Back in January, I started bringing my phone on my running route so that I could entertain myself while I ran. I leaned on my phone’s camera to find novel ways to look at the same scenery I saw every single time I set my timer and vowed to run for 30 minutes.
Despite passing this stump dozens of times, even when the trees had no leaves and it must have been exposed, I never noticed it. I only saw it this past weekend, when I slowed down. When I didn’t set a timer. When I decided to walk instead of run.
I love the textures of this peeling paint on a cabin at Fairy Stone State Park in Virginia. I shot several permutations using the rule of thirds, thinking of Rothko’s compositions with each framing of the peeled paint.
It is Saturday and the trees are encased in ice. We slept with our bedroom window open, and in the deep stillness of night, I was startled awake by the sound of a loud crash. I thought it was drunk students knocking over garbage cans, and then we heard soft voices in the parking lot. A tree limb, heavy with ice, had fallen onto a car.
My legs are crossed at the cafe table by the kitchen window. Morning light shines in. This is my favorite place to sit. On the smooth round table are my earthenware coffee mug, a cup of ice water, my prompt box, an orchid, and a copy of A Land Remembered — my current Florida read. The fridge hums. The half-loaded dishwasher stands open. I hear my husband shuffle paper in the living room. Tear a check out of a checkbook. Occasionally, he clears his throat. A kettle of pinto beans clinks and groans on the stove. The glass lid beads with steam.
I’ve got the kitchen window cracked. It is inches from my body, and I feel icy January air on my hip. The air smells clean and cold and damp. A heavy drop of water splats on the window stool. Further away I hear gentle dripping on wet soil, on cement, on pavement. The ice in the trees crackles softly, and branches sway slowly under a shimmering weight. Liquid pools in the blacktop parking lot and on our cement stoop. The ground is too warm to freeze liquid into solid, but the air is not. A stirring of wind knocks crystal shards from high branches; ice clatters against our windows. I see tiny snow flakes fall among raindrops. The weather is raw today.
I know I’m ten years late to the party, but when I was stuck in an airport on the way home from Hawaii, I fell in love with Instagram. I blame Brie Demkiw and her breathtaking photostream from our Kauai meetup. I added my own Hawaii photographs in the Atlanta airport while I awaited a homebound flight, and I’ve been hooked ever since.
Sheep, December 21, 2014
Now, Instagram is what inspires me to run. After shoving my phone in the strap of my sports bra on a couple of winter jogs, then pulling it out to photograph sheep, or a bale of hay, I have become addicted to the challenge of shooting something different on my route every time I run.
Thistles, December 23, 2014Running path, December 24, 2014Hay bale, December 26, 2014
And every time I walk.
Corn field, December 28, 2014Fences on a gloomy day, December 29, 2014
I love playing with Instagram’s filters to add atmosphere to my not-so-great phone-photos.
Llama and a happy cloud, December 31, 2014Stroubles Creek, January 2, 2015Spooky tree, January 4, 2015
With the limitations of my phone’s camera (close-ups are pretty terrible), I’m running out of ideas for how to capture my route in new ways. Today I was inspired by the Daily Post’s Shadowed photo challenge and squeezed out one more new perspective.
My shadow, January 11, 2015
As the seasons change, so will the photographs. The light will warm, the colors will brighten. Brittle limbs will soften with green.
Cold Sky, January 7, 2015
Until then, I keep running, looking for new ways to see the same old route.
I hiked alone yesterday. I needed to get out of the house.
Beech tree in winter
Actually, I needed to get away from our kids. They’ve been home for what seems like weeks now (13.5 days, to be exact), and I couldn’t take the bickering and wrestling and whining and begging and pouting and grumping anymore.
Poverty Creek Trail
After two weeks of being around them 24/7 I was no fun to be around, either. I was so crotchety and cramped in that I didn’t even want to be around me, and while I considered going for a run, I’m tired of my running circuit: the same hay bales, the same sheep, the same hills and cows and horses in blankets. I needed more drastic measures yesterday. I needed to get in the car and drive away.
I wanted to be alone in the forest. And I wanted to see if there was ice on the Pandapas Pond.
Pandapas Pond crystalizing
Winter hasn’t quite arrived in Blacksburg. It has been fairly warm here the past few nights, so I wasn’t sure how liquid or solid the pond might be. I was excited when I hiked in, gloves and hat on, camera in hand, and saw a thin sheath of new ice creeping from the shore towards the middle of the pond. I lost myself for a while watching the breeze blow ripples against the thin crust; I was mesmerized by the movement of liquid against the crystal skin.
Pond freeze in progress
The trail, too, was icy. It is heavily trafficked by mountain bikers, hikers, and runners, and low points in the path are often trampled into mud pits. I always forget that on this trail. There was no way around the first pit, so I steeled myself to sink into it. But my boot didn’t squish into the muck, it crunched over it. The shiny mud was frozen solid.
Snow cup fungi
ice crust on ground juniper
Frozen tire tracks
Beech leaves
I love hiking solo, listening to the crackle of leaves (or mud) underfoot, the thump of my boots on the trail, the sigh of wind over my ears. I stop and take photos. I breathe cold air into my nose. I feel my cheeks turn pink and nod at runners as they pass. I spend time in my head, running calculations on how many notebooks I’ll fill if I write 10 minutes per day for an entire year (~5.5 100-page composition books).
Mossy stone in the woods
Sometimes I come home from a hike recharged, ready to take on the tasks of life again. Other times I return home and wish I could have more. More quiet. More solitude. More thinking time. Yesterday, fortunately, was the former. I returned to a house full of children (ours and others’), but also to a warm kitchen where I sank my hands into bread dough, and to a husband who assured me I wasn’t a horrible person for running away.
Poverty Creek Trail
Crystalizing
Under the ice
tree skeletons
New ice
This is my entry for the Daily Post Photo Challenge: New.
We were occupied with sports and travel every weekend this autumn, and as a result, did not go on a single camping trip during the most beautiful season in Appalachia. So when it was warm and sunny on the day after Christmas, we took advantage of it and hiked for the first time in months.
Our kids were disappointed that we didn’t have a white Christmas this year, but when the temperature hit 54 degrees (12° C) on December 26 , I didn’t complain.
I was excited to finally bring my new lens on a hometown hike, and was thrilled at how well it worked in the low light of the forest.
Water falling
Riffles, Cascades hike
Froth in a sunbeam
Heart rock
Hiking hand in hand
Water over stone
In December the stream can easily be dripping with icicles. This year, there was no ice – only liquid. And our daughter stepped into it fording the stream.
Fording the stream, Cascades
Cascades waterfall
Waterfall froth
Cascades stream
Slipped in the stream
Luckily the sun shone on us – and her cold wet jeans – for the return hike to the car.
The Cascades
This is my entry for the Daily Post: Warmth photo challenge.
Butterfly Mind 