Thursday, November 4, 2004

More on guys and holes in the ground... The stories are starting to roll in.  Here's one from my friend and fellow outdoor writer, Gary Martin.  Notice a pattern here?  Guys just can't resist checking out a hole in the ground, I guess.  When I was a kid, there was a place across Main Street behind the Catholic church known locally as Devil's Cave.  Word was that it connected to the old Asa Harris Tavern (now a dry cleaning establishment), and was used to hide runaway slaves during the Underground Railroad days.  Friends used to go into the cave, or claimed they did.  Most exciting thing we ever found there was some old Playboy magazines, but that's another story... Anyway, in his own words, here's Gary's story:   "A few years ago, during the early archery season, I found a pile of sand in a meadow near a swamp. I was curious and walked over to check it out. Yes, it was a fresh black bear den. I leaned over to look in. As I did, the bear decided to come out. There I was with my face three feet from the bear's nose. (I remember a head as big as a Webber kettle lid and very small eyes.)   Instinctively, I took off running to the south, but after four or five big steps I remembered that you should not run from black bears. I stopped and turned to face the animal, and saw the bear running north toward the swamp.   Just as I began to relax the bear stopped, sat down and looked at me. 'Oh oh,' I thought, 'now what?' With 15 yards separating us, we studied each other for what seemed, to me, like an eternity, but was probably only seconds. Finally, the bear ended the stand-off by running into the swamp.   My family made a commemorative T-shirt for me with 'Official Bear Den Inspector' in bold lettering, and of course, lots of fake blood and claw marks. I still get teased about the incident, but as least I know how it feels to corner a black bear in its den.   'Great' woodsman that I am, I failed to notice there were no tracks in the fresh sand outside of the den. I should have noticed that, wish I had, and will next time...I swear!"   Gary     Anyone else have a good (true) adventure story to share?  The more embarassing, the better.  Think "Darwin Awards," and jog your memory for something that happened to you outdoors that you wish hadn't.  Send it to me and I'll post it, if it's printable. Later... 5:13:01 PM    comment []

Bob White's latest Thursday Morning Art Review Wildlife artist Bob White sends a weekly message to a limited mailing list, but it's worth passing on to others. Here's today's. To read the entire story or visit his website, just click on the link. Later... A Box of Rocks 11/4/04 (Click To Enlarge) "The artist alone sees spirits. But after he has told of their appearing to him, everybody sees them." Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 - 1832) "What do you have in this thing?" The old baggage handler said in Spanish. "Rocks?" I smiled at the big man and shrugged. It had become a standard joke between us. He'd been handling the bags at the little airport outside of San Martin De Los Andes for as long as I could remember, and knew that the bone jarring weight of the bag he lifted was indeed due to all of the rocks I'd collected over the past fishing season. He grunted as he moved it onto the cart with the others, and turned, mopping his brow in feigned exertion. "Si, Gordo." I said, offering him my hand. There was a folded up bill in it, which had also become part of our annual ritual. "Another season has ended, the trout rest for the winter, and it's time for me to go home." "Why do you collect so many, Flaco?" He asked, pocketing the money. "It's not I who collect them," I said without thinking. " It's them that collect me." He looked at me knowingly and nodded with approval. "My wife thinks I'm crazy." I added. "Maybe you need a new wife." He said. "One who understands such things. Via con Dios." I'd never really thought about the rocks before. As the plane sailed north along the spine of the Andes I watched the sun retire and I relived the conversation with my old friend. I'm a collector by nature... but rocks? Had the truth of the matter, in a moment of unconscious clarity, been revealed to me? Did I collect the rocks because they represented the places that I've fished... or had they in fact, found me? I drifted off to sleep thinking about the box in the studio. Today's image is an oil painting titled, "In The Canyon". Not only is this fisherman in a wonderful stretch of trout water... he's in a prime rock collecting river as well. ... Click Here To View The Entire Story Bob White Whitefish Studio 240 6th Street Marine On St. Croix, MN 55047 Phone: (651) 433-4168 Fax: (651) 433-4183 Email: Bob@WhitefishStudio.com URL: http://www.WhitefishStudio.com 9:48:31 AM    comment []