with my imperfect metaphor, but it was a useful and entertaining way for me, the devout non-gardener to examine my craft.  Like topiary, effective writing can be achieved by allowing an idea to develop organically, then pruning it to expose the form hidden within the tangle.

My thoughts were soon broken.  I descended the small hill that delivered me back to the highway west.  Making the turn, the cold northwest wind woke me out of my reverie.

My ride, so enjoyable in the sun and clear roads of the valley, ended in the fatigue and cold of a dusky afternoon and ten miles into a headwind.  Back home, I showered and settled in for the night feeling the satisfaction that a hard ride leaves me with.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been intrigued by tall ships. Growing up in Springfield, Massachusetts, in the interior of New England, the closest I got to them was field trips from school. I had the opportunity to walk the deck of Old Ironsides, in Boston Harbor, to briefly investigate the dark, cramped quarters of Mayflower II, identical to the ones that had been home to the Pilgrims on their voyage to America, and to explore the whaler Charles W. Morgan at Mystic Seaport. Those were great adventures and did nothing to dilute the romantic image I had of life at sea on a tall ship, but they were all tame, the ships moored and sails stowed.

As a child in the care of an elementary school teacher, even a teacher with 30 or so other charges, I was restrained from the exploring that I wanted to do. I couldn’t climb to the crow’s nest, or swing from a halyard, as the sails furled from the combined weight of my deck-mates and me. I could only view the objects of my imagined adventures from afar, and store the images away to be dusted off in idle moments back home.

It would be decades, in fact, before I would even see one of my much-admired tall ships under sail. Even then, the tall ships I saw were schooners – beautiful, yes, but not the square-rigged ships of my childhood imaginings. There were opportunities to see square-rigged ships, but I usually found out about them through news coverage or articles about events that had already happened. Finally, in July, 2007, I managed to orchestrate an occasion to see many tall ships with sails furled. We went to see the Parade of Tall Ships in Narragansett Harbor.

In a rare (for me, anyway) nexus of planning and opportunity, it occurred to me in late June that there might be such a parade around the upcoming Fourth of July festivities. I went online and found out that there was, indeed. The parade would leave Newport on the Sunday afternoon prior to the Fourth, sail out of the harbor, into Long Island Sound, where some of the ships would queue up for a race to Boston. We immediately started planning the three-hour drive to witness it.

Sunday arrived, sunny, with a light westerly breeze, and by 11:00 or so, we were on our way to Rhode Island. I had planned our visit to avoid Newport, expecting that it would be a crush of people and traffic. We headed for Conanticut Island, instead. Looking at the map of Rhode Island, I had surmised that Beavertail State Park, on the southern tip of Conanticut Island, would give us an excellent vantage. As we got close to the park, it became evident that there were many people who had come to the same conclusion.

When we arrived at the park, we joined the procession of people walking south, out of the parking lot, heading for an indeterminate destination at an equally unknown distance. We walked for about a mile, lugging our camera equipment, before we reached the shoreline. Fortunately, the walk paid off. We were rewarded with, not only a perfect viewing spot for the tall ships, but a beautiful lighthouse too.

The parade hadn’t started, so we scouted out the area, taking photos of the lighthouse and getting a feel for the park. After fifteen minutes or so, we found a spot on the grassy plateau and staked it out to wait for the ships to pass. We could see the masts of the ships, as they sat at anchor, just off Newport, across and up the bay. There was one ship on our side of the channel, giving us the false impression that it was leading the parade. After it sat motionless for a half hour or so, we began to wonder. We found out later, that the ship had engine trouble that forced it to not only abandon the parade, but weigh anchor about a mile from its intended port.

When the tall ships began to sail by, the viewing location we had chosen proved to be close to ideal. The ships passed us about three hundred yards offshore – plenty close to get great shots of them – and the sun was at our backs, giving us nearly perfect lighting conditions. Gathering cloud cover caused the sunlight to sporadically disappear. It would then reappear to light the sails of a passing ship with the radiance of a pearl on velvet.

Countries from all around the globe were represented among the nineteen ships scheduled to participate. There were craft ranging from the Providence, a 65′ square topsail sloop, to the grand dame of the parade, the Gorch Fock II, a stately, white, three-masted barque, 267′ in length. The hapless ship lying at anchor was the Cisne Branco, a 249′ full-rigged ship flying the Brazilian flag. My sentimental favorite was the Picton Castle, a 148′ three-masted barque flying the flag of New Zealand, but sailing out of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Another favorite was the Bluenose II, a gaff-topsail schooner, also out of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.

The afternoon passed, and our appetites for tall ships were satiated. Only three or four of the dozen and a half ships lay offshore, in the sound, awaiting the start of the race. The rest had departed, disappearing over the horizon, on their way to the next port of call for their ambassadorial duties. Eventually, Linda and I made a leisurely last pass around the tip of the island, photographing the lighthouse in the late afternoon sun, and made our way back to the van.

Headed back to the bridge that would return us to the western shore of Narragansett Bay and the homeward journey, we decided to explore the west side of the island. We stopped briefly at a salt marsh to photograph an osprey that showed its distain for us (me, in particular) with an artful scatological ejaculation. A little further up the road, Linda spotted the beautiful Jamestown Windmill, its vanes aglow with the evening sun. We stopped and photographed it from beyond a picturesque stone wall and across a field of golden hay. Our last stop was to photograph the ‘spark plug’ lighthouse that sits in the middle of the channel to the west of Conanticut Island, almost in the shadow of the bridge we would be driving across.

Satisfied with a full and productive afternoon, and with a long drive ahead of us, we took to the highway and headed home.