Category: Places

The Insignificance of small beings

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date November 21, 2003

Before the cold rolled in I took my belated trip to Elephant Rocks today. I was able to avoid the gauntlet of confederate flags along the way by looking at a map and discovering that the road I take to one of the parks I visit frequently is the same road that ultimately leads to Elephant Rocks, but coming from the opposite direction. So I came in the back door.

Near the town of De Soto, I noticed an older woman walking along the side of the road and I stopped to offer her a lift. She was heading home after visiting an herbal shop in town, and her arms were full of bags of herbs.

She was a fascinating woman, probably about 60 or so, currently on disability because of cancer of the breast and diabetes and various other ailments. Born and bred in Missouri and lived most of her life along that stretch of road so she was able to give me the feel of the place — not the statistics or the raw facts. The feel. What the principal did when the last tornado hit the school, or that the owner of the place we just went past was forced to clean up after the last storm but the damage wasn’t his fault, why did the government make him clean it up?

My passenger was religious, which didn’t surprise me. Religion is not an intellectual exercise in Missouri, it’s as much a part of the countryside as the rocks I was driving to see today. What did surprise me, though, was the deep acceptance and trust in God she felt. She had cancer, and from all indications, terminal cancer, but she was healthy and happy and upbeat, hitchhiking into town to get her herbs, taking her homeopathic remedies and trusting to God to do the rest. And if God decided to take her home, well, she’d be content with that too.

“Why worry”, she said. “Worry just makes you look old.”

She pointed out the damage along the side of the road from a bad set of tornadoes that hit this spring. Stands of of trees were literally twisted off their roots, or picked up and tossed through the air like a twig. You could see the path of damage clearly as it followed along the highway, sometimes crossing it to hit the other side. I asked her if anyone she knew had been hurt and she said, no, God was protecting over them.

(When I got home, I looked the storm up and sure enough, the tornadoes killed people all around, but it left De Soto residents unharmed. An ambulance driver in the district remarked on this to reporters, saying, “It’s a miracle, isn’t it?”)

The rest of the drive after dropping my passenger off was beautiful, one of those almost perfect late fall days with sunlight breaking through dark clouds to frame this quaint old farm house, or that shaggy dirty white bull wading in a creek. I missed the stories though, the glimpse into the people I only know through my car window driving past.

There were quite a few tourists at Elephant Rock considering a storm was rolling in. However, the area is large enough that you can have space to yourself, so for the most part, I walked among the rocks alone, stopping at one point to eat my favorite cheddar and bread-n-butter pickle sandwich.

Elephant Rocks, the park, the experience, how to describe it. From the State Park description comes the following:

Imagine giant granite rocks standing end-to-end like a train of circus elephants. That’s what you’ll see at Elephant Rocks State Park. About 1.5 billion years ago, hot magma cooled forming coarsely crystalline red granite, which later weathered into huge, rounded boulders. Standing atop a granite outcrop, one of the largest elephant rocks, Dumbo, tops the scales at a whopping 680 tons!

Visitors to Elephant Rocks State Park can easily view the granite boulders from the one-mile Braille Trail, designed to accommodate people with visual or physical disabilities. The trail passes by a quarry pond, which now supports a variety of animal life. A short spur off of the trail takes visitors to the top of the granite outcrop, where they can explore the maze of giant elephant rocks.

At first the boulders are small and manageable — they may weight several tons but they are shorter than you and you don’t feel the age as much. One of the rock formations that I called The Worm had two core sample drill holes made oh, a hundred and fifty years or so ago when they were testing to see the quality of the granite.

The rock pile, if this word could possibly provide you a feel for what its like, has little trails all over and people can climb the rocks, and do, especially the younger kids. Being a little older, and a little more cautious, not to mention weighed down with my usual photographic paraphernalia, I didn’t frisk about like a young mountain goat. But I did explore most of the paths, include the wonderfully named “Fat Man’s Squeeze”.

I can say now, unequivocally, that I do not have a fat man’s build. However, I did have to suck in my chest, as it were, one time to get through an opening.

squeeze

According to the guide:

Molten rock, called magma, accumulated deep below the earth’s surface. The magma slowly cooled, forming red granite rock. As the weight of the overlying rock was removed by erosion, horizontal and vertical cracks developed, fracturing the massive granite into huge, angular blocks. Water permeated down through the fractures, and groundwater rounded the edges and corners of the blocks while still underground, forming giant rounded masses. Erosion eventually removed the disintegrated material from along the fractures, and exposed these boulders at the earth’s surface.

It was when you round a corner and look up and see the big rocks, the rocks that led to the name of the park that you’re left breathless. The Elephant Rock, prosaically named “Dumbo” sits on top of a knoll isolated from the other rocks and framed by the valley and mountains beyond.

Inscribed into Dumbo’s surface are the names and dates from the quarry workers over the years, including one from a guy called Murray in 1885. Nothing more than faint irritations by insignificant beasts happening in a split second of time.

The rocks towered over me, with a size that photos can’t capture without sticking some passing kid next to it for comparison, and don’t think I wasn’t considering it. But it still wouldn’t have conveyed the feel of the big rock.

I may think I am tall, and that I am impressive standing there shoulders back and head high, silhouetted against the clouds; but the rock was 27 feet tall and 35 feet long, and as old as earth. I am just that half seen shadow that is past before it’s even begun.

People were all about that rock. A tiny beagle walked by a boy with bright blue hair managed to get itself stuck in a crevice it was exploring. The boy finally managed to free it, calling it “dumb dog” all the time, but the puppy didn’t seem to mind if his wagging tail was any indication.

A woman about my age, maybe a little younger, accompanied by husband and daughter started a conversation with me, telling me about the rocks along the coast of Rhode Island where she was from and how much they reminded her of these big rocks. She asked if the formations were the result of the quarry operation and I said, no, that she was looking at a rock that was formed a billion years ago from the primal matter that makes up the Earth. She looked at me and then at the rock and then at me and said, “Really?”

Yup.

She ran over to her husband and daughter and started telling them about what I said, but he just looked at her and asked if she wanted to go look at the quarry now, and her daughter walked away and she stopped talking and followed them, bright yellow sweater forming a vivid constrast to the pink of the granite.

The weather got cold enough and the clouds stormy enough that most people were chased away and I was finally alone on that knoll high above the world. I placed my hand on Dumbo’s surprisingly warm surface and just stood there, for the longest time, thinking thoughts you’ll never read. Then I left.

On the way home I again passed the tornado path and it really was uncanny how many trees were down around homes, but not on the homes themselves. I kept looking for homes being repaired, fresh roof tiles and siding, new glass. But all I saw was old houses, rusty mobile homes and a whole lot of downed trees. Maybe my passenger was right and there was a God protecting them. She was serenely confident this was the answer; that God looked down and saw the people of De Soto and said, not today.

That must be what faith gives you — a feeling like you’re carrying a little bit of that rock with you, all the time.

outdoors Photography Places

On a wing and a prayer

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date November 13, 2003

Someday I’m either going to get shot for trespassing or hit a deer in the dark.

The drive to the wildlife refuge was longer than I expected, and cloud cover cut into the afternoon light. By the time I pulled in, it was too dark and too gray to get any pictures, though I did explore a trail by the edge of the lake, grabbing some pictures with the digital. Don’t expect much, the light wasn’t good. I’ll have to try another refuge next time, as this one doesn’t allow you to get close enough to the birds for photos.

Close enough to shoot though. On the other side of a stand of trees surrounding the lake was the area where hunters are allowed, and hunting season is in full swing. The sound reminded me of my childhood — walking along the edge of weedy ponds, on a cold and gray day with a slight smell of wood smoke in the air and the faint faraway sounds of shotguns and the bay of hunting dogs.

On the way back home I passed a field and in the sky were hundreds of Canadian Geese circling about preparing to land. They were as thick as starlings and you can imagine with the size of the bird what that was like. I didn’t even pull over, I just stopped on the road and rolled down my window and watched as several V shapes would meet and collide, only to break apart and swirl around each other.

Smart birds. Land in a farmer’s field rather than the shooting gallery waiting for them at the lake.

I used to watch the geese circle for a place to land when I worked for Boeing years ago, and would take my smoke break outside. We worked in a new building built on former wetland, in an area that formed the new industrial park of Seattle back when Seattle’s fortunes were just beginning to take off. I worked there for a few years and every year, there would be less green and more cement and it would be harder for the migrating geese to find a home.

Finally, all the geese had was a strip of green between two roads not far from where I worked, but my last summer there, they dug up the green and put in rocks and some tasteful everygreens. That Fall, when the geese arrived they circled about and we could hear them but not see them in the drizzle. Their voices became fainter and fainter as they looked for their little strip of land but couldn’t find it.

Luckily today’s geese had no problems.

There was an old house on the side of the road I’d seen coming down that looked perfect for photographs. The light was right for pictures on the way back, and I wasn’t worried about someone being there because the place looked like no one had lived there for years. I pulled over and grabbed a couple of shots before the door opened, and an old man came out on the porch.

“Can I help you with something?”, he asked and the way he asked it let me know that my answer better be, No.

“Sorry, I saw your house from the road, and it was so, uhm, pretty, that I wanted to stop and get a closer look.”

“Well, this is private property Miss. You’ll want to be moving on now.”

“Yes, uh, yes. Sorry.” I jumped in the car and backed out on the road, barely looking to see if anyone was around, all the time being watched by the man on the porch. It was only then that I saw the TV antenna on the old roof.

Today was my first long trip I’ve taken in some time and I found that I didn’t enjoy it as much as I usually do. I had another road trip planned for the end of the month but all I want to do now is stay home, go for walks in familiar, favorite places, and read.

I’ve been in such a quiet mood lately, and it seems worse tonight. Maybe its a combination of tooth and jaw ache — driving home in the dark on back country roads in the middle of hunting season is asking to hit a deer and I clench my jaw every time one jumps along the side of the road, or you see your lights reflected in their eyes. As much back country driving as I do, its only a matter of time before I hit a deer, they’re as thick as mice in the Missouri country side.

I did come close to hitting an animal today, but it wasn’t a deer, and it wasn’t at night.

On Highway 36 heading west I was going along at about 55 with a small white car hung off my back fender like a burr on a donkey’s ass. It’s never a good idea to tailgate in any circumstance, but its worse in the country because there’s always something in the road.

Sure enough we topped a small rise next to an overpass and I saw a dark four legged figure by the side of the road. I pumped my brakes to warn the car behind me of danger ahead and to get his butt back. Just when I recognized that what I thought was a deer was, instead, a large dog, the dog moved on to the road and just stopped in our lane and looked towards my car. I hit my brakes, hard, and the car behind me ran off the road on to the shoulder to avoid hitting me.

The dog didn’t move, just looked at me with its shoulders hunched, and tail hanging limply down. The driver of the other car, all blonde haired, blue eyed 30-something young privledged white mama’s boy of him, was quite agitated but I wasn’t going to run the dog over because he was driving like an idiot. I ignored him. He wasn’t hurt, just inconvenienced, and hopefully given a well deserved lesson. He took off while I was still in the middle of the road, looking at the dog, it looking at me.

When the shoulder was clear of the nuisance, I don’t know why I did it, but I pulled over, put on the emergency lights, got out of the car and called out to the dog, “Here puppy.” Puppy?

The old dog had walked to the other side, but stopped, turned around, and looked at me when he heard me call. Cars would travel between us, but we just stood there looking at each other. It was a very large dog, with grey matted hair that looked as if it was coming loose in patches. It was so thin, you could see its ribs. And its tail stayed hanging down, slight tipped in so that it was almost but not quite between its legs.

I’m not a city-bred girl and I know the dangers of an unknown dog on a back country road. It was a damn foolish thing to stop, and worse to get out of the car. I suppose there was something about its eyes that made me stop. I wondered though what I would do if he did come up to me.

He did this odd little dance, heading towards the hill, and then turning back to the road to face me, then back to the hill, as if he wanted to come to me but he’d been offered that hope before and it always came out false. Eventually he headed up the hill but partway up, he turned around one more time and just looked at me for a moment before disappearing over the top.

I didn’t do that dog a favor by slamming on my brakes.

Culture Places

Dixie Land

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date November 3, 2003

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I wrote last week about visiting the Johnson Shut-Ins, trying to get some photos of unusual rock formations. This was my first visit to this part of the state, heading southwest rather than my usual northwest.

It was a great day with cool weather but clear skies. As I drove South from St. Louis on I-55, I marveled at all the parks I passed along the way – fresh adventures, and I hadn’t exhausted all of the parks in my usual hiking territory. I tried to make note of them as I passed, but there were too many.

From I-55 I took US Hwy 67 to Framingham, and from there I needed to take Route W. Missouri has all of these back country routes that they’ve named after the letters of the alphabet, and it makes it hard not to miss them – they all look alike. Why couldn’t the state use something like “Missouri Arcadia Highway” or “Iron Road”, for Iron Mountain through which it traverses.

Route W was a beautiful 2-lane road in excellent condition, with hardly any other cars on it that day. As expected in the Ozarks it was hilly, and curvy, and green – even in the late fall, there was still green along side the road. I went through one small town, can’t remember the name, and a road crew was working on an old iron bridge that looked like it had been around forever. The men all wore uniform outfits of white t-shirts and baggy blue jeans, brown leatherwork boots and bright orange work crew vests and hats. One of the lanes was closed and as the sheriff waved me through, I couldn’t help staring at the men because to a person they all had brown hair, mustaches, and mirror sunglasses. The only difference between the men was height and build.

Several of the men saw me staring and tipped their hats. This is the backcountry of Missouri and these men’s mamas raised them to be polite. I tried to reciprocate the politeness by nodding back with slight, dignified smile, reminding myself that these men were not a raree show and to stop staring.

Not long after the workmen, I topped a hill and started passing what looked like some kind of farm supply company. Nothing unusual, except for a tall flagpole flying an old confederate flag. I was surprised, but I shouldn’t have been. When you live in St. Louis, you sometimes forget Missouri’s civil war roots. Why, an estimated 1500 confederate soldiers had died in the battle of Pilot Knob, not but a few miles from my final destination.

I didn’t think much of the flag, or more of the flag then to think about its historic significance, until I passed another home in the woods and this one also had a confederate flag, but a much newer, more vividly colored one. And then I passed another house flying the flag, and then another, and then another.

I once wrote how disturbed I was by the homes flying the huge American flags with yellow ribbons in Kentucky. I think of them as examples of unthinking patriotism. Well, none of this exists in the iron country of the Ozarks, but I don’t believe what takes its place is an improvement.

From Route W, I had to take Highway 21 to reach the Shut-Ins. When I got to the park there were some people there, including other photographers. Normally I’d say hello and smile at folks, maybe chat about the view or the rocks or our cameras. That day, though, I kept my head down and found I couldn’t make eye contact with any of the other people. In fact, I found myself getting irritated with the people, the rocks, the water, and finally just left.

Of course, all of this surfaced this week with the uproar surrounding Howard Dean’s remarks about wanting to be “…the candidate for guys with Confederate flags in their pickup trucks.” Oh my.

I know where Dean is coming from, though he sure can stick his foot in his mouth at times. It wasn’t that long ago that I and others criticized Dean for surrounding himself with east coast college educated liberals. Can’t get more uncoast and unliberal than trucks with confederate flags. But what is a white man from the North going to know of the confederate flag? Kerry and Lieberman, for all of their outrage, they don’t know about it either – except as some symbol of backwoods inbred hicks that pollute this great nation of ours.

(I think I’ll get that put on a shirt. “Hi, I’m a backwoods inbred hick from Missouri and I sleep with my gun.”)

Gephardt is from Missouri, so he’s probably seen a truck, maybe even one with a confederate flag. But what’s his response to this issue?

“I don’t want to be the candidate for guys with Confederate flags in their pickup trucks,” Gephardt said in a statement. “I will win the Democratic nomination because I will be the candidate for guys with American flags in their pickup trucks.”

So then we’re back to Kentucky, and home after home covered in American Flags and yellow ribbons. Or we’re back to a White House lawn, with Gephardt standing behind the President, promising his support for this war on terror in Iraq.

As for Clark, another man who might have seen a flag draped truck or two with his Arkansas background – cookie cutter responses with “NRA.” “Racially Divisive.” Basically it boils down to “Bad Mans. Pick me.”

I’m voting Democrat, but it’s damn hard at times. These men, they don’t have a clue what this is all about.

Along I-55 on the way home from my trip to the Shut-Ins, I passed a sign identifying that section of the highway as the Rosa Parks Highway, named for the black woman who refused to give up her seat to a white person during the civil rights movement. The reason for the highway being named after her is an interesting story.

Back in 1994, the Ku Klux Klan wanted to adopt that stretch of I-55 as part of the adopt-a-highway program. If allowed, a sign with the Ku Klux Klan on it would have to be displayed along the side of the road. The Missouri Department of Transportation denied the request, and the KKK filed a freedom of speech suit. Eventually the U.S. District Court ruled in favor of the Ku Klux Klan, and its right to free speech. Once the Supreme Court refused to hear Missouri’s case, the KKK was free to become part of the program.

But you know, the folks of Missouri never were the type to just take defeat. The Highway Department, with much fanfare, renamed the section of the Highway that the KKK claimed, as “Rosa Parks Highway”. If the KKK persisted with their insistence on being part of the program, they would be cleaning The Rosa Parks Highway.

Missouri. God, you have got to love the folks here at times.

Back to the trip and the flags, those symbolic flags. Last week, the worst part of the trip and traveling past those confederate flagged homes wasn’t that the flags were some kind of symbol of the NRA or racial hatred, whicheveryoneisagainst. The worst part of the day, for me, personally, was when I saw all those confederate flags and thought about walking in those woods all by myself, and remembered those men and their mirror sunglasses – and I felt relieved that I was white and not black. The year is 2003 and it was the middle of the day in the middle of the United States and I’m driving in my car thinking to myself that I’m glad I’m white and not black. No wonder I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes at the park.

After all the shouting and finger pointing, that’s really the issue. And I bet if Dean, or Gephardt, or Lieberman, or Kerry, or Clark, or even President Bush for that matter, had been in the car with me, they would have been relieved they were white, too. At least, this is my hope. I’d hate to think I was the only moral coward around.

The solution could be to just make flying the confederate flag illegal. But then there’s that free speech thing, and I’m not sure what’s scarier: the flags flying or the flags not flying because the government steps in. Open the door to that sort of thing and all sorts of bad stuff will start crawling out – like our current Attorney General, Ashcroft. You know, he’s from Missouri, too.

(The ACLU doesn’t have a problem knowing which is the better – they were the ones that filed suit for the KKK.)

The KKK dropped their claim on the Rosa Parks Highway, but then in 2001 applied to adopt another section of road. They’ve again been denied because the Highway department has instituted new rules that won’t allow groups to participate if they discriminate. When the KKK member applied and was asked whether his group discriminates, he answered, “Yes”. The issue is again heading back to the courts. Good thing there’s lots of civil rights worker names to call upon if need be.

As for the road the KKK wants to adopt, it’s in the Ozarks, in a place called Iron Mountain. A stretch of asphalt on Highway 21, near to some famous landmarks known as the Johnson Shut-Ins and Elephant Rocks.

Places

Moment

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date September 23, 2003

Yesterday I went to the Meramec State Park to hike and continue my reaquaintence with my film camera. As I pulled off the freeway to Highway 185, I saw a semi blocking the road in both directions, hit by another semi when it had tried to pull intot the road from the right. I was close enough to see the drivers and the police and was surprised at how good natured everyone was. People were smiling, even laughing, as they worked to get the blocked semi out of the way.

Eventually, they did whatever they were going to do as the semi crawled around on its own power, limping down the road, a perfect word to use because it literally was limping on its right side. Once it was past, I could see why the reason for the humor — it had been hit by a semi who was hauling what was left of another wrecked semi truck.

I arrived at the park later in the afternoon, and pulled into the Visitor Center to get my bearings. Unfortunately, when I pulled in I stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot to look at my map, assuming no one was around. I didn’t see the Sheriff’s car directly behind me. When I realized I was blocking a car I pulled into a slot, but of course, the office pulled next to me and I thought he was going to give me a lecture, deserved, about how not to drive. Instead, he asked, “Ma’am, do you need help with something?”

Assumption of innocence is a wonderous thing.

“Yes, can you advise me which trails around here don’t have tics and chiggers?”

“Well, this time of year, it’s pretty bad walking anywhere in the Ozarks but the this trail over here,” he says, pointing to one off the Visitor Center, “I take my kids on it, and it’s pretty clear.”

Thanking him, and fate for dealing me a patient policeman, I checked out the trail he mentioned, but a criss crossing of webs across the path dissuaded me. I can’t stand walking through web, I just can’t stand it. Instead, I drove to the end of the park to walk the trails near the Meramec River and Fischer Cave.

Along the way I had to crawl down the road because deer were continuously crossing it. I could see movement in the forest around the road from the corners of my eyes and I was both thrilled and a little stressed because I didn’t want to hit a deer, even at 5MPH. What I almost did hit was a teenager who decided to strap on inline skates and hurtle down the hill towards me, assuming no one was around (or not caring). I pulled over to the side to let him past, wondering who was the ‘dumb animal’ on the road that night — the deer or the kid?

I made my way through the campground at the end of the park, nodding my head at the campers out walking because the weather was fine, real fine, warm, and dry, with a nice cool evening breeze. Instead of a trail I found a path down to the Meremac river, it being low enough for me to walk along the sandy bed.

The opposite side of the river is all tall limestone cliffs covered with trees, many of which are just barely beginning to turn colors — scarlet, orange, gold, but primarily still that wonderful brilliant green of the Missouri forests. Sometimes the colors are so sharp here, so clear and pure, especially when you see them in the early morning or late afternoon that you can almost feel them as texture in the air around you — velvet reds, smooth, cool green, and sharp, rough browns and oranges.

Birds were about, diving at insects over the water, many of which found their way to dine on me — my arm is swollen about the elbow by something that bit me, and I picked up a couple of chiggers along the way. However, being part of the food chain is the price you pay to enter heaven on earth, as my little sandy beach along the river was.

I walked along until I found an area shadowed on both sides, where the river water had pooled forming a semi-lake with branches of dead trees sticking out. I was taking photos of the cliff when I heard a splash and turned around just in time to see an eagle or large hawk grabbing a fish from the water and beating its way to the top of the trees and out of sight. Other predator birds were circling about, waiting their turn, and most likely my absence from their feeding ground. Bu I couldn’t leave.

I put my camera away and stood there, breathing in that sharp Missouri Green smell; listening to the orchestra of breeze and insect and bird; watching a hawk circling about as it hovered over the fish jumping in the water, all surrounded by that glorious color.

(This non-photo photographic moment is dedicated to Margaret Adam, who could probably use a pick-me-up about now.)

Insects Photography Places

Madame Butterfly

Post author By Shelley Powers
Post date September 19, 2003

The next month, from the middle of September until the middle of October, is the most beautiful time of the year in Missouri. The weather has cooled and the humidity dropped, and a slight breeze blows most days to keep the sky clean, and clear. The trees are in their richest green, their end of summer finery; next week they’ll become tipped with golds and oranges and scarlet as Fall begins.

Today there was a huge hot air balloon race at Forest Park, which I had planned on attending to continue my quest to find perfect photos for a perfect portfolia. However, this morning I looked out my window at a perfect day and had no interest in fighting a crowd of tens of thousands for glimpses of bright material reflected in the sun. I headed to the Shaw Arboretum, instead, bad girl that I am.

At the lake where I normally park, there were two wedding parties wondering about — fluffs of white dress and colorful satin and chiffon, with men in black tuxes or well ironed khaki. One group was in the midst of a 3:00 wedding, and the other group in a pre-wedding photo shoot. Both ceremonies were unpretentious, with guests sitting in plain folding white chairs and a simple stand acting as alter. No need for ribbons and bows and hot house flowers when you stand under a canopy of Cypress, backed by saphire blue waters. For a magical touch, I could see several butterflies fluttering about during the earlier wedding. No amount of prestige, of cut stone and stained glass, can beat butterflies circling about as you exchange vows with someone you love.

I hadn’t been out to Shaw for sometime and was amazed at the height of the grasses and flowers in the wild flower garden. The air was filled with butterflies and bees and other insects and as I walked between two fields filled with flowers I could hear a constant hum and buzz, as if I were a late arrival at church and the congregation made note of my tardiness.

I had both my digital and my film camera and I had forgotten how satisfying is the feel my old Nikon, the heaviness of it and its fit within my hand, as well as the quality of the lens. Since the butterflies were kind enough to stop and pose strategically, the little vixens, I spent some time taking photos of them with my film camera, and then switching to digital for one or two for the weblog.

The late sun is that unique green-gold of this area, and it highlighted the purple and yellow flowers, green grasses, and blue skies — with bright orange butterflies, Monarch and otherwise. There was considerable activity around one bunch of yellow flowers, and as I focused in with my telephoto lens, I could see a swarm of honey bees vying with the butterflies for nector. Normally I’m cautious around bees, but today I knew without hesitation that I was at no risk for being stung.

Later by the lake I met up with an older man and several young girls, all with butterfly nets. Chatting with the friendly bunch, I found that they were part of Monarch Watch, a group that tags Monarch butterflies in order to track the creatures migratory patterns.

The young ladies were wonderfully gentle with the creatures and when I asked questions they gathered around, smiles as warm as the sun, as each tried to answer my questions in a rush. They let me hold one of the butterflies, and showed me the tiny tags, and between them and their escort, the enthusiast father of one of the budding scientists, I learned all about the program, as well as Monarchs. Five generations of Monarchs have been tracked and tagged from this area to Mexico I was proudly told.

As I reluctantly moved on to the lake to take some final photos, I could hear the group finishing up their work; laughing, gentle boasts of number of butterflies tagged, excitement in their voices as they wondered if any of theirs will be found in the select stand of trees on that small bit of land in Mexico that is the ultimate destination of the colorful gossamer wings.