One of the things I love most about Florida, that I miss when I’m away, and that I fall in love with all over again when I return, is the sky. More specifically, I love the clouds. Cloudscapes in Florida are dynamic and dependable. Nearly every afternoon in summer, formations build before your eyes in a blue sky, their faces to the brilliant Florida sun. The piles are clean and bright, like bleached cotton, and you can actually watch them grow, billowy cumulus clouds piling up like a massive mound of shaving cream in a crystalline sky. Variations of light on the clouds are dramatic, ranging from a blinding white on the uppermost billows to an ominous blue black on their low underbellies.
Every day, the clouds are different. Sometimes they are far away, and they move across the sky like giant jellyfish, trailing rain like dark gray tentacles. Other times you watch them grow, you feel the wind pick up as they become cumulonimbus storm clouds, sucking air into their growing system, and you wonder, is that coming our way?
And then that blue-black underbelly is right there,and it blots out the sun. The temperature drops. The menacing cloud is low, right above you. You can see details of its texture, and there is a sense of immediacy – the cloud isn’t over there, where I can watch it from afar. It is right here, like that tree and this lizard, and like me.
A bolt of lightning blinds you, and a clap of thunder cracks, and you feel the ground and your chest vibrate with the impact. Maybe you’ll get scared if you’re outside, and you’ll run for cover. If you’re inside you watch rain pelt hot asphalt and green palm fronds. The storm will crash violently, with thunder and lightning and rain so heavy you have to pull off the highway if you’re driving in it.
Ten minutes later, maybe twenty, it will all be over. The road will steam. The palm fronds will glisten. The sky will clear for sunset, leaving a few cloud remnants, maybe some high cirrus feathers, to reflect pinks and oranges of the sun’s fiery farewell as it drops below the horizon.
And then, you forget about clouds for a while. At least until the next day, when you see a couple of white puffs here and there in the morning. And at 2 o’clock you look inland, and you see a curve of white above palm trees, a great dollop of cloud that grows before your eyes, and you pause in what you’re doing to watch the show.
Egg casings, shells, and turtle grass: storm surge deposits on beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
The morning after Tropical Storm Andrea blew through, we rushed out to see what the Gulf of Mexico had deposited on the beach where we are vacationing. An ecological disturbance like that provides a rare, fleeting opportunity to find a bounty of sea life and new shells washed ashore. We got out early because we knew the beach would be crawling with other explorers picking over the seashells, just like we planned to do.
Mother of pearl inside pen shell
Dead Man’s Finger (orange sponge) washed ashore on Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Variegated sea urchin on Holmes beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Shells and waves on Anna Maria Island Gulf beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Sea star washed ashore on Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Lightning Whelk egg casing and purple sea urchin on Gulf beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Horse conch egg casing on Gulf beach at Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Sea pork (orange speckled blob) washed ashore on Southwest Florida beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Sea pens, shells, and turtle grass on Gulf beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Sea weed and shells on Anna Maria Island Florida Gulf beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Tiny white starfish on pen shell, found on beach after Tropical Storm Andrea
Yesterday, and most days here at Anna Maria, the beach is a smooth expanse of white sand dotted with coquina shells, calico scallops, jingles, and venus clams. But this morning when we stepped onto the wet sand, purple plastic beach bucket in hand, the shells on the beach were so abundant, they hurt our feet to walk on them. They glistened, wet with sea water, like pale pink pearls and polished ivory. Barnacle-encrusted pen shells – intact bivalve husks eight inches long and shaped like mussels, brown on the outside, but deep pearly purple on the inside where the mollusk once lived – were as plentiful as calico scallops usually are. Racks of turtle grass clumped in piles where the Gulf pushed them ashore. We saw a family, each child with a starfish in one hand and a stick in the other. They squatted on their haunches and used the sticks to pull piles of turtle grass apart, searching for tiny treasures in the rich mats. We followed their lead and grabbed pen shells to pick through the grass. We found sea urchins, sea whips (soft corals in purple and red), Sargassum weed, seas sponges, sea pork, tiny crabs, and egg casings of whelks and conchs. And scallop,s and cockles, and hermit crabs, and some kind of lavender-gray blob that looked like a snail who had lost her shell.
Every two steps on our walk one of us would exclaim, “Look at that shell!” or “What is that thing?” Our daughter counted 41 sea urchins on our quarter mile walk, and she was too overwhelmed by the abundance of sea shells to pick many out for collection. Vibrant orange shards of calico crab shell, spotted like leopard skin, jumped out in the sea of soft pink, and so she collected several crab carapaces. The beach crawled with curious collectors and kids with fists full of shells.
A field of seashells on Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Ripples and bubbles in tidal pool on Anna Maria Island
Little girl shelling under blue sky on Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Blue Sky over Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Blue sky over Gulf of Mexico after Tropical Storm Andrea
Lightning whelk and silver-white jingle shell on Anna Maria Island after Tropical Storm Andrea
Our shell haul. Includes calico crab carapace, skate egg case (“devil’s purse), pen shell with barnacles, cockles, whelk, jingles, scallops
I’m not sure what the beach will look like tomorrow. The waves have gone down. Whereas the landscape yesterday was painted in gray and whiteand jade green, with hardly a shell to be found because waves washed all the way up to the dunes, the scene today is one of a sunny, subtropical, Florida Gulf beach. The sky is cornflower blue, the clouds are cotton white. The Gulf is a milky jade, the land is palm green, and the beach stretches in white, tan, sea grass, and a thousand shades of shell pink. Tomorrow, the scene may be completely different. The Gulf may recapture all its treasures with the next high tide, or shore birds may devour the urchins and sea stars and crabs, or perhaps there will be a fresh crop of sea life tossed ashore. Whatever tomorrow brings, we will be there with our buckets to explore it, in all its fleeting glory.
This is my entry for the WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge: Fleeting. I apologize if the photo quality is lower than usual. I forgot my real camera, so these photos were taken with my phone. My laptop screen is also not great, so I couldn’t see the color very well when I edited. Hopefully I don’t get home and see that these are terrible.
Portraiture is possibly my favorite form of photography. Faces show character in every laugh line, every weathered wrinkle, in tan lines left by always-worn sunglasses, in the trickle of sweat through trail dust. In the scraggly beards of men who have walked the woods for weeks.
On our drive through Catawba valley, my husband said, “It’s getting close to peak thru-hiker season.” We were headed to Sawtooth Ridge, a portion of the Appalachian Trail between McAfee Knob and Dragon’s Tooth, near our home in Blacksburg, Virginia.
“It is?” I asked, my wheels turning. I had just checked my email and seen that the theme of this week’s WordPress photo challenge was culture, and I thought, oooh, maybe I can cover A.T. culture. Shoot portraits of rugged hikers.
“Yeah, if they left Springer Mountain [Georgia] on March 1, they’d start getting here near the end of April and in May.”
A local friend of ours said she gives away her chocolate snacks when she encounters thru-hikers on the trail. I thought of when my husband was thru-hiking, back when we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and how he would put an entire stick of butter in his ramen noodles at night. “I wish I would have brought more food,” I said.
In the McAfee Knob parking lot, I fingered my camera as large groups of hikers clustered around car trunks and tailgates, stuffing water bottles in daypacks, eating pre-hike sandwiches from Subway, mixing formula in bottles for the baby a dad would carry on his back. I wasn’t brave enough to ask to take their pictures. On the trail, I told myself. I’ll ask hikers on the trail.
We headed south while the crowds headed north towards McAfee Knob. For twenty minutes, we saw no-one. No day hikers. No thru-hikers. The only evidence of humans we found, besides the trail, was a “Home Sweet Home” sign nailed above a squirrel hole. “Kids! Look at this!” I crouched down and snapped shots.
“Do you think a squirrel made that?” Our son asked.
“Or maybe fairies?” said our daughter.
I wondered about whoever had made this miniature sign, who had brought a screwdriver onto the trail to attach it to this little spot. A local day hiker? A Virginia Tech student? Whoever it was, they made me smile with this little surprise in the woods.
We rounded a bend and met a young man and his dog headed north on the trail. The man carried a full pack, with a pair of dusty gray Crocs tied on the side. His hands were red and raw as he gave his dog a treat for sitting obediently as our kids approached.
“Hey, how’s it going?” we said.
Hiker and his dog on the Appalachian Trail
“Good, good. I just picked this guy up in Pearisburg,” and he pointed at his dog. “I’m trying to train him.” The black and white mottled dog carried his own saddlebag pack and was calm and sweet as he sniffed my hand. His nose was speckled pink and black. The man gave him another treat.
“Well, y’all have a good day!” And he continued north as we continued south. I’m not sure if he was hiking from Georgia to Maine, or if he was just out for a weekend backpacking trip. I did not ask his story, and I did not take his picture, except from the back.
The next hikers we encountered were obviously thru-hikers. We sat on fallen trees in a clearing, munching trail mix and baby carrots, when two women powered through the glade. They carried full packs, wore quick-dry nylon hiking pants in olive green and pewter grey, and their strides were long and purposeful. I wondered where they were from, when they had started, how many miles they were doing that day. Had they mailed boxes to themselves, filled with fresh food supplies, and cash, and lightweight spring clothing? Were they in a hurry to get to a post office and bury their faces in fresh tee-shirts? Clean socks? They said a quick “Hello,” which we returned, and then they were gone. I did not photograph them, or ask them their story. “The next one,” I told myself. “I’ll talk to the next one.”
On our way back to the car, we passed a scruffy young man smoking a cigarette on a slab of rock on the side of the trail. He sat atop a bulging backpack, stuffed full like a giant army-green sausage . He was backpacking, not day hiking. Carrying cigarettes and wearing New Balance sneakers, I didn’t think he was a thru-hiker, but he could have been. I’m sure he had a story. He was lounging, I could have easily asked. But he wore headphones, and I didn’t want to intrude, so I hiked by with a nod and a smile.
By the time we arrived at our car, where five dusty, bearded twenty-something men lay draped over their backpacks, or sat on them as chairs, or propped their backs up against them in the white gravel parking lot, I knew that I would not talk to these hikers, nor photograph their faces. I am fascinated by journalists – by their grit, by their ability to shove in and get the story, by their speed in turning stories out – but I realized on the trail that that is not the stuff I’m made of.
Instead of shooting photographs of “the next one,” or of those prone hikers reclining not 20 yards from our car, I knew I’d bring their images home in my mind, and l’d write their portraits with words. I’d hole up at home, in retreat like many hikers seek, contemplating solitude, and the Appalachian Trail, and a culture that includes those who would nail a tiny sign over a tiny hole, in the wilderness, for smiles they’ll never see, but that they’ll know, quietly.
White daisy-like wildflowers on the Appalachian Trail, VA
Appalachian trail, Sawtooth Ridge near Blacksburg, VA
Pink mountain azaleas in bloom on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Tiny green succlents on Appalachian Trail in spring, Sawtooth Ridge, VA near Blacksburg
View from rock outcrop on Sawtooth Ridge hike near McAfee knob, VA on Appalachian Trail in April
Pink mountain azalea buds on Sawtooth Ridge on Appalachian Trail, VA
Tiny blue feather on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Fern unfurling in spring on Appalachian Trail, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Lichen covered log and white wildflowers on Appalachian Trail in April, Sawtooth Ridge, VA
Summer, fall, winter. We’ve spent one of each here in the Appalachian mountains of Blacksburg, Virginia. And finally, we get to see spring. We took a walk at the Falls Ridge Preserve on Sunday, a 655 acre plot of land owned and maintained by The Nature Conservancy. It’s only about 15 minutes from our home, with an easy half mile trail packed with a lime kiln, shallow caverns that provided at least an hour of entertainment for our kids, a stream, a waterfall, and of course, wildflowers.
White Anemone Appalachian wildflower at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Yellow spicebush flower buds at Falls Ridge
Lime Kiln at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Pink anemone flower at Falls Ridge in Appalachia
Buds on a bush in Falls Ridge Nature Conservancy Preserve
Spring fed waterfall at Falls Ridge Nature Conservancy Preserve Blacksburg, VA Appalachia
Funky green Applachian bud (or flower?) at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Redbud tree buds at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
White Trillium wildflower at Falls Ridge Nature Preserve
Buds on a bush in Falls Ridge Nature Preserve in Blacksburg, VA
Spring fed stream at Falls Ridge Preserve Blacksburg, Virginia
I know it is totally cliché to post photographs of spring for an April “Change” photo challenge. While this photo essay does embrace all the conventional themes of spring transition – new life, hope, color, potential – the type of change these photographs signify to me is one of having roots, being established, and consequently, being able to bloom. For the first time in our married life, my husband and I aim to stop wandering. This is unprecedented for us, to stay put in one place, possibly for the rest of our lives. It seems significant somehow, to wrap up our first year with the season of spring, the season of new life, hope, color, and potential. To put down roots while we watch our new world blossom.
Directions to Falls Ridge Preserve from Blacksburg: From South Main Street, just north of 460, turn onto Ellet Rd. (which becomes Cedar Run Rd.). Follow Cedar Run Rd. to the end and turn left on Jennelle Rd. at the railroad tracks. Follow Jennelle to the Food Time store (you’ll pass another Ellet Rd) and turn right on Den Hill Rd. Turn left on North Fork Rd and drive about three miles. On your right you will see a super rickety bridge on your right, with red railings and a sign that says “Use at your own risk.” Turn right and cross that bridge. Cross the railroad tracks and make an immediate left on a dirt/gravel road. Follow about .25 miles and you will see a parking lot on the left. There is a Nature Conservancy Kiosk in the grassy meadow. Follow the meadow to the woods and you will see the caves, kiln, and waterfall.
“…The Color Purple (this color that is always a surprise but is everywhere in nature)…” – Alice Walker
I’ve been reading Southern women – I turned the final page of Eudora Welty’s The Optimist’s Daughter last night, and tore through Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood before that. As I read those, I waited impatiently for either Carson McCullers’ Ballad of the Sad Café or Alice Walker’s The Color Purple to become available at our public library. And wouldn’t you know it, they both became available yesterday. What a quandary. Which should I read first?! After careful deliberation, which included a plea for guidance on my Facebook page and an appetite for getting back to my roots, I chose Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Walker was born in Eatonton, Georgia, where I planted my first carrot seeds, shucked my first corn, and caught my first yellow belly in the Crooked Creek that ran through Grandaddy and Nannie’s farm. I began reading last night, and I’m already a goner.
I loved Alice Walker’s suggestion that the color purple is always a surprise but is everywhere in nature, so I took my camera out for this week’s photo challenge, Color, to see if it was true. Given that the world is still mostly brown here in Blacksburg – the weeping willows are the only trees leafing out yet, and there are only a few blooms here and there – I was surprised by how much purple there actually was. Can’t wait to see how the color purple plays into the novel.
I had a great post, all ready to go, about how we organize the books on our shelves (exciting, I know), when I saw the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge: A Day in My Life. I had a typical day planned – cooking, groceries, cleaning, cooking – with the addition of currently atypical good weather and the kids being home for spring break. Here’s how we spent our day.
6:00 am First things first. Coffee.
6:05 am My writing station, complete with green mug
7:05 amMaking lunches for husband.
8:00 am Bodyweight work out
9:00 am Breakfast: Boiled egg with salt, Greek yogurt with honey, cofee with cream and sugar, paper
9:30 am Washing breakfast dishes
10:00 am Prepping dinner for the crockpot
10:00 am Onion saute with taco seasoning
10:30 am Kids coloring addition color by numbers. Their choice
11:00 am Visiting dad at work
11:30 am At the grocery store
11:30 am Grocery shopping with the kids. Always fun.
12:30 pm Fluffernutters for lunch
12:30 pm Ham and cheese lettuce wrap for me
1:30 pm Reading in the sun while the kids play
1:30 pm At the park with friends
1:30 pm Flannery O’Connor’s “Wise Blood”
2:00 pm Daughter walking to the duck pond
2:00 pm Volleyball at the duck pond
2:30 pm Bare branches, ready for spring
3:00 Son’s sandy volleyball feet
3:30 pm Me making our spring wreath
4:00 Our forsythia wreath for spring
4:30 pm Emptying the diswasher for dinner dishes
4:30 pm Shredded chicken for tacos
5:00 pm Making simple syrup for cocktails
5:00 pm Happy hour! Rum sour
5:15 pm Making guacamole
5:30 Making salsa
6:00 pm The dinner table
7:30 Taco destruction
8:00 pm Iron Man 2 for movie night
6:00 am First things first. Coffee.
6:05 am My writing station, complete with green mug.
7:00 am Making lunch for husband.
8:00 am Body weight workout.
9:00 am Breakfast: Boiled egg with salt, Greek yogurt with honey, coffee with cream and sugar, newspaper
9:30 am Washing breakfast dishes.
10:00 am Prepping dinner for the crockpot.
10:00 am Onion saute with taco seasoning.
10:30 am Kids coloring addition-color-by-numbers. Their choice.
11:00 am Visiting dad at work.
11:30 am Pansies at the grocery store.
11:30 am Grocery shopping with the kids. Always fun.
12:30 pm Kids’ lunch: Fluffernutters.
12:30 pm My lunch: Ham and cheese lettuce wrap.
1:30 pm Reading in the sun while the kids play.
1:30 pm At the park with friends.
1:30 pm Flannery O’Connor’s “Wise Blood.”
2:00 pm Daughter walking to the duck pond with a big green ball.
2:00 pm Volleyball at the park.
2:00 pm Reading while the kids play.
2:30 pm Bare branches, ready for spring.
3:00 pm Son’s sandy volleyball feet.
3:30 pm Me making our spring wreath
4:00 Our forsythia wreath for spring.
4:30 pm Emptying the dishwasher for dinner dishes.
4:30 pm Shredded chicken for tacos.
5:00 pm Making simple syrup for cocktails.
5:00 pm Happy hour! Rum sour.
5:15 pm Making guacamole.
5:30 Making salsa.
6:00 pm The dinner table.
7:30 Taco destruction.
8:00 pm Iron Man 2 for family movie night.
Butterfly Mind 