The Old Western Field 22 Rifle...First Steps Toward a Boyhood Dream

 Not sure really where those boyhood dreams of adventure originated. Could be from the stories my grandfather told me about fox and bear dens on the old Oklahoma Cavanal Mountain. Or maybe it was from watching an old adventure movie or reading about the grand adventures of Lewis and Clark. Most likely though it probably was brought to life after reading the true story of a man long ago who made a bet with a friend that he could survive for six months or maybe longer in the woods taking nothing with him...not even his clothing. A fascinating story for sure especially for a young boy who dreamed of such things. Most of those dreams remain locked away inside until one day, on my 12th or 13th birthday during the summer of either 1964 or 1965, my dad bought me a 22 LR rifle. At the time it probably sold for around 25 or 30 dollars. From that moment on, I felt as though those dreams had the potential of becoming, at least to some degree, a reality. 

It was a simple rifle; a single shot Western Field bolt action he most likely purchased from Montgomery Wards. But to me it looked and felt like a high caliber deer rifle. Just holding it in my hands and raising it to my shoulder to sight down the barrel and align the sights on some distant target was an act of adventure. On that first day after opening the long box it came in, a smaller package was also included which contained a couple boxes of Remington Long Rifle bullets. Later that day we headed over to a local creek and within a short time I shot up those two boxes of shells plinking at various objects. I'll never forget that first day shooting my very first real rifle.

Still in my youth I relied on my dad to take me someplace to shoot it and to buy the bullets, so it wasn't all that often I was able to get it out. Never did go hunting with it back then, just plinking around creeks and other locations mostly imagining hunting way off in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains. Not until I grew into adulthood did I manage to head out on my own. Most of the time I just shot at cans and pieces of wood and things. Doing so improved my accuracy and it was indeed a rather accurate rifle considering the simplicity of its design.

That accuracy lead me into target shooting. I knew very little about how to do that, but over time learned the basics. I discovered just how accurate the rifle was for it, when held steady and solid off a bench, could consistently shoot a five shot one inch group at fifty yards. That's good enough to score in the mid-40's on a 50 point fifty yard small bore target. That grouping improved when I figured out if I used subsonic rounds like the CCI target rounds. Using those specialty rounds the potential accuracy improved to about a 3/4 inch five shot group. That could in theory score in the high 40's.

Of course shooting by hand would impart a level of inaccurate tendencies into that potential. Even so, I eventually started shooting in four position small bore rifle competitions; Prone, Sitting, Kneeling, and Standing. I rigged my rifle with a simple target peep site which improved my offhand shooting and felt as though I could compete respectfully and not embarrass myself...too much. 

During my first competition over near Bixby, Oklahoma I arrived not really knowing what to do. I registered and was given my targets and listened to the range officer go over the range rules. When we stepped onto the range I looked across the various stations and my heart simply sank as the other competitors extracted from fancy hard cases high dollar specialized target rifles fixed with calibrated diopter target sights. My little rifle looked almost like a toy up against those. They also wore specialized target shooting clothing which helped them hold their rifles more steady. I stood there in blue jeans and a sweat-shirt using only a large leather glove and a sling made out of an old leather belt to help steady my pulse from being imparted to the hold of the rifle. 

Next to me stood a fellow who appeared to be a seasoned target shooter using a several thousand dollar target rifle. He looked over at me obviously eyeing my little gun and politely smiled. I felt a slight bit of smugness from his demeanor. Undeterred, I sighted in my rifle in the prone position at 50 yards and was pleased with the results...then the shooting started for real. I fired off all twenty rounds, five on each of four targets. When the shooting stopped we gathered our targets and exchanged them with the competitor next to each other for scoring. His target looked well seasoned and even though I felt sure I had shot pretty well, I wasn't sure how the scoring would turn out.

When he was finished, he stood there shaking his head, glanced over at my rifle, then back to the target and commented. "You shot this target with that rifle?"

I said, "That's right...how'd it turn out."

He shook his head, "Man, that's some pretty good shooting for a little sport rifle like that. These are some good scores. Never thought I'd see these kinds of groups with that kind of gun. Some of these other guys using real high dollar target rifles won't score much better, and your scores are most likely better than a good number of them."

I smiled and thanked him. My highest target score if I recall right was around 47 and the four combined target scores fell around 175 out of 200 in the prone position. Kneeling, sitting, then standing my scores varied somewhat but were respectable and that little old Western Field sport rifle held her own against much more capable guns. I continued to entertain myself at those shoots for a season or two.

Through the years I have introduced both my son's to that old rifle even mounting a 4X scope on it. I even took them on an early morning squirrel hunt some years ago. Christopher carried a pellet gun and Tim the 22. That was great fun and this one photo I made of them using a simple disposable camera is one I treasure as much as any of them. Christopher, my youngest seemed have more of an interest in shooting and even got him to doing some 50 yard target shooting practice at one time.

On one of Kris and my first dates, I took her target shooting using that old 22. Even today, she will, on our Thanksgiving shoot, partake of the shooting activities. She's a pretty good shot even now.

On occasion just for myself, I'll breakout that old rifle and set up a target 50 paces away inline with my mound of dirt I had put in when we first moved to Kentucky.

 My skill at shooting has diminished somewhat, but that old rifle will still shoot a good group. Almost every Thanksgiving Day after my boys and family have gorged ourselves on turkey and dressing, we will brakeout the old 22 and do some plinking in the backyard. 

I love that little old rifle and treasure it as a means to retouch with my past. It is a past filled with visions of adventure and each time I squeeze the trigger, I am gratefully returned to those days when a young boy dared to dream of such things. My eyes are dimmer, my once blond hair now turned white, and my hold not so steady anymore, but I still enjoy the feel and excitement of how a simple little sport rifle strengthened the heart and mind of a young boy. I am still today that young boy, just in an older body, who dreamed of grand adventures and that old Western Field 22 rifle came along on many of those dreams.

The Quiet Side: When Nature Offers The Best of Herself

 Not so long ago, a long day fell mostly behind me and Kentucky's Barren River Lake began to settle toward its nightly rhythm. Daylight crawled ever so slowly toward darkness and just as the peak of the setting sun reached its climax, the horizon began to glow with a fire-like texture enhanced by suspended dust and smoke particles from summer forest fires way up in Canada. I walked across the gravel-like beach hearing only the soft crunching of the sandy pebbles under foot and the gentle washing of the lake against the beach, then sat on an old wooden box that somehow washed ashore some time back. The quiet side of nature spoke to me as I absorbed the moment. Speaking softly it reminded me just how much I needed this softer moment and just how often I miss these opportunities, but when I and the quiet side of nature do converge, we do so with a more clear understanding of why I need to do such things.

The Quiet Side is that moment when nature offers the best of her day. It can occur most anytime, but tends to spring to life during that transition from daytime to night., when the bigness of the day begins to slow down toward a refreshing calmness. That calmness of spirit moment can be felt, should you allow yourself to do so. It is like no other, and one of the best ways to discover and experience it is to canoe camp. 

I am blessed to have a wonderful location nearby where I can partake of such moments. Yes, it is a public area, but large enough to offer room enough to slip away from the public locations and find a secluded spot that offers a great isolated view of the lake. Not only do I enjoy the adventure of paddling my canoe deep into the back areas of the lake, I mostly do so just to experience the quiet side of nature.

So much noise infiltrates our lives we often lose touch with the benefits of getting away so we can fade into the aura. Canoeing provides one of the best opportunities to slip away from all the clutter of life. It is a throwback of sorts where you can truly become one with your craft and one with nature. After a while on the water, stiff muscles loosen and the distance begins to slip away behind you. It becomes easy again to view the world with a more discerning eye, like a Sycamore tree growing out of the sheer rock face of a bluff, or an Osprey hovering then diving for a meal, or maybe the cool spring water leaking from high up the ridge to run across the face of a bluff. A favorite of mine as a photographer is watching summer clouds change their shape as they drift across a sky so blue it looks more like a painting. These are but a few of the kinds of things that you may find while seeking out the quiet side of nature.

Sometimes I'll stop paddling and just drift allowing the day to infiltrate into my soul. I'll lean back to stretch stiff back muscles and allow the sun to warm my spirit. Eventually, I'll find my secluded spot and pull off the lake. In short order I'll setup camp, gather firewood, sort through my gear, take a few photographs, and cook a meal. Oh my...those meals! What could be more rewarding that watching, hearing, and absorbing the aroma of a steak or bacon and eggs cooked on an open fire...I suppose eating them might be. 

But mostly, I just relax and wait for the climax of the days quiet side. As always, the sun follows its path toward the horizon and settles deep behind a distant hill. The sky turns reddish orange, glows into a brilliant moment of light, and slowly fades. 

Then the stars begin to show themselves. At first just one, then another, and a few more twink their light across the darkening blueness of a evening sky. Before you know it, the sky is filled with diamonds of light. 

You toss another log or two onto the campfire, lean back and enjoy the show. The quiet side of nature arrives with a subtle flavor, then...it simply fades into the night.

By morning another flavor of the quiet side presents itself. Sometimes fog greets the morning and that often provides for some fantastic photographs. More importantly, it provides for another example of what the quiet side can offer. In the halflight of morning before the sun fully exposes itself, these foggy events whispers subtle greetings to your day.

It's hard sometimes to decide between capturing photographs before the fog lifts or savoring those sizzling strips of bacon cooking in your skillet. Just another quiet side dilemma I suppose, but...I will enjoy both...eventually.

 The Quiet Side. It's a point in time when nature offers the best of herself, and a place in time where we can release ourselves from the clutter and noise of life.

The Voyageurs - A Nature Photographer' s Personal Connection to History

(As the new year begins, one of the things I want to write about on this blog site are brief historical accounts from bygone years. One of the most fascinating involves the storied saga of the Fur Trade Era and the men who braved the dangers of the North American wilderness, men known as The Voyageurs.)

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 In the mid-sixteenth century, the fringes of North America had barely been explored, but because of the potential abundant wealth that could be had from the furs of beaver, mink, marten, lynx, ermine, bear, and wolf, the fur trade era began and gradually gained momentum to last for almost two hundred years beginning in the early seventeenth century (modestly starting around 1600 and reaching a peak in the early 1800's). The role of probing those unknown fringes of North America fell onto numerous individuals and bands of independent fur traders, but one of the most colorful groups most associated with this era were a hardy bunch of men known as The Voyageurs. As a result of their efforts, a nation (Canada) was born and the deeper regions of North America began to open up. 

 The craft they chose to venture into the backcountry was the Native American birch bark canoe. These canoes varied in size from the small personal designs suitable for one or two people to large freighter canoes measuring up to over 30 feet in length with 50 inch beams and 30 inch drafts capable of carrying well over a ton and often as much as 3 tons of cargo. Complemented by a narrow bottom, flared sides, sharp ends, and a relatively straight keel line and high prow, they were rugged and well suited for the trials of traveling deep into the interior. They were easy to repair in the wilderness with natural materials and relatively lightweight. Four men could portage ( pronounced por taj or por tahj ) the craft by hoisting it up and over onto their shoulders. ( Portage is a French word meaning to carry or transport freight.)

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To barter for furs from the indians and trappers they carried items such as awls, axes, gunpowder, gun tools, brass wire, flints, lead, beads, blankets, material, firesteels, rope, hooks, nets, rum or wine, tobacco, and a variety of other useful and scarce items. They transported these and other items to remote outposts established deep within the interior.

The voyageurs were able to paddle these large canoes great distances with no less than 50 miles per day being the norm and 75 miles was not uncommon. Using their long paddles, with red painted blades, they maintained a torrid pace close to one stroke per second tirelessly for 15 hours a day, with just a few breaks, that tested their strength and endurance. Across vast stretches of flat water and up or down fast running rivers, they traversed deep into the interior of North America, which included not only Canada, but parts of what eventually became the United States as well. More often than not they chose to run dangerous rapids to avoid the back breaking chore of portaging their heavy loads around them, but there were times a long portage became necessary. Every man often had to carry an aggregate of  up to 500 lbs the length of the portage which could be several miles over steep terrain often requiring several trips per man. Each pack was stuffed upwards to 90 lbs of cargo, and no self respecting Voyageur would carry less than 2 per trip, plus their personal duffle bag. Sometimes 3 and even 4 packs were carried by a single person employing a tumpline braced against the forehead and wrapped around the base of the heaviest pack. A second or third pack was tossed on top held in place by their respective weight.

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These Voyageurs were tough, well conditioned men more akin to world class athletes of today, possibly even more so. Most of them were not tall, but rather short about 5' 6" on average and stocky. Long legged Voyageurs were rare as there was no room in the cramped confines of fully loaded freighter canoe to stretch out legs. Most of the voyages began in Montreal where most of the Voyageurs were recruited to work for the large fur companies. Their voyages often spanned 1500 miles often covering over 3000 round trip miles across the wilderness and as far north as the shores of the arctic seas.  

Their shelter was simple consisting of an overturned canoe draped with a sheet of heavy oiled canvas. Tents were rare, but sometimes used. Their food; 1 quart of dried/boiled peas per man per day seasoned with salt pork or lard. As a bonus, flour mixed with water, along with an occasional pesky fly, the odd pebble or two, and sand mixed in from the gubby hands of their cuisiner, was fried like a pancake on a tin plate steel skillet lined with lard, but it added bulk and calories to their diet. To ward off the annoying mosquitoes and black flies, they rubbed their body with a mixture of skunk oil and bear grease which often got mixed in with their food..

At camp they joined in songs and dance to lighten their emotional loads. After a particular grueling day, they might be allowed an extra helping or two of rum or wine. Songs were often used to build comradery and help the team keep a steady and even pace through the day. Each morning started at first light but breakfast was rarely eaten until well after they were underway later in the morning.

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Along their route, they pushed through dangerous waters, and places like the windswept reaches of the Ottawa River, Georgian Bay, and Lake Superior and onward to The Grand Portage post, the crossroads of the fur industry, on the north shore of Lake Superior. The Grand Portage had no real outlet to the river systems they needed to travel deeper into the interior and everything had to be carried along a nine-mile portage to the Pigeon River area where their cargo was often parceled and transferred to smaller canoes to be delivered to far flung outposts.

These men had a great respect for their birch bark canoes and treated them with care for it was their lifeline to carry them back home. Little sleep, questionable food, back-straining loads, exposure, storms, exhaustion, and other dangers of unknown nature awaited them during their journey. Yes, they were hardy men of steel and endurance and became legends in their own time. Even after many years, most of those original Voyageur routes can still be traveled by modern day adventurers using modern canoes.

Voyageurs wore a variety of clothes and were a reflection of their personal expressions. They included gear such as moccasins, breechcloths, and leggings which reached to the ankles held in place by a string secured to a belt or sash (ceinture fle'chee') around the waist.  Made of homespun linen or wool, sashes were at least 8 inches wide and 12 feet long and most of the time they were red in color but could be almost any color and were often interwoven with various colors. 

Wrapped 2 or 3 times around the midsection just above the pelvis to just under the rib cage they were not only a colorful addition to their outfit, they served several purposes; as a warm wrap, as a tupline to help carry heavy loads, or as a back brace to prevent injury carrying those heavy loads.

 They also wore a red or blue wool cap called a toque and a hooded coat called a capote and a large cotton scarf tied around the neck and shoulders or tied around their head to absorb sweat. Their attire might also include a shirt or felt hat. Most of their gear was provided, for a hefty cost, by the fur trading company they hired on to.  They ranged in age from their early twenties and as old as into their sixties and most of them were French Canadians. They never made much money but more often were simply paid with a voucher good to exchange for merchandise from the company-run store. They were not allowed to trade furs on their own and everything they hauled belonged The Company. Eventually, many of them became independent trappers selling their furs when and to whom they chose.

The Voyageurs often spoke of strange happenings and observations they encountered during their trips. Stories like 'The Water Horse' were often spoken of. Described as a creature with a horses head with two long tusks jutting from the upper jaw but with a long snake-like body that easily moved through the water. They appeared awkward on land, but quickly retreated into the water if approached. This strange creature had deep connections to ancient European cultural folklore. By the descriptions given, this mythological creature more than likely can be identified simply as 'The Walrus' . 

Another tale from those days refers to a mysterious woman leader of one of the west coast tribes. She was known as 'The White Queen'. She by all accounts was a real person of striking appearance and ruled over her people with an iron but wise hand. A true leader, she held and demanded unwavering respect from even the most radical and hot headed of her warriors. She is credited with saving the lives of several explorers who happened to cross paths into her domain. Many other tales of adventure filled volumes of journals. 

One of the most strange accounts was known as the Legend of the Shaking Tent. There was a half naked medicine man chieftain who would enter into a tall, narrow tent constructed of several long poles of different kinds of wood and covered with hides. Once inside the chieftain would light a fire and breathe in the smoke from the different herbs and plants being burned. Before long all kinds of voices could be heard emanating from within. Voices included shouts and screams in a language no one could understand along with howling and barking like a dog that filled the air at the same time and lasted for quite some time, when suddenly all would grow quiet. The old chieftain then spoke in a calm voice and said the Turtle deity was now ready to answer questions anyone might ask. In Native American culture and mythology, turtles are associated with the earth and symbolize divination, protection, healing, and wisdom. On one observed occasion, one of the questions asked was if the British were going to attack them and how many soldiers did they have. The tent began a violent shaking almost to the point of collapsing. After a few minutes the Chieftain from inside spoke again saying the Turtle deity had flown across the great lake (Superior) and saw few British men, then he flew on down toward the far end and found many British ships with many men, but they would not greet their people with anger, but offer trade goods in turn for beaver, and mink, and ermine pelts. This prophetic moment proved true.

 Yes the Voyageurs from that era not only gained legendary fame as brave and resourceful men of vigor and endurance. They added a great deal of color to the enterprise known as The Fur Trade Era.

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Today's canoe is a far cry from those form defining bark canoes of old. With high tech materials capable of lasting for decades, the canoes we use today do provide a common and distinct link to that amazing era of the North American Voyageurs. You can still purchase special made birch bark canoes. They are quite expensive, sometimes running between $500 per foot (about $7500 for a 15 foot canoe) to over $1000 per foot (about $15,000 for a 15 foot canoe. The ones I've seen are beautifully constructed and capture the essence of bygone days of the fur trade era. 

Today's canoes pricewise are a comparative bargain and even though they do capture the basic form and function of those classic designs, they tend to fall short in recreating the rustic charm and historical warmth associated with a canoe made from natural materials. I have often wanted to build one, but, that's not practical. However, I have created several wooden paddles from scratch that do retain a warmth and charm all their own.

Every winter, as I sit in front of the fireplace, I begin to long for those warmer days when I too can load my canoe and head off for a day or two or maybe three afield paddling the length of a local lake, or even the length of a nearby river system. My efforts seem rather anemic and pale in comparison to what the Voyageurs did, but I do so enjoy paddling my canoe across calm waters on a warm summer day.

Even so, just feeling the movement of my canoe as I press the paddle through the water, to feel the sun on my face, to breath fresh air, and to watch as clouds dance across the sky, or to witness an amazing sunrise or sunset while set adrift across a lake, well, as simple as those moments are in comparison to what the real Voyageurs experienced, they still provide for me a very personal connection to the storied history of those colorful adventurers from bygone days.

And...when I find myself alone with my canoe, especially at first light as the sky begins to glow, I'll often stop paddling and simply drift along. During those quiet moments when birds greet the dawn, and distant hills spread their great shoulders against the golden rays of morning, somewhere in my deep memories, the young boy who first dreamed of grand adventures comes back to life, and, because of those old dreams I...however briefly...too, become a Voyageur!

When It Snows...Making the Best of Winter

 Snow in Kentucky is a hit or miss kind of thing. Sometimes we get a lot. Sometimes we don't get much of anything. Most times, most seasons, we do get at least some snow...and I love it! Winter can also be a difficult time to get out, but I've learned some of the best times for capturing nature images is when the weather turns bad. That is why I drive a Jeep, mostly, for it allows me to navigate around without too much difficulty when winter turns snowy. Making the best of winter is a challenge, but, you just gotta get out when it snows.

One of my favorite locations for seasonal photography is a little creek called Rhoden Creek. It's about a thirty minute or so drive from my house and is tucked far enough away from the main traffic flow that not all that many people pay it much mind. It is wonderfully perfect place to spend an hour, half a day, or even all day enjoying the sights and sounds it offers.

In recent days the atmosphere ushered in frigid temperatures via a cold front that dropped down from the northerly latitudes. Combined with some moisture that flowed up from the gulf, the conditions were ripe for snow. The forecast was for up to five inches, however, nature has her own way of doing things and we ended up with maybe three, but it was enough to blanket the landscape with a white icy covering. At times the snow fell with great authority turning the landscape into a wonderfully misty, enchanting winter moment. I found myself glancing across the open fields next to the creek to watch the snow falling as the darker hill sides provided the perfect blend of rolling texture and dark background to allow the falling snow to become visible. I probably took more video footage than still pictures, footage I will use later as part of a new BTC Video program called 'A Change of Seasons'.

There is something about the sound of water running across the uneven texture of a gravel and slate creek bottom. Not many sounds of nature add the same kind of musical tempo to the environment than flowing water. Capturing the emotion of the moment in a single photograph requires the ability to filter through the clutter and focus in on the most important visual elements. Angles, perspective, exposure, timing, all come into play.  And, when snow is in play, it is a perfect time to think in terms of black and white.  I love black and white especially when it snows, and I tend to always look for compositions I know will translate well into black and white images.

Snow almost makes it easy when it comes to making the best of winter. To me, falling snow signals it is time to crank up the ole Jeep and head out. Little Rhoden Creek and falling snow created a perfect blend of photographic opportunity, and aesthetic adventure. The memories created carry with them much stronger images than photographs, the kind of memories that are harbored within the heart as the best of what nature offers.

A Canoe/Kayak Double Bladed Wooden Paddle Build : Step by Step Off Season Project Tutorial

 Here' something a little different from BTC: A step by step off season project where we build a beautiful and functional double bladed wooden canoe/kayak paddle. The video walks the viewer through the basics of building this wonderful and aesthetically pleasing crafted wooden creation. It incorporates a unique design that can be made using basic woodworking tools and a little time. Please enjoy this newest and first of the 2025 season BTC video.

What's Coming in 2025 for BTC

 The year 2024 turned out to be somewhat of a scaled back version of what was originally planned. Lots of reasons for that, with weather being the biggest culprit, but other things interfered with my planned agenda. Not all that unusual as my planned agendas tend to become more like planned suggestions that may or may not happen.

The new year 2025 is rapidly approaching and I've got some planned suggestions in mind. Let's take a quick look at what we might expect.

First of all, I will most likely be making one or two winter backpacking trips and then again make a few fall trips later in the season probably returning to The Bluffs area inside Mammoth Cave NP. The idea here is to make bare minimum trips and incorporate some bushcraft features. I'll once again be talking about the gear I use, pro's and con's, and focus on the kind of fitness program an older person such as myself needs to undertake in order to make these kinds of trips. I'll also do some day hikes into different areas inside Mammoth Cave NP and other locations.

Will also spend time photographing and videoing the deer herd that frequents the fields behind my house. This is a challenging project in several ways. The weather, the deer themselves are quite leary of my being there, and figuring out how to capture their portraits in unique ways all contribute to the success of this kind of photography.

I want to make another trip up to Seymour Indiana to chase after Sandhill Cranes. My last trip up there turned out to be somewhat of a marginal bust as the Sandhills were not where I expected them to be. We'll look at photographic techniques / tips on how to get the most out of photographing these amazing migratory birds. Will also do some other wildlife photography.

When canoeing season arrives I'll once again head out in my Jeep with my Old Town canoe strapped on top. I'll be making several overnight trips and even more single day trips. Will concentrate on fishing and photography during the day trips. The overnight trips will focus on several things; distance (multidays), gear used, photography, camp cooking, and more of the Zippo Lighter Moment stories.

Will once again do a bushcraft segment out back behind my house around my campfire field work area. We'll look at building a Lean-pee (sort of like a Tee-pee, but smaller and it leans a little) using long poles and a canvas tarp. This is a fun way to car camp and I may even throw in a backyard overnighter using that setup and doing a short segment on building a fire without matches.

During that transitional season between winter and the canoeing season, I plan on creating a video on how to make a collapsable wooden double canoe/kayak paddle. This is a fun and rewarding project requiring basic hand tools and a little time. I love the look and feel of a wooden paddle and these kayak style wooden paddles are not only beautiful, but they are very functional. Plus its a great way to strengthen your arms and shoulders making them ready for the canoe season.

I may also create a different kind of video where I focus on creating a season long video concentrating on the moods of nature. This will encompass the various seasons along with wildlife. 

I also plan on doing some simple day trip outings just for shooting in a Ansel Adams black and white style photography. I've made these kinds of outings before but never really concentrated on the techniques and developing an eye for that style of shooting. 

Also will be making several trips to Shanty Hollow for some waterfall along with some morning sunrise timelapse photography tips and techniques. Should be a fun and informative video. Will also just make a few follow me outings where I just take off walking and see what comes up.

Well...there you have it. Next year is sort of planned out, but as always, things can change and new directions might creep into the agenda. Be sure to come along and join me Beyond The Campfire as we explore, photograph, and enjoy the great outdoors.

Comical Days Afield - Experiencing Nature's Sense of Humor

 If you add up all the days afield I've managed to enjoy, the total might surprise even myself. There have been so many they all seem to run together into one giant blur. Most of those days afield created their own sets of memories, some challenging, some exciting, some spooky, and a precious few comical. I suppose some of the best memories were created sitting around the campfire reliving many of those comical moments. I still find myself laughing out loud when I thumb through my 'braggin book' and relive the behind the scenes moments that elicited some of the funniest escapades our group experienced.

One of the funniest occurred a good number of years ago when Me, Rocky, Ralph, Neuman, my brother Ken and Curtis took a trip over to Arkansas' Big Piney river for some whitewater adventure. It was late in the spring and that season there had been some good rains so the Big Piney was running pretty good which generated several good sets of rapids a couple approaching class III. We spent a few days over there running the river in open canoes and having a blast. Me and Rocky witnessed two of the most inept canoers we've ever encountered. We were waiting for a few of the others in the group to show up at one of the putin locations. Just down from the put in was the first set of rapids, but above it was a nice wide calm pool, a perfect place from which to stage and set up your approach to those first rapids.

He and I paddled around on this calm stretch killing some time when two other guys showed up. They offloaded a cheap, smallish maybe a 12 foot fiberglass canoe that was designed to look like birch bark. You know, one of those promotional canoes that was dangerously functional. Now both of these guys were quite large, both well over 240 pounds, and it was obvious they had started their day downing several beers each. They dragged the canoe to the water's edge, piled in a large ice chest full of ice and several six packs of beer along with a few other assorted snacks and things. Rocky and I looked at each other and silently realized these guys knew nothing about what they were about to get into.

The canoe was too small for those big guys and when they shoved off, there could not have been more than a few inches of freeboard, that gap between the top of the gunwales and the waterline. They took about three strokes, traveled about 20 feet and lost their balance. Within seconds, in perfectly calm water, over they went spilling themselves and the contents of that large ice chest into the water. Within seconds, beer cans, paddles, cushions, and other contents from the chest started floating down stream. 

Rocky and I couldn't help but laugh as we watched them struggle to get the canoe back to the bank. We did manage to salvage some of their spilled items and ice chest and took it back to them. It was perhaps the shortest float trip on record, for they immediately thru the beer, ice chest, gear, and canoe back onto their vehicle and drove off, cold, wet, humiliated. Rocky and I laughed for the rest of the day reliving that fiasco of a float. We can only imagine what might have happened to them had they continued on down river for there were several potentially dangerous rapids awaiting them had they done so. 

Another memorable and hilarious moment occurred around that same time, maybe a year or two later. At that time I actually lived in Arkansas only a short distance from the Buffalo River, a truly amazing location and a perfect place for someone who enjoyed the outdoors. I wanted to do some backpacking into this area called Ponca Wilderness Area and managed to convince Rocky and Ralph to join me. Another co-worker of mine, Kevin, joined us as well. The hike in was rather uneventful and mostly downhill and we ended up camping not far from the river. Surrounding us was a thick layer of river cane which provided somewhat of a buffer. It was just early enough in the spring that the trees had not yet fully leafed out, but the weather was warm and we settled into a relaxing routine around a campfire. Although it was a bit early in the season, there were some canoers using the river. Often they stop just down from our location and take the short hike up to a pretty cool looking waterfall called Hemmed-in-Hollow. When water runs off the falls it drops a good 100 feet or so in a thin line. So it wasn't unusual to hear canoers stop and head up to the falls.

Well, as we sat around the campfire discussing past adventures, we heard some canoers arrive and make a bunch of racket. We pretty much ignored them and because we were surrounded by the river cane, they could not see us. After a minute or two we heard someone making their way through the cane. It was pretty thick and it was difficult going but eventually a fellow backed his way to the edge of our campsite. He never saw or apparently heard us, for just as he stepped into the clearing with his back to us...(wait for it)...he unbuckled his pants and squatted down attempting to take a dump right there.

Of course we all busted out laughing and the look of horror on the guys face was classic as he jumped to his feet fumbling to re-buckle his pants. He took off through the cane and much to our delight, we never saw him again. That incident became the topic of conversation for most of the rest of the day and ole Ralph said it all. While attempting to light his pipe between chortles, he said, "Boy boy, I aint never had anybody walk into my campsite to take a dump before." Then all laughed so hard we couldn't stop.

Sometimes, what seems funny as we remember back on them, wasn't so funny at the time. There was a classic canoeing comical moment that happened between Ralph and Rocky.  We were floating the Buffalo River and it was early in the season and the water was cold and the air temperature was chilly. Rocky sat in the front of Ralph's old aluminum Grumman canoe and Ralph took up his position as he usually did in the back. Well they wanted to get out and stretch their legs so they angled toward a gravel bank. When the front of the canoe slid onto the bank it came to a stop and Rocky jumped out, grabbed the handle on the bow, and gave it a good tug to pull the canoe higher onto the bank. What he didn't realize was that Ralph had by this time stood up in the back about ready to step out. Well, when Rocky gave it a tug, it caused ole Ralph to do a backflip off the stern and land in freezing cold water. There were several problems with this. It was cold, he got wet, and his hearing aid which hung around his neck got soaked and conked out. Ralph was as deaf as a stump without it. After he recovered from his plunge, he stood up knee deep in the river and famously said, "Why'd you do that for Rocky?"

Well, Rocky of course felt awful about it and was apologetic to no end, but the damage was done. For the rest of the day, Ralph suffered through being wet, cold, and deaf, until they returned to the campsite where he was able to change into dry clothes and plug in his backup hearing aid.

These simple stories about misadventures afield offer more humor to those who lived them than they most likely do for others who can only read about them. There are many more similar stories I may share someday. But for now, I am content to allow these to serve their purpose and to hopefully give the reader a sense that quite few days afield do not always go as planned, but, simply because they do not is what adds fuel to nature's sense of humor.

Highlights from the Beyond The Campfire 2024 Season

 An eventful year it became as 2024 progressed from a snowy January into a wet spring, hot summer, and one of the most amazing fall seasons to date. Here is a quick review across the Beyond The Campfire 2024 season.

Chilly Overnight Backpacking Into Mammoth Cave NP Backcountry

 Finally managed to get out for a late season backpacking trip to once again return to my favorite place within Mammoth Cave NP - The Bluffs. The air was quite cool during the hike in, but a beautiful day with blue skies and crisp air. While there I built another bushcraft camp stool/chair, but mostly just relaxed around the campfire. 

The evening turned cold as the temps dropped deep into the 20's (f) or about -4 (c). Overall it was another wonderful trip. Come and join me as I once again head into the backcountry beyond the campfire.

It's The Simple Things That Count - Look For Those Subtle Small Compositional Elements To Add Punch to Your Nature Photos

 Instinctively, I understood the photographic moment presented itself. Through my peripheral vision I was able to absorb the full spectrum of the scene, but interrupting what my minds eye saw into a workable photograph required a more refined interpretation. 

Using a wide angle lens, I framed the moment all the while looking for that single subtle element that set the scene apart. Then I recognized it; a single, distant tree standing in the morning haze. It was so subtle, one could easily overlook it, but including it within the content of the composition, bottom right corner, defined this Tallgrass prairie dawn.

Seeing those subtle compositional elements that help to define your images can often be overwhelmed by the big things within the scene. It's relatively easy to see those big important elements. It's hard to overlook the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, or the magnificent nature of a rugged coastline, or one of those amazing prairie mornings. But identifying those small things that set the scene apart from the very bigness of the moment, well, that can often be lost without even noticing it.

Take for instance this recently taken fall photo. The colors were amazing, the scene retained its natural flavor, the angle of the light fit the moment, but what sets this image apart from most of the others taken that same day is one subtle, very small thing. Along the center left edge you see the old fence row nestled under the overhanging limbs and between the tree trunks. You may have to click on the image to see a larger version in order to see it, but it's there and it adds to the rustic flavor of this wonder location. It's such a subtle thing easily overwhelmed by the bigness from the rest of the composition, but it is there for a reason.

Another example of how small subtle things add to the impact of an image is this one of a sunrise behind an old barn. Can you see it? It's the small thinly veiled clumps of grass that arch near the base of the old barn door. In this image, they indeed are an intrical part of the image for without them, the image becomes rather ordinary...almost too simple really. This slight arches of grass near the bottom adds depth, provides a clear impact of the rural nature of the scene, and gives the viewer a sense of place, the kind of place we've all seen before, but most of the time look past.

Being able to look past the big things and search for those important yet subtle small elements is something a good nature photographer instinctively recognizes. It comes with practice, it is refined by performing a self analysis of your own images and attempting to remember what your eye saw at the moment.

Those elements can be part of the background or part of the foreground. They can be very small an stand alone or help to define or accent the larger parts of the image.

 

The Storm

 Growing up in Oklahoma I learned to appreciate the power, danger, and beauty of storms. That area is also known as a volatile part of Tornado Alley for the state has the dubious honor of producing more tornadoes, and some of the largest, per square mile than any place in the world. I've lived in Kentucky now for over 20 years and Kentucky, although not known for its tornadic outbreaks, does produce its fair share, and is no stranger to storms that roll in across the state. One day in June 2024, I happened to be in the right place at the right time to capture a truly unique and beautiful encounter with a popup storm that rolled across a wheat field.

Sometimes lick and instinct has a roll in photography. As I drove along old highway 240, I came to place where I could go straight or left or right. I chose left for no other reason than I knew of a location a few miles down the road where a wheat field fills the rolling terrain. I also noticed some dark clouds off in that direction and thought just maybe a popup storm might present itself.

I guessed right. and within a few minutes I rolled over a shallow hill and around a bend to see this storm cloud forming just on the other side of the wheat field...and it was rapidly approaching. I hastily ran around setting up a few quick shots and managed to capture several I felt were going to look rather nice. Eventually, the storm overtook me and dropped a deluge of rain whipped about by strong winds.

As I suspected, several of the images turned out rather nicely, but this one seemed to stand out from the others. The color version was pretty good and retained its own flavor, but some images just ask to be converted to black and white. Being heavily influenced by Ansel Adams and still working on my Ansel Adams project, that is exactly what I did, and...well, the rest is history.

There is a random strength to this image only nature could manufacture. The structure of the clouds, the curved appearance of the rain curtain, the distant wheat field, the scattering of wild flowers across the foreground along with the weathered appearance of the fence post and gate, all serve to make this a most enjoyable image. I've selected it as one of my top 10 images of 2024.

Yeah, sometimes luck and instinct has a roll in the capture of a photograph, but, just being there to witness nature in her most raw form as it happens...well, all the rest just seems rather ordinary.

Operation Black Mountain - A Revelation

 For five days, October 28 thru November 1, 2024, a team of eleven people from Lakeview Free Will Baptist Church in Bowling Green, Kentucky traveled to western North Carolina to provide and offer assistance to anyone in need who suffered a loss due to Hurricane Helene. This hurricane devastated the communities of Black Mountain and Swannanoa, and many other locations, with flood waters of a biblical nature. Many lost their lives. Many more lost everything; their homes, their jobs, their security. 

Operation Black Mountain became a symbolic gesture of goodwill as the team reached out to several families in the area providing physical labor hopefully to soften the impact of their situation. We learned a great deal during those small but important efforts. Things like grace, courage, hope, encouragement, thankfulness, gratitude, were common virtues exhibited during this token, but important effort of giving of one's time and energy.

One of the locations we served was the Swannanoa Free Will Baptist Church spending half a day there helping another team rip the ruined flooring from the 100 year old building. While there, I took a moment to review the basement area of the church. One room caught my eye for hanging in the window was an American flag. Tattered, stained with a high water mark, it hung in the window as a proud symbol of this communities resolve to recover. Using my cell phone, I snapped its portrait. It is perhaps the single most powerful image from the trip.

Backlit by a bright background, it seemed to glow in the darkness and gloom. In a way, it spoke very loudly, but with a subtle voice, saying, "I'm still here, I'm still strong." Indeed she was and so were the people we grew to know during that short time.

There are many people within in our country who are upset by the recent election results. They have their reasons and I'll leave it at that, for now. I once read a book written by Peter Jenkins...two books actually. The first one was called 'A Walk Across America'. The second one was 'The Walk West.'

Back in the early 1970's, Peter was a disillusioned and disgruntled young college aged man who had grown angry with his country. Too many injustices, the Vietnam War, among other issues created a terrible although misguided view of what his country was and had become. In a way he didn't know what his country stood for. Someone convinced him to get out and see the country. Not just drive through it, but to walk across it and rediscover the heartland values of what we as a nation stood for. He and his dog did just that. It took him several years, but he made it and in the process discovered so much about the people of America. 

He discovered that in spite of her many faults, America's heartland is strong and vibrant filled with good, God fearing people, who work hard and care for their families. He got to know so many of them and they grew to love him, and he them. Doing so changed his life. Doing so changed his understanding of what America is all about.

Operation Black Mountain, in a smaller way, proved the worth of selflessly doing for others, with what you can give, even if it is simply a small gesture of kindness. Finding that American Flag defiantly hanging in the basement window after a devastating flood, well, I think maybe the Good Lord wanted me to discover that symbolic moment. It spoke to me.

Yes, in spite of her faults, America is still a place of opportunity and resolve. We may seem deeply divided to many from around the world, and maybe we are in some ways. But, when you take time to look more closely, to selflessly give to or encourage others, to see the good that thrives across this land, well...the chasm of divisions may not seem so wide.

Indian Summer - Rhoden Creek

 The simple things grow more important the older I become. I discovered a renewed spirit on Kentucky's little Rhoden Creek during a most memorable Indian Summer October.

A Splendid Kentucky Indian Summer October: How A Small Little Creek Salvaged My Photography

 I had nothing better to do. The weather was splendidly fine and the late October Kentucky sky shined bright and blue. A chill filled the air early on, but I knew by mid-morning the day would turn Indian Summer warm. About 9:00 AM I scurried around and grabbed my new-to-me Sony A77 camera, an upgrade from my now older and defunct A65. With the Sigma 18mm - 50mm f/2.8 lens attached I made sure the polarizer looked clean and dust free. A quick spin and all was ready. I grabbed my venerable Minolta 75-300mm lens, just in case. Didn't plan on using it, but you never know. Rule is, if I didn't bring it, I'd have wished I did, but by taking it, it was pretty well a done deal I would not use it. A fresh battery tucked into a shirt pocket along with a pair of readers...and oh yeah...can't forget the tripod. I settled for the smallish, but sturdy AFaith one. A quick reformat of the card and I was ready to go.

Fall in Kentucky lingers way to long. Seems it just holds off, and holds off, showing only tantalizing hints of what is to come. Then almost like magic, someone waves an invisible wand and overnight the fields and woods are adorned in colors that rival anyplace you might imagine. Just three days before only a few trees showed any kind of significant color. This morning, the fall season colors exploded across the landscape including my backyard. But, I was heading to another location, A little creek known as Rhoden Creek. It's a place I frequent from time to time for I know if I catch it just right..well, just maybe there might be a photo or two in there.

The old Jeep purred on down the road passing flowing colors adorning the hills and valleys that is eastern Warren County, and western Allen County. I needed a light windbreaker for the air was still cool especially with the doors off the Jeep. The winding road passed old buildings and barns moving up and over shallow hills and along side fence rows. I took a shortcut inside Scottsville and came out on the other side of town and continued on. Before long me and the old Jeep took a left turn off the mainroad and drove on for another mile or so and took another left turn to eventually cross a low-water bridge. I parked on the other side. 

The creek flowed low but steady and danced lively to its own rhythm across a gravel bottom and slippery flat rocks. I walked across the bridge to the backside and stepped onto the gravel bank. Sometimes I simply time it right, and today it felt right. I knew something photographic would come from this. The creek was lined on one side by a row of trees glowing with fresh fall colors. Behind them a two maybe three acre field spread a gap between the creek and a shallow hillside also speckled with reds and yellows. On the other side of the creek a shallow hill rolled upward forming a tilted wall. Lined with a woodland, its sides shouted with authentic Kentucky color.

Countless fallen leaves already lined the creek and a small break line offered a tiny brook level waterfall whose motion generated the classic small creek music. With each lift of the breeze, hundreds of leaves filtered across the opening, and with each passing of moments, I was filled with the satisfying sense of being there. The water, clear and clean, rolled along near my feet. So much to see, so many angles and compositions to choose from, I found it difficult to decide where to start. I just allowed my instincts to take charge.

Visualizing a composition is one of the most difficult things for a photographer to master. Sometimes Nature all but does it for you. Even so, you gotta evaluate the sun angle, compose the frame, set the exposure, adjust the polarizer, move forward, backward, kneel lower or stand higher. But eventually, you press the shutter. I am thankful I started in photography way back in the film days. Doing so forced me to observe more intimately the landscape and composition, and that alone has contributed to my, most of the time, seeing the composition before I press the shutter. One thing I've learned over the years; There is more to capturing Fall colors than simply pointing your camera toward a pretty tree. You must capture the emotion, and express why this moment, this location, this instant of light is important. You do that by allowing the light to illuminate the story. You are the writer, director, and producer of this story and it is your vision that is captured. 

 At the first image, something began to work. Like a machine, I moved to the left, then right, then back, then forward. With each shot, the compositions matured. Not sure how many images I managed that morning, but oddly enough, when I looked more closely at the result, the first few were the ones that stood out. First impressions almost always work that way.

The sun climbed a bit too high in the sky and the light within that channel began to grow much too harsh. By the time I arrived back home, I could not wait to take a look at the results. It's not often an image I take will generate the kind of response I felt. Usually it's something like...well, this one is pretty good, or, I can maybe salvage these two. The first couple of images I brought up on the screen caused me to verbally exclaimed, "Whoa...Oh my."

A Kentucky Indian Summer October day and a small little Kentucky creek salvaged my photography for the season. I had indeed grown complacent and uninspired, but, light has the ability to change your perspective and that in turn challenges your vision.  

Until the Last Moment of Light: When Nature Says "Here I am..."

Difficult it is and sometimes downright hard it is to sit still inside a tight fitting, makeshift photo blind for several hours waiting for an opportunity to photograph a wild animal, Kentucky Whitetail Deer in particular. Your mind tends to drift, your back starts to ache, your rear-end starts to cramp, and those are the lesser of the uncomfortable symptoms. The question 'Will they even show up' crosses your mind a dozen then two dozen times. You hope they will. You've seen them in this field countless times. Their patterns vary on each visit, but, yeah, they'll most likely show up, eventually.

Problem is; I've already taken hundreds of ordinary images of them, only a few of which really separate themselves from the others. That is what I am seeking for this season-long project, and going forward; photographs that reside outside the routine. An image that captures not only the animal behavior, but one showing where it lives. Much of that depends on the deer of course. Sometimes they cooperate, most times they do not. Their senses often spoil your attempts. Even so, the challenge is what drives you, keeps you sitting there with a cramping back and stiff legs waiting for the moment to present itself. 

The afternoon drifts away toward evening and the angles of light begin to cast shadows through the tangle of woodlands that mark the perimeter of the recently harvested cornfield. The fall season colors are but a few days away from busting out. Already chilly, with some color growing across the landscape, you relish nature's transitional moments. Not quite there yet, but headed in that direction. It's easy to get distracted maybe even nod off as the warmth of Indian Summer surrounds you, but then your leg cramps and you gotta stretch it out. Not so easily done sitting inside a burlap and stick blind barely large enough to accommodate your frame, a tripod, and your camera. 

Even when hidden behind the camouflaged burlap, movements can still alert a whitetail. Their hearing and eyesight honed precisely into a keen sharpness by nature's way of survival. Even a slight shift of the gentle breeze will betray you...all of a sudden you hear it, that loud, sharp, snorting bleat of an alert doe whose nose told her an intruder is close by.  A few moments before and you felt like they would never show themselves. Now, they detected you before you even knew they were there.

You see it move to your right; not where you expected, angled away just enough so your camera cannot rotate that far without moving the entire contraption, and that would make a far to obvious commotion. So, you wait. You dare not move. She can't see you, so calms down and begins to move, head down occasionally checking the breeze for intruder scent. Suddenly, there are now three, then five. They move so silently in spite of the dry conditions.  Finally, you are able to fire off a few quick photos. They hear the soft wisk of the shutter and instantly look up all eyes locked onto where you are. They cannot possibly see you inside the blind, but they instinctively know something is not quite right. They grow agitated. Stomp the ground, snort twice, then a third time, and that subtle gentle breeze shifts ever so slightly again, they twitch, raise their tails, and bolt across the field. They run maybe two hundred yards before stopping, turn back to give you one more look of contempt before they calm down enough to begin feeding again.

By this time, the sun has settled to just above the horizon and a bit of a chill runs down the back of your exposed neck, but you don't really feel it, locked onto the moment. Maybe another five minutes of shooting light left, but the best light is now. The does are standing in the gray of cast shadows. Soft, golden, mid-October light floods the far treeline, the horizon gray shadow ever so steady, creeps across the field to the base of the woodlands.

More movement. Two, three more does emerge from the shadows across the field and meander toward the fading light. Another two minutes and the good light will end. One of them saunters to the edge of the shadowed area, hesitates, then moves across a last remnant beam of sunlight that sets her aglow as she stands beneath overhanging limbs. You focus the camera lens peering through isolated grasses in the field and lock onto her. One more step...Click.  A moment later, the light show comes to an end, and everything turns a blue gray. 

Several hours of waiting, anticipating, not knowing for sure if there would even be an opportunity to photograph these amazing creatures in their habitat. You never know for sure what will happen, how the light will interact with the deer, but, you hang on, and wait...wait...until the last moment of light...when Nature says "Here I am."