Stones Talk.

I just finished a fairly good book by an author that I have come to associate with surprising insight.  The Lives of Rocks, by Rick Bass.  In his words I have seen him transform from an geologist, to an artists, to an activist back to an artist again.

 

This particular book is a compilation of short stories, some haunting, some humorous, some depressing… but all the time maintain a style all to his own.

 

Mr. Bass resides in the upper north west corner of Montana and little chunk of the world called Yaak Valley.  It might be worth flipping through next time you are at your local book store.

Another element of his work that I look forward to are the cover illustration by Russell Chatham.

True.

At the head of trail near our house.

New smells of an old art.

I have been continuing to feel the need for creating things… but in a way that is less of a major mess.  So rather then getting every wood cutting tool I own out I have opted to see what happens when you stuff me in a kitchen for an afternoon.  Which works out good with a quest for better health through a healthier diet.

Saturday afternoon I was into a “spinach cannelloni in fresh tomato sauce” deal way over my head when my 14 year old daughter walked through the kitchen.  She asked “are we having some big fancy dinner tonight or what?”

It struck me as disappointing that the smell of a home cooked, made from scratch meal was so foreign to her that when it happens she thinks it’s a special event.  Now, I want to be clear, my wife is a fabulous cook and we are all far from starving, but my point is without us really even knowing it, we have fallen pray to the fast paced-being-on-time-to-dance-class-is-more-important-then-shreading-our-own-cheese-life-style.

When we all sat down to the French gumbo I made we had a blast talking about how I could improve it next time.  So it turns out the journey is part of the reward.

Good cookbook (click on image).

Bridge made of rock.

There is a body of water called Sleeping Bear Bay, found in the Manitou Passage in northern Michigan.  At the point were the Crystal River snakes through the mainland and meets this bay, several large boulders can be found harboring just below the surface in water that is 6′ deep.

I first encountered these 18 years ago as I skimmed over them in my Sunfish, shocked that they suddenly appeared in the pristine water and equally amazed that my teak center board didn’t auger right into them and throw me from the boat.

These rocks vary in size from that of a riding lawn mower to a Cooper Mini… and… they are always there.

We just returned from a trying week of camping in that area.  After several nights of dealing with rain and efforts to remain dry, and days filled with a constant flow of chores, we found ourself checking into the resort who’s property provides access to the beaches where the boulders rest.  Being at the resort immediately relived us of almost all responsibilities other then putting on sunscreen (and paying for the room tab).

This summer has provided me and my family with some substantial health challenges and it was our hope that the camping trip would divert our thoughts to an abundance of peaceful moments and emotional recess.  But it wasn’t until we checked into the easy-life at the resort did this happen.

So when it came time to snorkel out and encounter the rocks it was more then just something to do… it was a 30 feet of submerged breast stroke that represented a return, homecoming, a connectivity with something that I was as sure would be there as I am the sun will come up in the east.

I suspect for all of us there is a gravitational pull we feel when we encounter our own specific core elements.  For me it’s clean water in a natural setting.  When ever I’m near it, great strength is required to prevent me from diving in.  For others its the mountain peaks, the wooded trails, the urban dinner, the boat with full sail.

It took my son to point it’s location out to me from shore but once I found the first set of boulders (“it’s that dark spot right there dad”), I knew I could find the second set that is even further out in deeper water.  As I submerged to the bottom of the lake to explore the smaller bowling ball size rocks and crawfish clustered around the base of these boulders, I felt an instant wave of peace fill me, a return to times when I was 8 and doing this all day at my grandparents was all I did… and I got better and better at it as the summers went by.  I knew where the old stacked logs on the bottom of Grand Traverse Bay by their cottage are, where that old large linked chain was half submerged in bottom sludge 18 ft. down..

It’s amazing how a granite John Deere can be so much more then a rock, how in the right perspective it can be a bridge to a much more peaceful place.  A bridge that will always be there to a place that is only in my mind but will always be there too.

Now I swim to the deep rocks and turn to watch my brave young kids swim with all their faith that I will be there to insure they will land safely on the rocks… the circle keeps turning.

I carry a small potesky in my pocket every day to remind me of the solidity things like these boulders represent in my life, the solidity my family represents in my day and the memories of a simpler world.

Potesky from the bottom of the bay and polished from my pocket.

See more live more

common contrast

Yesterday after engaging with my computer for 6 hours I decided to treat myself to a Starbucks.  As I walked back to the car with hot beverage in hand I first noticed how soft the turf was I was crossing… so soft you wanted to lay down and take nap in it.  Then wanting to prolong my return to the office a bit, I stood outside my car and just took in the sights.

There right next to me were three completely different types of trees.  One was a blue spruce who’s legend of hostile needles just had to be experienced… so I reached out and ran my hand through the tree.  This act emprinted a experience in me that never could have happen had I just jumped in the Jetta and drove away… but it didn’t stop there.  For comparison sake I ran my hands through the other two trees as well.  I don’t know what they were but they were broad leafed soft, and dancing in the breeze.

What seems like a fairly stupid and simple act had now become a memorable one.  Taking my interaction from one sense (sight) and embellishing it to several (touch, smell, sound) is an example of how an innocent act can convert everyday experiences into very real and memorable ones.  Every time I drive by that parking lot I will think of those trees and that brief connectivity I had with nature, that brief connectivity I had with myself… and that little recess I gave myself in an otherwise day full of commitments.

Feather & Fur

 

"the sofa pillow"... a yellow stone fly pattern

Sunday afternoon I somehow stole a few hours away from the itinerary and parked myself in front of our fireplace.  Piled in a perfect circumference around me was an admiral collection of fly tying materials and books.  This simple act is a story presented in the dress of feather & fur but it’s subplot is the rekindling of what was once as dominate passion.  A quest to be self sufficient and prepared for time out of doors.

Life’s stages slipped tasty cold cuts into this sandwich called parenthood, but there with the oak hissing, the dubbing being spun to the thread and the whip finishing was a good and lost but not forgotten friend.  You know, sometimes good ole’ balogna and mayo just hits the spot.

I have been searching for ways to describe this sensation, and even tried a few out but left them abandon like egg shells in a sink.  Then tonight I came across this quote in a book I am reading named “A Man’s Life… Dispatches From Dangerous Places” by Mark Jenkins:

“Some days in the mountains are so transcendent that you feel you are the luckiest human alive.  Inexplicably, after everything you’re in the exact right place at the exact right time.  The very air resonates with your good fortune.  This is the kind of day I have.  Just the snow, the mountain and me.  Alone, free from the fearful burden of the faithful, I feel myself slip back into my natural, easygoing relationship with the world”.

Pine is Enough

Several years ago I exercised my independence by cooking a frequent flyer ticket that was about to expire and flying out to Big Mountain Ski Resort in northwestern Montana… by myself.

I have many memorable experiences from that endeavor.  One of which was observing the practice runs of the US Women’s Ski Team slice down the giant slalom course, with their slick, skin tight speed suits and sensuous forms, taming the monster named gravity.  Watching in amazement as skis twice as long as mine would chatter over the glazed ice, and then as if drifting into flight, launching off mounds in the course, temporarily divorcing their shadows in silence.  Then slowly reuniting again as they touch back down to sound of metal edges grasping desperately for purchase.

Another was the 2 sentence, 45 minute conversation I had with the shuttle driver that brought me from the airport to the mountain.  As we crept up the serpentine road higher and higher into night air as cold as space and never ending darkness.

He was a off season carpenter who first asked me if I really was from Michigan.  To which I replied “Yep”.  Then he said “I hear you guys actually burn oak in your fireplaces… is that true”? I sounded like a strange question a first, until I realized after staring out the window for the duration of the ride, at the million acres of 100′ conifers.

One man's gold is another's commodity.

On occasion I drift off again and go back to that 3 day dream binge.  Skiing all alone, drinking in the Hellroaring Saloon, listing the to tumultuous uproar of the ski team that shared the hotel I was in as I tried to sleep.  I have always dreamed of having a Montana mailing address, along with many other dreams.

Some dream of endless wealth, some dream of power… some dream of buring oak in a fireplace.

This weekend a mentor of mine said something that now seems to help when the frustration of dreams being ever elusive becomes overwhelming… “may the quest for more be put to rest when on the journey we discover the meaning of enough”.

Through the Eyes of Youth

My son informs me that the Weber in the back yard looks like a large bobber. It is so important to be open to the views and insights of others. A closed mind is like wall around a fort… it protects the content from harm but it prevents those within from obtaining a long view.

Backyard Bobber

Ironically, Weber Grill got it’s start from making marker buoy’s.

The Ghost of Benzonia High

On a recent trip “up north” as us Michiganders call it… my 11 year old son convinced us to stop and check out a deserted factory he saw in the periphery of his vision as we creeped down M115 on a cold, snowy day.  Much to our surprise it was not a factory, but an all but abandon high school. 

 

It was graphically very intriguing but what struck me as more fascinating was the unknown history as to why and how it fell dormant.  I’m sure anyone who lives in the area could have told us but there it was, a dusty monument to a communities commitment to improvement.  A spent shuck from a cornel that had grown past it’s need.  The lyric’s from Jimmy Buffet’s song “the stories we could tell” came to mind.

 

Weather Worth Weathering

Facing west the wind that ripped east across the Great Lakes, brought with it frozen pellets and flakes of moisture that pin pricked our faces.  The tractor and flat bed that pulled us to this desolate location of the tree farm had chugged off into another dale.  We were left there with our saw and hopes of finding the perfect, but naturally not so perfect tree.  The sky was lead gray. The snow was knee deep.  Two does were forced from their slumber as the kids explored.

Somewhere in the power of this movement was the power to fill me with purpose and sobriety.  The power of this moment anchored me to my life. The facades and worries of the everyday where removed and replaced with the simple need to endure the elements.

I pity those that live in regions free of drastic weather changes.  Like the crisp edge of an axe that is tempered with heat, the weather here in Michigan keeps you humble and prepared.

After a brief perusal of our Frasier Fir options we all agreed on “the one”.  We said a prayer of thanks, I crawled under the lowest bush and pretended I was a Husqvarna … without the blue smoke.

Now the tree fills our living room with artifacts of the decades and memories in the making.  Soon it will migrate to the back yard where it’s decor will switch to a little less celebrated white lights and serve as bird roost until spring.  At which point it will be ground into mulch and used to protect the soil from which it came.