Green Huckleberries

Bunchberry Blossoms

Wood Lily (Wild Tiger Lily)

The garden is starting to show in this warm weather.

Clouds thundering.

How Slinky looks when the clouds start thundering.

The Jayne Mansfield of chickens.

French Breakfast.

We have the heat – we just need the bees.

Tomato that has seen it’s share of stress.

He saw it coming. It was a thrown by a five beer drunk. A right hand that started at the ceiling. He thought he could slip it. But his feet didn’t move as fast as before. By the time it hit him it was a sledgehammer.

The thing about five beer drunks is they are strong. They haven’t yet had to undergo the true ravages of alcoholism that weaken a body.

Bishop was on the floor. He could stay there, but that wasn’t his style. He noticed just before he was clobbered, he had clean hands, trimmed nails, crescent cuticles.

Times had changed. It was unforgiving. He had ended up on the floor at the hands of someone who received manicures. He had a suspicion, he was old. This was proof.

He picked himself up. The guy’s friends were laughing. Bishop stumbled to the bar, to his beer and shot. He drained the small glass. His head was hurting straight down his neck into his shoulders. The white light had disappeared. Sound was starting to make its way back into his head.

Mr. Fingers leaned beside him. His forearm was on the bar, his hand flat. He said, “I think you should go.”

The man turned and laughed to his friends. Bishop reached for the sheath in the small of his back. When the man turned, Bishop stabbed his knife through his outstretched hand, still on the bar, just below his wrist well above his fingers.

The knife went through his hand, bones, slick, stuck into the bar a good inch.

His cuticles were perfect. In seconds his nails turned white. He tried pulling the knife out with his left hand, but like every five beer drunk, he wasn’t as strong as he thought.

Bishop finished his beer in a gulp. Kicked his leg hard without mercy, so he was hanging. Pulled the knife and sent him to the floor. Tit for tat.

Considered Crescent Cuticles earlier advice and headed for the door. Accosted only by a mood angry, hanging heavy.

Early one mornin’ while makin’ the rounds
I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down
I went right home and I went to bed I stuck that lovin’ 44 beneath my head.

Johnny Cash has served me well and when I sing his songs of murder and redemption, while walking in the bush, they seem to keep the bears away too. I’m not sure if it’s the lyrics or my voice reaching for the low spots Johnny seemed to occupy.

The judge he smiled as he picked up his pin 99 years in the Folsom pen
99 years underneath that ground I can’t forget the day I shot that bad bitch down
Come on you’ve gotta listen unto me lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be.

Just as I finished – I had the feeling like something was looking at me and it wasn’t the bloom off an Orchid. It was a mother Black Bear with one cub. One cub! I knew there was probably two and where was the second one? A moment later the second cub appeared from the underbrush. Both cups prepared to climb a tree. But I gave them no reason. The sow lead them into the bush. I retreated the other direction and started singing another Cash tune. Louder this time:

Delia oh Delia, Delia all my life
If I hadn’t shot poor Delia
I’d have had her for my wife
Delia’s gone, one more round Delia’s gone.

It’s not often I have an audience.

On the way out I spotted a clump of Franklin Lady Slipper Orchids. I thought they were later this year but it was June 27th last year that I found the first ones. The same date as today – remarkable. Sometimes you get lucky.

We are lucky to grow up here. Between the mountains watching a river flow. It does something to people. It’s not easy. But crossing creeks, getting high without light. Partying below the bridge. Lighting small fires before tackling the ridge. It’s not hard to spot someone that carries the river with them.

The water never came rushing in. Not at first. It took the snow to melt and flow down the mountains. The sloughs filled up. Runoff rose free and reckless on Horsethief and No. 2 Creek. Aided by rain and spots of sunny weather. It was mud. And filled the valley bottom edge to edge.

The old man put a plank of wood from the back door to the first rise of dirt. Than another plank to another rise. Three planks got you to the outhouse.

29 planks, zig zagged, delivered you to the Tinhouse. The floor was dry but nothing else.

It was a trick after a belly of beer retracing those steps. Finding the next plank. More than once he gave up and waded home.

The water never came rushing in. It rose quiet and steady. At night and during the day. It was tough to notice until he was knee deep. He could still see slides coming off the mountains in the west. The garden was under water.

The old man had seen it before. One of the planks to the outhouse floated away. Sure as hell. It would get wetter before it would get better. He figured let it flow.

Warm spell today. It has been hectic. In the evening headed for the creek in search of cool, solitude and Franklin Orchids.

Set out on the trail where I often find orchids. Found plenty but none yet blooming. The creek was rushing. Ara in a fit of happiness tossed herself in before realizing how fast it was and was swept a few feet down the bank.

I was looking for flowers and spotted many small Violets, Solomon’s Seal, Wild Strawberry, Columbine and even a few late Venus Lady slippers.

I was traveling with my head down looking at the forest floor. I looked up just before running into this spider web. It was face high. I don’t know how many times I have walked through these in the past. It always gives me a weird feeling. Often they are difficult to see. The late mountain sun lighted up this one nicely. I stepped off the trail and walked around.

Sometimes all I need is the sound of the creek in my ears.

Well it all came together and it was a wonderful event. Here is a few pictures of the faces throughout the day.