DIY Solar Filter for Your Camera Lens

August 21, 2017 is a red letter day for much of North America including Kentucky. On that date we will enjoy a total eclipse of the sun. In fact, one ofthe best locations to view the eclipse is in Hopkinsville, KY, less than an hours drive from Bowling Green. Bowling Green will be located right on the northern edge of the eclipse path and will be able to see the totality, but a few miles south and west will provide much better viewing.

Some of you out there are probably wondering about how to photograph this event without damaging your camera or your eyes. There are a number of commercially available filters you can buy that attach to your camera lens that will do a nice job, but they tend to be rather expensive. So, I'm going to show you how to build a Do It Yourself version of a solar filter that works quite well. It cancels out 99.999% of the light along with all the UV and other bad light and allows for direct viewing and photographing of the sun.

First of all, this version was made to fit my 50mm - 500mm Sigma Lens. The concepts shown here can be used to build a filter for any size of lens, its just a matter of scaling down the size of the main tube that is used to fit your lens. Also, use only solar filter material that is designed for solar viewing. Do Not compromise on this, your eyes will not appreciate the cheaper materials and they can be damaged.

Here is the parts list:  1 - 4 inch Cardboard shipping tube...about $6.00. (Use tube size that will fit your lens)
                                 1 - 8x8 inch Black Polymer Solar Filter Sheet - about $18.00 (one sheet will make
                                       several filters) Amazon Link is attached to bottom of this article
                                 Some double stick tape
                                 A small piece of thin cardboard

Step One: Cut a 5 inch section off the end of the shipping tube. Use a Hacksaw to make a smooth cut.

Step Two: Remove the plastic end piece and cut out the center of the cap leaving about 1/4 inch all the way around the edge along the bottom. In this case just follow the ridge that outlines the center of the plastic cap. This creates the hole through which the filter material will be applied.

Step Three: From the 8x8 inch sheet of black polymer filter material cut a square section large enough to cover the end piece. In this case about a 4x4 inch piece worked just fine. While cutting the filter leave the filter material inside its cardboard holder and cut across/thru the cardboard. Do not try to remove the filter material and cut it separately as it is too flimsy and awkward to cut that way.

Step Four:  Take small strips of double stick tape and cover the bottom inside flat 1/4 inch wide portion of the end piece. After covering the end piece with tape, trim the tape so none of it extends over the cutout section. Tape should only be applied to the flat piece along the bottom.

Attach Polymer to bottom of the cut out plastic cap sealing along the double sided tape.

Make sure the Silver side is facing forward. The end result should look like this.

Step Five: Carefully place the Black Polymer material onto the back of the plastic cap. Be sure the shiny silver side is facing forward or looking thru the hole toward where the sun will be. The black side should end up on the inside of the tube. Gently, but firmly press the material onto the sticky tape and make sure it is sealed all the way around. It's okay if the material has some crinkled edges. It will not affect the performance. Try not to scratch the material though. Just make sure the entire bottom surface of the plastic cap is covered so that no light can penetrate through.

Step Six:  Gently press the plastic cap back into the cardboard tube.

  Step Seven: Depending on if the cardboard tube is larger in diameter than your lens, you may need to shim
                    up the inside of the tube for a tighter fit. To do so, simply cut another section of the tube, about                     3 or 4 inches is enough, then cut a 3/4 inch slice out of it. Pinch the ends together and slide into
                    filter tube. Additional shimming can be applied once the filter is slipped over the end of the lens.
                    Just use a 3 or 4 inch piece of thin cardboard folded over so it can slip into the gap between the
                    lens and the filter holder.

Additional piece of tubing with a small slice cut out of it, pinched together and then inserted into the maintube. This provides a bit of shimming to create a tighter seal around the lens.

Here is the finished product:

Notice the folded thin piece of cardboard wedged between the filter tube and the lens. This keeps the Filter tube tight so it does not wobble around or fall off.

...and here is the results. Now its just a matter of having clear skies for the eclipse and/or some interesting sunspots to appear.  Exposure on this one: Manually set f/8.0  1/500th sec  ISO 100  500mm (cropped).

Amazon Link for filter material:  https://www.amazon.com/Solar-Filter-Telescopes-Binoculars-Cameras/dp/B00DS7S52W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1489027135&sr=8-1&keywords=mylar+solar+filter

The Photographer's View of the World

Yellow wild flowers, with a hint of mustard and green, spread like a blanket across the small pasture which
was surrounded by trees on three sides and wooden fence row along the road. Being late in the afternoon the low angle of the sun richoched off and through the flowers causing them to vibrate with a brillant flavor almost glowing from within. It was Kentucky at its best with warm spring temperatures and a clear sky filled with an ocean-like blue. I pulled well off the road and stepped and with camera in hand began to photograph this wonderful little patch of color from the edge of the fence. Within a few minutes I heard a voice from across the road shout, "Can I help you with something?" I turned to find a middle aged lady standing on her porch directly across from where I was standing. I thought maybe she might have owned this little pasture at first, but discovered later she was just a neighbor. Our conversation continued something like this.

"No, I'm just taking some pictures."

"What are you taking pictures of?"

"This little field here with all the yellow flowers."

"You mean all those weeds. Why would you want to take pictures of weeds for?"

I smiled and made one final comment, "I'll be moving along here in a moment. Sorry if I disturbed you."

This encounter was not the first time I had been asked what I was doing while I was taking pictures. Seems more and more I am confronted by people for no particular reason while photographing an interesting place. The interesting thing about this particular conversation was the different points of view the two of us had about the field. The person asking me saw only a field of weeds with no real value to it. I saw a magical moment of light filled with possibilities.

The Photographers view of the world is certainly different than the average persons view. Most anyone can stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon and marvel at the beauty, but photographers have an uncanny ability to see beauty in ordinary things like a field full of weeds. Not sure exactly where it comes from, the ability to see beauty in ordinary things, but I suspect the initial stirring to life that feeling of 'something wonderful is here' must first come from the heart where our creative instincts seem to reside.

As an artist who uses the camera to capture a vision, I've grown accustomed to looking for what others do not always see. Often times, I'll see it well before I can capture it, but what I am actually seeing is not always how I want to capture it. The camera gives us the ability to translate light into the form we desire. Like an artist, the ability to do such things become instinctive, you just see it first in your heart and then in your mind as the form of the composition begins to take shape. Understanding how the camera captures light is an important technical element to have not unlike a painter knowing how to use the brushes and pigments of his craft. It comes with practice.

To view the world as a photographer requires one to see the world from the perspective of light as opposed to an object. Objects can distract us from the real potential of the moment. Looking beyond the object and seeing how it may appear when bathed in golden light elevates the photographer toward viewing the world as an artist would see it. When doing so, even a field full of weeds becomes a magical moment of light.

The Photographer's Home Territory

Some years ago we moved to Kentucky from Oklahoma. Oklahoma as my ancestral home will always retain a special warmth for me, but we've been in Kentucky now for 13 years and it has for many good reasons become our home. It did not take long to recognize the scenic beauty that surrounds where we live and before long I began to explore the nooks and cranny's that define this part of Kentucky. As a result I created, several years ago, an on going project called 'The Alvaton Collection' which consists of photographs taken in and around the Alvaton area in south central Kentucky, most of them within a few miles of where we live.

As a photographer I am always envious of the ability of many of my photographer friends who travel across this great land and even the world for some of them, to photograph the scenic wonders waiting for them. They come up with some amazing photographs of wonderfully exotic locations. I've never been able to do such traveling for various reasons, so instead I simply focus on my Home Territory and discover great images just waiting for capture outside my front door.

The photographers home territory is the most important location to shoot for many reasons, the most obvious being the convenience of it. Most photographers probably do spend a lot of time shooting in their respective locations, but I'm not so sure many of them focus on just one geographic locality; that is to stay within a few miles of their home and capture its flavor and appeal through all seasons, lighting conditions, and scenic structure. The Photographers Home Territory can provide a tremendous amount of photographic rewards and what is so appealing about it is, because of its closeness, you can capture it year round in every kind of lighting conditions.

The idea is to look beyond what you see everyday and start looking at it with a photographers eye. That old dilapidated barn you pass by every day and hardly pay attention to while driving to work can become a mysterious symbol of days gone by when captured on a foggy moggy morning at first light. That ordinary cornfield takes on a nostalgic glow when the first light of morning filters through its stalks.

Just about any farm pond can become a magical wonderland on a cold freezing morning.

Even if you live in the city, capturing the essence of your home can become a tremendous adventure when looking at the streets and buildings in different light through a photographers eye.

The idea here is to get started. Create a project, call it whatever you want to, but concentrate on your home territory and over time as you build the portfolio, you will gain a new respect for the scenic value of where you live. It is a great way to develop your photographic skills and to improve your ability to see photographically.

The Photographer's Sky

It turned out as the most expensive single photograph I've ever taken. Seems in my haste to get to my shooting location I managed to zip through a speed trap and yes I did receive a ticket, over $200 worth of speeding ticket. I wasn't happy to say the least, but in spite of this setback I managed to arrive at my intended location and was greeted with one of the best Photographer's Skies I've ever captured.

Landscape photography encompasses such a wide range of techniques and venues it is all but impossible to write about them all. But, there is one element that seems to apply to almost every aspect of this form of photography...that would be a great sky.

What is a Photographer's Sky? Well, simply stated, it is where the sky becomes an integral part of the composition, so much so, it becomes the most important element of the entire image. A great sky is key to most landscape photography. Without it, most images will look lifeless and flat, almost always bland, and lacking character. I'm not always speaking about sunset or sunrise. While those two times can generate some amazing looks, some of the best skies occur in the middle of the day. The old axiom of always shooting during the early or late hour of the day does not always have to become locked down. You can shoot all day long, it is just a matter of how you use the light and available conditions. In fact great skies can occur at any time of the day. The only bad skies in my opinion are those 'hazy white sky' conditions where there is no texture at all, but even those kinds of skies have their value in certain situations.

Okay, so, what makes a great Photographers Sky? That can be defined by one word; Texture. Texture is provided by clouds, all kinds of clouds, dark ominous ones, fluffy white ones, whispy ones, bright ones, simple and complex ones...I could go on, but the point is for the most part, clouds make the sky. Sometimes a completely blank sky can become a powerful visual element. It all depends on how you use it and the compositional techniques applied around it. A dark smooth texture can be just as appealing as one with a great deal of movement associated with it.

Kentucky has some amazing skies, but finding a Big Sky situation here can be a challenge, but not impossible. It requires an unobstructed view of the horizon, which in Kentucky is not always possible. Places out west are more condusive to the big sky element. That is why I love to photograph Oklahoma's Tallgrass Prairie where you can still find horizon to horizon of unobstructed vista's of prairie grasslands.

Capturing a photographer's sky is not always easy to do. In most cases you will need to employ a good polarizer filter. This will help to darken a blue sky and help to bring out texture in the clouds by eliminating or reducing hot spot glare. You also must have some kind of connection to the foreground to provide a point of reference, something that places the moment into context.

To me the best skies are the ones where its elements provide a full range of textures from dark shadows to whispy whites and where some clear portions are visable as well. I especially savor those moments when dark ominois skies are begining to break apart and you can see a wide range of dark and light interspaced between the various levels of the cloud formations.

A great Photographer's Sky is one that translates well into black and white. Sometimes a sky will look promising in color, but when transformed to B&W it takes on a whole new expression. That is where a good polarizer is essential because it allows for the sky to be transformed into an almost black sky which can create a dramatic Ansel Adams look.

The photographers sky...its one of the most important elements I seek out when searching for that great landscape photograph.

Old Days and Places: Quail Hunting - A Measure of Class

...I felt the solid recoil nudge against my shoulder and heard the muffled pop of the shotgun echo across the draw. The bird rocketed across the opening then at the report of the shotgun crumpled and fell near a tangled mess of vines. My old Friend Ralph blurted out, "Good Shot..." as I sauntered over to my small trophy and examined it...

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Based on the Oklahoma Backcountry article from August 2002.

I have lived in many places scattered across several states but my ancestral home is Oklahoma. For many years I traveled across its landscape in search of hunting and fishing opportunities. Over those years hunting for quail became one of the grandest and exciting forms of hunting I was able to participate in and historically Oklahoma possessed some of the best quail populations in the country. This article was written originally for the old Oklahoma Backcountry website about 15 years ago before we moved to Kentucky. I hope you enjoy this special look into what is truly a sport with a measure of class.

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Any day spent afield hunting develops its own aura and magic. No two are ever alike. A rising sun casting a glow into wispy clouds or that feeling of change in the air when the first cold front blows in and the weather shifts. There is the wide open fun of an opening day dove hunt, the quiet reflexion and humbling atmosphere that hovers around the campfire at deer camp, and the exhilarating rush of the frigid days of duck hunting. They all contribute to the collective memories a hunter builds over time. But, one kind of hunting stands apart from all the rest; one that retains a measure of class and represents everything good about the outdoor world.

Who can forget the aggressive nature of a noble pointer working heavy cover, then spin and lock on point just before a covey of quail explodes at your feet. When you  finally react and lock onto that blur as it rockets away and feel the recoil  of a favorite shotgun, then to finally hold in hand one of natures survival experts, well, most people are forever changed by the experience of quail hunting.

The dominant colors across the Eastern Oklahoma landscape in late November is burnt tan and gray. Accented with a chilling wind, steel blue sky laced with high, thin clouds, and the encroaching dark green of Oklahoma's red cedar, a typical November day hunting in Oklahoma can run anywhere from unseasonably   warm to wintry cold. I remember it being somewhere in the low 40’s, maybe a little overcast and breezy those twenty odd years ago when Ralph and I worked our way down the eastern edge of the Verdigris River then up a tangled draw in pursuit of bobwhite quail. The draw tapered from about 50 yards wide to close to 75 yards wide and snaked between two plowed fields bracketed by thick woods. Across the outer edges bordering the plowed field, stood banks of thick, neck-high grass. Inside the draw it was more open with saplings, tangles of vines, brushy river cane and a soft semi-muddy bottom. Old Dooley, Ralph's liver and white Brit, diligently worked the cover as we strolled through the center of the draw for the first couple hundred yards. By then the high grass along the edges looked so temping we split up with one of us working the upper, more difficult path, and the other staying inside the draw.

I carried my old Stevens 16 gauge side by side, loaded with number 8 field loads and Ralph lugged his old 12 gauge Winchester Model 1894 thumb buster as he called it. I really miss that old 16 gauge. It was one fine quail gun with its relatively short barrels and modified/full chokes. It would swing as lightly as a broomstick and looked like a classic with its refinished walnut stock. It was great in heavy cover like we were encountering on that day.

As cool as it was, it didn't take long to work up a sweat stomping around in the thick grass, but the effort paid off. I don't remember how large the covey was, maybe eight or ten birds, but they busted out of the grass right at my feet and before I could react, scattered across the draw. A few of them flew down the edge; most flew into the draw and crossed in front of Ralph. With Ralph's not so good hearing, I yelled at him and he spotted them as they randomly sat down inside the tangles and along the opposite edge. Old Dooley, Ralph's liver and white Brittany Spaniel was birdy for the rest of the morning with all the quail scent floating around in there. As we worked up the draw we’d flush a single here, a double there. After the first couple of flushes, the old 16 gauge once again snapped to my shoulder and swung with the flutter that erupted a few yards in front of me. The bird rocketed up then across the opening then at the report of the shotgun crumpled and fell near a tangled mess of vines. My old Friend Ralph blurted out, "Good Shot..." as I sauntered over to my small trophy and examined it. To my surprise, it was not a quail but a migratory woodcock, the first I'd ever shot or seen in the field.

Woodcock are not all that common that far west, but some stragglers do migrate through the eastern edges of Oklahoma even as far west as Tulsa. The cane and tangle infested draw was the perfect holding area for them with its muddy bottom and tall thickets. Being the migrants they are, they stop over in these soft bottom areas to feed by poking their odd looking snout into the mud in search of worms. I can't remember how many birds we collected that day, but we had good action, good dog work, and our aim was good enough to place a few birds in our game bags. That year was a good year for quail, as were the next few years following.

We'd return to that draw on a regular basis, made an occasional foray ‘out at Morris’ and other assorted places, and made trips to Hitchita, where we almost froze on a bitterly cold, snow spitting winter day, and the Okmulgee game refuge. Two of the largest covey rises I have ever witnessed occurred in those two places. Can't say for sure how many birds got up, it seemed like a hundred or more, but was probably closer to forty or fifty. Both rises erupted in slow motion like a dark, thundering cloud when they busted, one at the end of a narrow draw and one on the edge of some heavy cover. I've never witnessed such large covey rises as those two times. It was truly an amazing example of how quail can and will survive and repopulate an area given good habitat.

For a good number of years I all but stopped quail hunting. The dogs got to old, or other events syphoned off what available time there was to get out.  Maybe it was more of an observation than anything, but not long ago I couldn't recall the last time I had jumped any quail, except for an isolated single or an occasional brace of birds seen running along the edge of the road. Way to much time has gone by since I've seen a covey of any consequence while out in the field. I've not forgotten the good times, the long hikes, the crisp wind in my face, and the sound of a covey rise. My good friend Rocky and I spent many a day in the field chasing after old Mr. Bob White. I do miss those days.

So, where have all the quail gone? The experts say the habitat is all messed up. Some hunters claim there are too many hawks that prey on the young birds, and skunks and raccoons that get into the nests, and even domestic cats take their toll. A lot of blame is placed on finicky weather and disease or some combination of the two. Some even say there's been too much hunting pressure. I tend to think, at least in part, it is because of all the above. About 80 percent of the quail are lost each year whether they are hunted or not, so hunting pressure has little effect on the overall population, unless of course the population is severely or adversely stressed from other factors. Historically, quail can bounce back rather quickly even after their numbers are reduced, but when you have habitat problems combined with too many predators and weather too hot, or too wet, or too dry, or too cold, then factor in some bird disease. It's a wonder the quail populations still exist at all. Unfortunately, some hunters think they must shoot every bird they see and forget or simply do not understand that you must leave enough birds in an area so they can survive and rebuild the covey. The old saying ‘Leave some for seed’ is a valid statement and a vital practice for today’s quail hunting environment. Oklahoma still ranks as one of the best quail states in the country, and there are still pockets of good quail populations, mostly on private land, but the old haunts I used to always find quail in just don’t produce anymore.

Sometimes in the spring or late summer would drive the twenty miles or so northwest of my home in Edmond and scan the open prairie and wheat fields of central Oklahoma. Along those back roads I'll stop and listen to the sounds of the prairie and feel the hot wind blowing across the open ranges. If I stay long enough, I'll usually hear the unmistakable high pitched 'Bahb....Whhite' whistle somewhere out in the tall grasses. It is comforting to know they are still there, still surviving in spite of the pressure placed on them from urban sprawl and the whims of nature. My home is in Kentucky now which offers it own adventure rewards, but quail hunting here is sporatic at best. Even so, I will often hike around the edge of the cornfields behind my house and will on occasion jump a small covey. When I do, I am transported back to those days in Oklahoma hiking the edge cover of a tangled draw where the quail loved to hide.

My old friend Ralph is gone now, but I will never forget those red-letter days of quail hunting we experienced all those years ago. I only hope the future holds the same for the generation coming up behind us. For now, I'll bet on the new generation of hunters and on the quail. I think they'll be around for a long time and will bounce back with a little help from nature, and a greater understanding from landowners and hunters. I plan on being there, to continue with and to pass on that legacy, with possibly a new hunting dog, a renewed spirit, and respect for a classic upland bird, and maybe another old 16 gauge, double barrel shotgun.

Old Days and Places: Musical Waters and a Country Rose

Based on an article originally written for Oklahoma Backcountry - January 1998

...The number of fish I caught that day has faded with time, but the experience of that first visit has remained forever etched into my outdoor history...

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On the crest of the bluff a grove of pine trees swayed in the rising air currents. With a gentle whisper their song filled the little valley and kept time with the musical waters of Flint Creek as it rolled and tumbled across the Northeastern Oklahoma landscape. Dogwoods and Redbuds accented the hills with their flash of color along with cottonwoods and other hardwood trees just now beginning to awaken from their winter long sleep. Song birds of just about every variety added their charm which was bolstered by the occasional bellowing of a dozen or so cattle as they grazed across rolling fields surrounding the creek.

Spring was certainly in the air presenting its calming antidote to the stresses and strains of working and living in the city. Just above the creek not far from the scenic country road stood the old farm house. It was a scene where country living displayed its best flavor and before long the blur of the previous few hectic months drifted away to silence. A most wonderful place was this peaceful little valley tucked into the secluded foothills of the Oklahoma Ozarks. This special day, back in 1978, was my first day to discover the values associated with the charms of Flint Creek.

Flint Creek begins as a trickle just across the Arkansas state line, then it flows generally to the west and south as it winds its way over river gravel, through pastures and valleys, around pine accented bluffs and hills, to eventually tumble into Oklahoma's Illinois River. Along its path can be discovered some of the most beautiful scenery and best creek fishing in the Sooner state.

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The first time it came into view I knew something unique existed here. My old friend Ralph for many years when a young lad would spend time with his parents camping along the banks of Flint Creek. In turn for many years he would bring his family to enjoy the wonders of this wonderful place. An hours drive or so east of Tulsa I turn onto a gravel road north of old highway 33, now 412, to travel maybe 4 or 5 miles negotiating several cutbacks and sharp turns to eventually turn into the long driveway just before crossing a low water bridge.

I stopped at the farmhouse and was greeted by a pack of 6 or 7 country dogs all wagging their tails as they barked their greeting. Scattered along an old rickety fence and growing beside the farm house were a series of country rose bushes just now beginning to emerge into their first spring bloom. I stood outside petting the dogs and felt as though I belonged here as the warm spring sunshine filled the valley. Within a moment or two the screen door screached open and slapped closed again behind as the owners of this piece of paradise stepped outside and began to walk over to where I was standing. Several of the dogs broke ranks from around me and surrounded them, wagging their tails with their enthusiastic greeting as they followed them down the walk way.

I introduced myself to the elderly couple, the Talberts, as a friend of Ralphs which generated a warm smile of acceptance from them. They were most enjoyable folks who had lived on this property for many, many years. After a few pleasantries were exchanged, old man Talbert granted me permission to cross his fields and camp along the creek down by the bluff.

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"Real purdy spot down there by the bluff, good fish'n too. Be careful with the campfire, been kind of dry," he said as he pointed in that direction. "Don't mind the cattle, they'll mosey by after a while to see who you are."

I shook his hand and drove to the gate where his wife lifted the securing chain from the bent nail holding it in place, then pushed it open where it creaked and groaned from lack of use. I followed a cow-track trail that wound just above the creek, bouncing and bumping on the uneven texture of the pasture, then I saw it, the perfect spot for a camp. I walked to the edge of the creek where a small riffle sang a cheerful song as it tumbled toward the bluff. I thought to myself, '...this is something I have needed for a long time...'

Before long my camp was set and I was eager to try some fishing. The creek was low and easy to wade but it was still quite cold. It almost didn't look deep enough to hold fish in places but a couple of quick casts with a yellow Roostertail spinner along a weathered blowdown produced my first Flint Creek smallmouth bass. He wasn't all that big, 11 maybe 12 inches or so, but was typical of their type with a scrappy nature. The number of fish I caught that day has faded with time, but the experience of that first visit has remained forever etched into my outdoor history.

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I spent the better part of the day meandering along the creek making a cast here and there exploring every deep hole and the eddy's below each riffle. It was all new to me and around each tight turn in the creek a new 'fishy spot' presented itself. The whole creek looked fishy.

The day passed much to quickly and as the light began to fade I returned to my campsite and stirred a fire into life. As night fell across the valley a chill fell with it, yet the skies opened their first Flint Creek performance for me with a splendid display of stars. Long into the evening I fed the fire mesmerized by its glow, warmed by it flames. Below where I camped the little creek provided an orchestrated symphony that played all through the evening and I slept to the soft music of the flowing waters.

By the next morning I was awakened by the bellowing song of cattle. I stumbled out of my tent and shivered in the chill of the morning air to witness a shallow haze drifting across the pasture highlighted by the first rays of a rising sun. I rekindled the fire and as I waited for that first cup of coffee, I could hear the fish jumping seemingly calling me into action. A short time later I braved the cold waters and waded over to the base of a blue hole that formed a pivot point at the base of a long bluff. I could not help but wonder who the first person was to stand where I then stood. Surely it was some ancient Native American who made this little valley home. I discovered later that arrowheads could be found in the plowed fields.

I found myself at times sitting calmly just listening to the creek telling its story. I managed to doze off in the warmth of a sunbeam as the verses from Flint Creek; The Story continued to play. Most all the day was spent resting and fishing along with some exploring. Later that evening I sat next to the campfire late into the evening gazing up at the sky which was again filled with stars with an encore performance. Another morning greeted me much the same way as the first one. I felt sad in a way knowing that my time here on this first and possibly most important visit, was soon to end. After a morning of fishing, I reluctantly secured the tent and the gear and chaotically tossed it into the back of my old vehicle. Before leaving I stood one final time next to the blue hole at the base of the bluff to listen to the music of the flowing waters and absorb the sweet smell of pine drifting from the bluff above.

Over the years I continued to off and on return to this little farm on the creek for some much required R&R. The old timer and his wife were always gracious and inviting. Some years later, when Kris and I first started to spend time together, I took her to Flint Creek for a day visit. It was then I suppose, when I first realized she was the one for me.

Circumstances eventually prevented me from returning for a few years but a time came when a longing inside of me boiled to the surface where I needed to seek the solitude of this little valley.

I stopped as I had always done at the old farmhouse. The dogs were gone. A new, much younger face greeted me as I walked toward the porch which now sagged almost to the ground. When I asked the young man about the Talberts he lowered his head and somberly said, "Seems they passed away about a year ago. Someone else owns the farm now, a doctor out of Siloam Springs. I'm only the caretaker and I've been told to no longer allow people to camp on the property. You can still fish it if you want to, but you'll have to park down by the bridge."

I thanked him and started to retrace the path down the long gravel and dirt driveway toward the crossing. Somehow it just wasn't the same. I cut my visit short that day, saddened by the passing of the original owners. Oddly enough I never took very many photographs of the area, just a few fleeting ones.

A void was created by the passing of the kindly old man and his gentle wife, yet they became a special part of a special setting fitting enough to inspire poets. I may never run across such people and places again, yet from the few outings I managed on Flint Creek, all I have to do is close my eyes to hear the musical waters of this little creek and for visions of its paradise to appear, visions as sweet and fragrant as a country rose, like those I saw on that last day still blooming along the old fence and next to the old house.

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Old Days and Places: LOST in the High Country

I, for many years dreamed about hiking in the Rocky Mountains when during 1995 - 1996 I spent the better part of a year working on a contract programming job in Denver Colorado. Even though I would be away from home for extended periods of time, the opportunity afforded me the ability to finally do some serious hiking. Most of my hikes were of the day hike variety, but I was able to make several overnight backpacking trips into several areas. The most notable were Homestead Meadows; a rustic location not far from Estes Park where old homestead cabins were still partially standing; and into Rawah Wilderness, a difficult and demanding hike into the high country of Northern Colorado. Rawah Wilderness provided the backdrop for a near disastrous hike where I was almost lost in the backcountry.

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LOST in the High Country

During the spring of 1996 during my time in Denver, I caught wind of a seminar being presented at one of the local branch libraries by one of the local hiking clubs. The subject was Hiking the Rawah Wilderness. Up until then I had managed a few short day hikes to some lovely but relatively easy locations, but I was itching to try something a bit more challenging. The seminar presented the perfect opportunity and location, and after speaking with some of the presenters I decided Rawah was to become my next big hiking adventure.

Rawah Wilderness is located in the north central part of Colorado and is characterized by numerous mountain lakes stocked with willing and hungry trout. A series of these lakes marked the end of the trail that wound its way upwards to around 11,000 feet. The lower camp lake sat just over 10,000 feet while the others were scattered higher up. I could not wait to give it a try, and it was this enthusiasm along with my inexperience of hiking in the mountains that nearly got me into trouble.

There were several trails that lead up to the lakes. One of the longer but less steep portion wound its way for a good number of miles mostly along the northern side of the climb. A shorter, but much steeper climb arched its way along the southern flanks of the climb.

For my first attempt to reach the lakes I decided to give the northern route a try in late May. As luck would have it I barely made it half way up the trail when I ran into a deep snow pack that completely obliterated the trail. There was no way I would ever be able to follow it with that kind of snow pack so I simply turned around and hiked out again. A few weeks later I gave it another try, this time about the third week in June. I managed to make it in to what I figured was maybe 3/4 of the way in when I ran into more snow pack. I was frustrated and tried to see if I could follow the trail on up. I managed to go maybe a quarter mile or so and realized I had no idea where the trail was so to keep from getting completely lost I simply turned around and followed my footprints back to where I could see the trail.

At that point I made a big mistake. While I was sitting down taking a short break I started looking at an inadequate topo map trying to figure out where I actually was along the trail. A few dozen yards off the trail was a steep mountain stream now filled with snow runoff. Coming out of the lakes area was an outlet stream that angled down the slope...actually there were several, so I figured this particular stream must connect up with the lakes and from where I thought I was on the map, in a straight line up hill the lakes were only about a mile or so from where I was. I figured I would just follow the stream to its source and I'd have to run into the lakes.

So that is what I started to do and began the slow and difficult climb up slope through deep snow roughly following the streams path. After what seemed like way more time than it should have taken to get there, I began to realize that my plan was flawed. This stream did not appear to lead to the lakes...in fact I had no idea really where it was leading me except deeper and deeper into a thickly wooded area. There were no lakes to be found. I stopped for a few minutes to get my bearings and decided to venture a little ways off from the stream hoping maybe I would be able to find some kind of landmark where I could tell where I was. At this point I was not really lost. All I had to do was to retrace my steps back down the slope which would lead me back to the original trail. However, events and circumstances were soon to turn for the worse.

I walked maybe 1/4 mile parallel to the slope and came to a steep snow packed escarpment that dropped off a good 20 maybe 25 feet almost straight down. I knew I would never be able to climb down it much less back up, so I stopped for a few moments and stood on the edge so I could survey what was below. Without warning, I suddenly found myself plummeting down the face of the escarpment. I must have been standing on loose rock or tree limb or something hidden by the snow that gave way under my weight. When it happened It happened so quickly I had no time to grab anything to keep from falling. Luckily several smaller saplings and several large rocks broke my fall as I bounced and slid down the face of the escarpment. Even so, I landed with a shocking thud at the base of the slope and my ankle buckled under me.

To say it hurt was an understatement. I really thought I had broken it, at the very least sprained and/or tore the ligaments. I sat there hurting for several minutes before trying to stand, but I was eventually able to get to my feet. The ankle was not broken, but it was strained and hurt something fierce and any walking required a noticable limp. My 35 - 40 pound backpack felt more like a hundred pounds.

By this time it was mid-afternoon. I was not in any kind of serious situation...yet. I still had my backpack with enough provisions to get me by for several days. The problem was as much as I tried I could not find a place where I could climb back up the escarpment to be able to retrace my steps down to the trail. I stopped, removed my pack, pulled out something to eat, and calmed down. While I was eating I looked at my topo map again and it seemed to me that if I were to follow the slope down hill, I would eventually have to run into the trail. It was a risky idea, because my ankle really hurt and if my logic proved faulty I could end up deep into the wilderness and have no idea where I was. Fact was, I had no other choice. I could not retrace my steps back because of the steepness of the escarpment prevented my being able to climb back up. The only thing I could do was to head down hill which is what I did.

I slipped and stumbled, zigged and zagged trying to maintain as straight a path as I could and after a while I was beginning to believe I had made another big mistake, but then all of sudden there it was...the trail. I was never so glad to see a piece of worn dirt trail as I was then.

I stopped again and rubbed my sore ankle which was starting to swell, so I tightened the laces of my boots and started back down the trail to where my vehicle was parked. Several hours later I removed the heavy pack and threw it inside my truck and crumpled into the seat. It had been a full and difficult day, but, my ordeal, except for the long drive back to Denver, was over.

Several weeks later, about mid July, my ankle had recovered enough to where I was willing to give it one more try. This time I took the steeper southerly route deducing correctly that it would be exposed to more of the sun and the snow pack would be gone. After an exhausting hike I managed to find the lower lake and spent a peaceful, except for the thunderstorm that rolled in around dusk, and rewarding afternoon and evening enjoying this marvelous part of the Rocky Mountains.

I learned a difficult lesson. I thought I knew more than I did about backpacking in this kind of mountain environment. Turned out I did not and I managed to make several really dumb mistakes which could have easily ended in disaster, but it did not, and in the end I became a much more experienced and certainly a more cautious hiker from that moment on.

Old Days and Places: To An Old Friend

Some years ago long before starting Beyond The Campfire and long before moving to Kentucky, I maintained a website called Oklahoma Backcountry. It was hosted on the old, no longer available AOL Hometown site and was listed as one of the top five personal websites on the Hometown location accumulating well over 100,000 hits. Some of the best Old Days and Places stories I ever created were posted on that website. I'd like to share one of my favorites and one of the most popular.

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To An Old Friend - (originally written August 2002)

Attempting to pass through the Chouteau Lock and Dam on the Vertegris River leg of McClellan/Kerr Arkansas River Navigation System was ordinarily routine, but securing the bow line to the floating bouy embedded into the walls of the lock was essential if the river tug and barge were to safely lock through. Even so, as hard as I tried my lassoing ability failed with each attempt. Our skipper, who was struggling to maintain position in the stiff Oklahoma wind, shouted at me several times from the bridge, "Get that line secured!"

Him shouting at me only served to rattle me even more which did not improved my lassoing ability but did add another chapter of color to my sailor language skills.

I happened to glance upward and noticed from the visitors overlook high above stood an older man watching the event unfold. He was obviously entertained by my feeble attempts to secure that line. Half aloud I grumbled some derogatory remark as I again failed to secure the line. Somewhere around the ninth or tenth try I fianlly connected with the loop and took three quick turns around the cleat on the bow of the barge. Holding the open end of the line taut, I raised my arm and fist shouting so the skipper could hear me, "Hooked up!"

Internet Image - Chouteau Lock and Dam

The powerful diesel engines reversed thrust and the line stretched and popped under the strain but held firm. Near the stern another crewman secured a second line with a single toss and we were ready to "lock" through.

I shot a defiant look toward the stranger standing above us and while holding my hand on my hip and a smirk on my face, not unlike someone who had just tripped and jumped to his feet, muttered to myself, '...I really do know how to do this...' Strangely enough, he seemed less amused and more releaved that nothing was damaged in the process. It was a chance encounter with someone I had never seen or met before. It turned out to be the start of a life event I never knew was coming.

It is odd how random chance meetings have a way of developing into more lasting and meaningful parts of your life. Although I did not know it at the time the strangers name was Ralph Baston, and little did I know at the time, but he and I would become life long hunting and fishing partners and more importantly, life long friends.

USCG Forsythia

The year was 1977.  I was close to 25 years old at the time serving out the last few months of my enlistment service in the United State Coast Guard on the river bouy tender Forsythia out of Sallisaw, Oklahoma. (Don't ask what a Okie was doing in the Coast Guard stationed in the landlocked state of Oklahoma. Just trust me on this one.) Those last few months saw me performing some of the dirtiest, nastiest, hottest, coldest, grubbiest work I've ever had the misfortune of doing, but I would not trade the experience for anything. The previous three years or so I was stationed out in Oregon performing search and rescue operations at the Umpqua River Lifeboat station. Truly a life adventure, but a career in the military was not in my future.

Ralph was probably in his mid-fifties at the time, with a rather stout and somewhat gruff appearance, but tender hearted and filled with character. He turned out to be the father of a young lady I was to start dating shortly after our chance encounter at the lock and dam...that is how we met. Turns out the relationship with the young lady faded after a year or so, but by then Ralph and I had hunted and fished together more than enough times to become quite comfortable with each other. Neither of us saw any reason for that to end so we continued to do so. By then my friend Rocky and Ralphs friend's Curt and Neuman along with my brother had formed a comradship which evolved into our own hunting and fishing fraternity. We formed a unique cross section of personalities which for the most part complimented our personal whims and provided enough contrast to create some truly memorable moments filled with laughter.

Ralph was one of those guys who possessed a subtle but strong sense of humor and whose patience was legendary. He couldn't hear a thing without his hearing aid, yet in spite of his infirmary, he accomplished many things in life. He was a great musician and appreciated all talents he discovered in others. Like many of his generation he rarely spoke of his service during World War II thinking of it simply as his duty and preferred instead to concentrate on other things like hunting and fishing or working in his yard.

Through Ralph I learned more about the ethics of sportsmanship and why being an outdoorsman required a deep commitment and understanding of a greater responsibility than most people realize. He truly was the anchor of our group in more ways than one. He wasn't in a hurry to do anything and time after time we would chomp at the bit waiting  for him to finish tying on a lure or pull his waders on, or light his pipe. Sometimes he seemed like a real anchor holding us back with his lack of hurriedness. But, when the opportunity presented itself, everyone of us would arm wrestle the others for that coveted position to sit in front of Ralph's canoe.

His old Grumman aluminum canoe was a classic and reflected much of his personality. It was beat up, banged up, and long ago lost it's new charm, yet it kept on going and doing things every bit as well as the newer canoes. When the rest of us were talking about the high-tech vessels that were just then becoming available and how nice it would be to own one or even better own one of those fancy new high powered bass boats, he would simply nod favorably, then go about his business catching fish in his old trusted Grumman.

Ralph was wealthy only in character and goodness of heart. He would bend over backwards to help out someone, but was wise enough to know when to back off and step away. I cannot count the number of times he would take his day off to help me repair my broken down vehicle. All you had to do was to ask and he'd be there, and yet, he rarely asked for the favor in return.

Our younger bodies had a difficult time keeping up with him. There was not much he could not do physically. He often joked about his 'wide bottom' but we all knew those strong shoulders and back could out perform all of us when push came to shove. Not until he reached his upper 70's did he start to slow down and we were able to catchup with his capabilities.

His way with words belied his vocabulary skills. "Blast", or "No Kidding", or "Come On", or "Boy, Boy" were repeated so often I find myself using them even today.

I'll never forget the day I caught two 4 to 5 pound bass out at Old Beggs Lake. It was the first year or so I knew Ralph. He was the first person I showed them to..."No kidding!...Boy Boy...." he repeated over and over as we gawked at them. The next Saturday we were all down there frothing the water eagerly anticipating producing a wall hanger with each cast. Fishing reports were an expected thing with Ralph. If he knew you went fishing and he didn't get to go he'd act all  indignant, then want to know how we did and what we caught them on..."No kidding," he would exclaim as he complimented you on fine day afield.

Whether it was wetting a line from a canoe, wading Flint Creek, floating Baron Fork, quail hunting inside some tangled draw, or standing waste deep in freezing water waiting for an elusive flight of ducks, Ralph always had a story to tell. Seems his story telling was the highlight of our outings and we all relished those moments when the sun climbed higher and hunting or fishing slowed down. Heaven forbid if he started a story and you were in a hurry. What would take an ordinary person two or three minutes to tell, he could drag it out for half an hour. Twenty minutes into the story, if you paused to check the time, he would wrinkle his brow and growl, "Waht cha looking at your watch for! You aint got nothing better to do," and he'd be right, often extending the length of the story making up for lost time in telling it. He was also one of the few people I know who could tell the same story a dozen times and it would still be funny.

Many of his stories and many of our outings took on the flavor of the outdoor adventures chronicled by Patrick McManus, a brilliant and hillarious writer of outdoor wit. I suppose it was because we could relate to many of his created adventures is why we enjoyed them so much. Some of our greatest laughs were spawned while discussing Patrick's most current book. We'd run into some real-life character who would remind us of one of the McManus clan. Characteres like Rancid Crabtree, or Retch Sweeney, and even Eddie Muldoon. Sitting around the campfire we would laugh so hard recalling those tales tears would roll across sunburned cheeks. Man., those were good times.

As Ralph grew older we became less adventuresome and more intune with the greater pleasures of simply getting away. A morning of fishing became less an attempt to catch fish and more of an attempt to unwind, shake off the grime and stains of modern society. I didn't realize this so much the first few years I knew Ralph, but he was already a master of applying that concept long before I knew him. Over the years some of his ways were subtly adopted by all of us. They were the kinds of lessons one learns from experience and observation. Ralph was able to demonstrate his laid back appraoch to life and because of his subtle mentoring, we all grew not only in outdoor wisdom, but learned a great deal about life in general.

Ralph eventually began to slow down as he grew older. There was a noticeable shaking of his hand and a tireness in his eyes. When we were informed by his wife Pink that he had been diagnosed with Multiple Myloma, a type of blood cancer, we felt time was finally catching up with him. His hunting and fishing days were limited after that, yet his humor never left him and as far as I could tell he never complained about his condition, just about the orderlies, doctors, and nurses. At times it looked like he would beat it and occasionally he found enough strength to make an outing even finding the ability to sit in front of Curts canoe on one of his last canoe fishing trips to Old Beggs Lake. Now that I think about it, Old Beggs was the first and last place place I ever fished with Ralph. Fitting it seems, for there I learned about the joys of fishing from a canoe and how simple pleasures is what fishing is all about. It was also where I first leaned what being an outdoorsman meant.

Rocky called me at work one day in the middle of the week and said I better get over to Tulsa and see Ralph because he had taken a turn for the worse. I would not be able to go until a day or two later, but by then it was too late. His youngest daughter, my exgirlfriend, called me at work. Through her shakey voice and somber tone I knew before she said anything a friend, a father figure, a mentor, had passed on. I did not get much work done that day.

Many kinds of people are met traveling along the paths of life. Few make an impression and even fewer change the lives they encounter. Ralph was one of those life changers. Oddly enough, he probably never took much notice of it. He was simply being himself. He never expected anything different from anyone else.

There is no way I can explore all of Ralph's life or even the twenty-five or so years I knew him. I'm not sure what my favorite moment was, there are so many memorable ones. For example the time Rocky pulled the canoe out from under him after he stood up in the back and subsequently caused him to perform a backflip off the stern landing with a giant splash. Or maybe the time he and I found an ailing Redtailed Hawk while we were quail hunting. He took it home to see if he could find someone to nurse it back to health, much to his oldest daughter chagrin...it kept staring at her. Or the time he met me up at Canton Lake for some late season goose hunting and we witnessed one of the most awesome displays of nature I've ever seen when thousands of ducks and geese took to flight across the backdrop of a spectacular sunrise. Or, I suppose it could be all those times when on every outing we stopped hunting or fishing and sat for a spell in a shade to listen to one his never ending supply of stories. We would talk about how we ought to go frog gigging, or, or make that dream trip up to the Boundary Waters Wilderness Area. We never made those trips.

I think my favorite times were after the sun had gone down and the campfire was casting a warm glow across our camp. It was then time-worn stories were shared again for the hundreth time and images of hilarious misadventures and triumphant moments were enhance by the warmth of the flames.

What ever mansion Ralph has earned up in Heaven, I can rest assured there is a campfire somewhere near by. I actually believe old Ralph has cornered the Good Lord up there offering him a warm cup of coffee along with whatever camp grub he may have simmering. I also see him asking, "Why did you put so many blow downs on the Baron Fork...speaking of blow downs, do you remember that time when..."

...Twenty minutes later into his story, the Good Lord will look at his watch, Ralph will wrinkle his brow and growl, "Waht cha looking at your watch for...you ain't got nothing better to do..."

...then in the end they will laugh so hard they will both wipe a tear from their cheek. Once they laughed themselves out, both will look down here and they will see his family and friends and remember all the good times of our lives. Another tear, one of happiness, will roll down his cheek to join the ones we have already shed, some in saddness knowing he is gone from us, but most in joy knowing he has a good friend up there who will forever share in and will never tire of listening to his stories.