I'm just back in my hotel, on the north shore of the Arkansas River. I walked across a bridge over the river, nearly 400 yards wide, to downtown Little Rock. I had some food and three beers and walked back across the bridge. At 10:00 downtown Little Rock was already very subdued; a car crossed the bridge every minute or two. The humid, still-warm wind blew from the south. A child of Southern California, I've learned to associate warm, humid wind with vacation, somewhere far away from SoCal.
There was an internal combustion noise from somewhere and then a speedboat streaked out from under the bridge on the dark water, paused and circled a quarter-mile upstream, and streaked back again. No lights; probably no brains, either.
OK, so... Arkansas. My ride from Knoxville to Memphis was pleasant. Tennessee seems to never run out of hills, big or small. Interstate 40 was seldom straight and seldom level. As I got close to the Mississippi River the landscape got more formal and flatter. On the far side of the Mississippi, Arkansas started out as a flood plain. Lots of fields and very few buildings. Flat as a Pancake. Interstate 40 was dead level and mostly straight. Tomorrow I'll get into the Ozarks, so my impression might change, but for now? I have to admit, my overriding impression was, why is this a state? Lotsa Mississippi floodplains, the very infrequent range of hills, rice paddies, fertile fields – this could be Mississippi or western Tennessee. I went 120 miles from the river crossing and never saw much in the way of civilization until I hit Little Rock.
Today was a ride of about 540 miles. It was interrupted pretty early on when I got too optimistic about the bike's range and ran out of gas about half a mile short of a service station. I walked there, only to learn that they did not lend fuel containers. I had to call for roadside service and lost over an hour in that incident. Live and learn. As the miles wore on I got pretty tired and sore until my last fuel stop, about 30 miles east of Little Rock. Then, after some stretches and some attention to my riding ensemble, the last bit was very tolerable. My left leg, the one hurt in the crash in the Texas thunderstorm, is much better but is still quicker to get sore than the right leg.
I'm 1661 miles from home. That's four 400-mile days, which would get me home Friday night. I'm pretty sure I can do that. It might even give me enough time to make one or two detours. I'm really riding past a lot of interesting stuff in the name of getting home for Mother's Day.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Westward
I'm falling behind on my blogging! And I need to hit the road. I'll catch up tonight. For now, let me note that I'm in Knoxville, TN with a "stretch" goal of Little Rock, AR, today. I'll list a few bullet points that I'll fill in tonight.
OK, that's today. Here's the details of yesterday
Some people addressed this problem by simply tailgating the bejeezus out of the person in front of them, until that person pulled over. Then they would advance another 80 feet and tailgate all over again. All in all, a princely collection of citizens.
OK, that's today. Here's the details of yesterday
Church
Jim and Jackie took me to their church, half a mile away in the back of a multi-unit commercial/industrial building. The service was an upbeat performance with guitar, drums, and vocalist. At the end there was a breakout session where members would pray with you, and Jackie and her daughter prayed a lot. I did, too, although I did it on my own. A whole lot of praying.Atlantic Ocean
Yeah, it's corny. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna ride this far and then not take a picture. Next to me are Jim, Jackie, and Jackie's daughter Shelley. Making it to the Atlantic means this trip is a double continental crossing.
North Carolina road culture
So... automobiles tend to reveal the emotional makeup of the driver, stripped of public niceties. That being the case, North Carolina is screwed up. I spent a lot of non-quality time on Highway 74. One after another, a series of passive-aggressive creeps would occupy the left lane, pacing the car in the right lane without passing it. When they eventually passed, five or ten minutes later, and pulled to the right lane, they also sped up to prevent the folks behind them from passing them.Some people addressed this problem by simply tailgating the bejeezus out of the person in front of them, until that person pulled over. Then they would advance another 80 feet and tailgate all over again. All in all, a princely collection of citizens.
Helmet Shield
So, I lost my helmet shield late on Saturday, nearly to my destination in Longs, SC. On Sunday I rode a couple of hundred miles to the motorcycle accessory store to get another shield. Over and over I got pinged by sand, gravel, and bugs. I was extremely grateful to find another helmet shield, even though it was a mirror finish, something I would normally never touch.
So Many Hayabusas
At that motorcycle accessory store, there were a huge number of Suzuki Hayabusas – until recently, the fastest production motorcycle in the world. There were many other kinds of bikes there too, all sharing a sort of show-bike quality. The owners were all black. I didn't know that motorcycle clubs are still segregated, but apparently in North Carolina, they are. They were pitching a charity fish fry in the parking lot, and there were at least a hundred hot bikes there.
The Smoky Mountains
After all the meal breaks and bad traffic (horrendous, really) near Charlotte, and the stop at the motorcycle accessory store, I got to Asheville kind of late in the day. The run from Asheville down to the low hills of Tennessee was epic. The Smokies are gorgeous. The highway has tighter curves than your typical insterstate, so I had to pay some attention to the road. But the lush green mountainsides were mesmerizing. The fast, clean rivers really made an impression.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
From Sea to Shining Sea
I'm in Longs, South Carolina. I got here just at sunset yesterday after a 420-mile ride. It featured some wrong turns and another amusing mishap. At about 400 miles, zooming down a lightly traveled freeway through the pretty coastal plain, I was feeling very stiff in my neck and shoulders. I started rolling my head around, shrugging my shoulders, and making other moves for some relief. I tilted my neck back a little farther than usual and, with a minor sound, my face shield detached and tumbled down the pavement behind me. There was distant traffic following, with no place to turn around for many miles, and I doubted that the shield had survived in good condition anyway. I rode on wearing my sunglasses, but every now and then a bug, or grains of sand thrown up by another vehicle, would sting my face where the glasses don't cover. I am going to get another shield at the earliest opportunity but, here in the South, a very large number of merchants close on Sunday, including all the motorcycle dealers and accessory shops.
Yesterday's ride covered a lot of beautiful country. My no-freeway vow is over, and I tackled Interstate 20 with a vengeance, but the ride through Georgia before I hit 20 was very pleasant. I didn't stop to take many pictures, but this pasture outside Monticello was typical.
Last night I took Jackie and Jim to the restaurant of their choice, the local Outback, where we feasted on many desirable food items. This morning, I'm going to church with them.
I haven't been to a church service in so long, I can't remember the last time. I'm not a church person. But I'm glad to go to this one, because I want to pray alongside them for God's grace and mercy as Jackie battles her illness. She's a fine person and she deserves some grace and mercy.
I started this ride in Los Angeles, on the shores of the Pacific. After church, I'm riding six miles down to the local beach, the Atlantic. The freaking official checkpoint. The shining sea. Then I'm going to turn around and see how many miles I can ride toward the northwest. I hope to cross the Smoky Mountains and get into eastern Tennessee today. I have one week, almost to the very hour, to get to San Clemente, California, on the shore of that other ocean, to be with my mom on Mother's Day. Lots of miles every day, and I've done about 4000 miles already.
No pictures today. I'm kind of disorganized. I should be able to catch up a little after nightfall and beef up this post a little bit, talk more about the ride from Georgia over here.
Yesterday's ride covered a lot of beautiful country. My no-freeway vow is over, and I tackled Interstate 20 with a vengeance, but the ride through Georgia before I hit 20 was very pleasant. I didn't stop to take many pictures, but this pasture outside Monticello was typical.
Last night I took Jackie and Jim to the restaurant of their choice, the local Outback, where we feasted on many desirable food items. This morning, I'm going to church with them.
I haven't been to a church service in so long, I can't remember the last time. I'm not a church person. But I'm glad to go to this one, because I want to pray alongside them for God's grace and mercy as Jackie battles her illness. She's a fine person and she deserves some grace and mercy.
I started this ride in Los Angeles, on the shores of the Pacific. After church, I'm riding six miles down to the local beach, the Atlantic. The freaking official checkpoint. The shining sea. Then I'm going to turn around and see how many miles I can ride toward the northwest. I hope to cross the Smoky Mountains and get into eastern Tennessee today. I have one week, almost to the very hour, to get to San Clemente, California, on the shore of that other ocean, to be with my mom on Mother's Day. Lots of miles every day, and I've done about 4000 miles already.
No pictures today. I'm kind of disorganized. I should be able to catch up a little after nightfall and beef up this post a little bit, talk more about the ride from Georgia over here.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Plot twist
I'm in Manchester, Georgia, not far from Franklin Delano Roosevelt's Little White House. It's 150 miles east of my daughter's house in Alabama, a nice ride most of the way and especially pretty toward the end. I'm staying with a friend who until now was just a virtual friend, a fellow member of the Ninja 250 internet forum. He's a motorcycle mechanic and I wanted to chance to get my little Ninja's condition checked out before I turned west for home.
We'll do some more checking tomorrow, but so far so good. However, I won't be turning west yet.
I didn't start this trip intending to go coast to coast, but that's how it's going to work out. There's a friend in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina who's fighting a tough medical problem and I want to go visit her and her husband. At 400 miles, it's not exactly next door, but it's do-able and I want to do it. No country roads tomorrow, except the ones that lead me to the nearest interstate. Time matters now.
I had a nice visit with my ex, who provided great hospitality, and I cherish the time I had with my daughter, the original goal of this big old trip. I'll find a way for us to get together more often.
As a long-time Californian, one of the things that surprised me about eastern states is how frequently small graveyards appear. I grew up thinking that people had to be shuttled off to one of those huge cemeteries when they died.
In Lanett there was an enormous complex of brick buildings, a few blocks long, that seemed to be undergoing long, slow destruction. A server at a local cafe told me that it had been a cotton mill. I kept thinking that all that used brick must be worth quite a bit on its own.
After Lanett I headed up into the more mountainous region around Franklin Delano Roosevelt's "Little White House" near Warm Springs. In Alabama and Georgia it's rare to get a long view of the landscape, but up on the summit ridge of that mountain there were a few.
I was conflicted about that road. It was so beautiful up there, with the tall pines and the broadleaf understory, but the road was also alluring, with constant curves, dips, and rises. There had not been much in the way of twisty roads since way back in the Big Bend. I elected to ride instead of gawk and I was quickly in Manchester.
My host was a fellow member of the Ninja 250 owners group on the internet, www.ninja250.org. I had never met Bryan in person. His house was immaculate and attractive - he and his wife had spent many months refurbishing the just-purchase, classic brick house. I was also treated to excellent homebrew beer and handmade pizza. Quite a contrast from the accommodations and cuisine that I often experienced on the road. Thanks very much, Bryan.
We'll do some more checking tomorrow, but so far so good. However, I won't be turning west yet.
I didn't start this trip intending to go coast to coast, but that's how it's going to work out. There's a friend in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina who's fighting a tough medical problem and I want to go visit her and her husband. At 400 miles, it's not exactly next door, but it's do-able and I want to do it. No country roads tomorrow, except the ones that lead me to the nearest interstate. Time matters now.
I had a nice visit with my ex, who provided great hospitality, and I cherish the time I had with my daughter, the original goal of this big old trip. I'll find a way for us to get together more often.
After the Fact
I wrote the paragraphs above on Friday. This is Sunday. I wanted to talk a little about the drive to Georgia. After several miles of pleasant Alabama countryside I got on U.S. 280 southeast, the major artery in this area. It was prettier than an urban setting, but not particularly nice compared to the smaller country roads. At Camp Hill I finally got onto one of those country roads, headed toward Lanett on the Georgia border. Along the way I passed a modest church with a modest graveyard across the road.
As a long-time Californian, one of the things that surprised me about eastern states is how frequently small graveyards appear. I grew up thinking that people had to be shuttled off to one of those huge cemeteries when they died.
In Lanett there was an enormous complex of brick buildings, a few blocks long, that seemed to be undergoing long, slow destruction. A server at a local cafe told me that it had been a cotton mill. I kept thinking that all that used brick must be worth quite a bit on its own.
After Lanett I headed up into the more mountainous region around Franklin Delano Roosevelt's "Little White House" near Warm Springs. In Alabama and Georgia it's rare to get a long view of the landscape, but up on the summit ridge of that mountain there were a few.
I was conflicted about that road. It was so beautiful up there, with the tall pines and the broadleaf understory, but the road was also alluring, with constant curves, dips, and rises. There had not been much in the way of twisty roads since way back in the Big Bend. I elected to ride instead of gawk and I was quickly in Manchester.
My host was a fellow member of the Ninja 250 owners group on the internet, www.ninja250.org. I had never met Bryan in person. His house was immaculate and attractive - he and his wife had spent many months refurbishing the just-purchase, classic brick house. I was also treated to excellent homebrew beer and handmade pizza. Quite a contrast from the accommodations and cuisine that I often experienced on the road. Thanks very much, Bryan.
Out of Sequence
Several times now, I've had observations that I forgot to put in the then-current blog post, so I'm making this catch-all post to put them in after the fact. It will start small, but I'll go back and update this post once in a while as these random thoughts float up to the surface again.
California's stricter smog regulations can be a pain in the butt and in the adjacent wallet. But I noticed on this trip that as soon as I reached Arizona, and for all the rest of the trip east, traffic smelled different. Particularly in slow, congested spots, you could really smell the extra hydrocarbons and such that came out of exhaust pipes.
People think of California as being quite liberal but I've noticed that it's the South where you see all the drive-through liquor stores.
Cows won't turn to look at a passing car, but they will turn to watch a snarling little motorcycle go by, buzzing at 8000 RPM.
Large signs on restaurants that say "Good Food" are a clear danger signal.
Did I mention that my lovely and talented daughter got five As on her recently completed semester, following up on her 4.0 average in the fall semester?
The essence of the East, for me, is water. Water flowing everywhere, in tiny trickles or massive rivers. Every gentleman farmer with a pond in his yard. Woods growing rampant, everywhere that they haven't been cleared. At times during the ride I tried to imagine what it was like for the early pioneers, pushing through a thousand miles of dense forest across the Southeast. What a huge task that was, to clear the first roads and trails.
California's stricter smog regulations can be a pain in the butt and in the adjacent wallet. But I noticed on this trip that as soon as I reached Arizona, and for all the rest of the trip east, traffic smelled different. Particularly in slow, congested spots, you could really smell the extra hydrocarbons and such that came out of exhaust pipes.
People think of California as being quite liberal but I've noticed that it's the South where you see all the drive-through liquor stores.
Cows won't turn to look at a passing car, but they will turn to watch a snarling little motorcycle go by, buzzing at 8000 RPM.
Large signs on restaurants that say "Good Food" are a clear danger signal.
Did I mention that my lovely and talented daughter got five As on her recently completed semester, following up on her 4.0 average in the fall semester?
The essence of the East, for me, is water. Water flowing everywhere, in tiny trickles or massive rivers. Every gentleman farmer with a pond in his yard. Woods growing rampant, everywhere that they haven't been cleared. At times during the ride I tried to imagine what it was like for the early pioneers, pushing through a thousand miles of dense forest across the Southeast. What a huge task that was, to clear the first roads and trails.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
...Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
Is that a Northern Bobwhite Quail in your jacket, or are you just happy to see me?
On my first full day with my daughter, Kelly, we decided to go to breakfast/lunch in Birmingham, then on to Oak Mountain State Park. As we rolled down the country roads from her house at a spirited pace, a female Northern Bobwhite Quail darted across the road. Kelly steered wide of it and was about to congratulate herself when a male darted out behind the female. The Subaru went right over him.
Kelly is pretty soft-hearted about animals. Part of our plan for the morning was to visit a bird rehab facility at Oak Mountain, and she wanted to turn around and take the quail with us. I was pretty sure that the quail was very dead, and disagreed with her at first. I gave in and we turned around and headed back to the scene of the accident. Traffic was light and no one else had passed our way in the minute or so before we got back.
The quail was exactly where we had run it over, motionless. I got out of the car, walked over to the middle of the road and... it looked intact. I approached from behind, picked it up by the sides, and it stirred a little. I got back in the car and it stirred some more. To keep it from getting spooked, I tucked its head inside my unzipped rain jacket, and we headed off toward Oak Mountain.
Well, the quail stirred again. Actually, it tried to take flight inside my jacket and ended up somewhere near my armpit. I had heard bird hunters describe bobwhites as "explosive" when they flush and that was the impression I had, too. I told Kelly to forget about the bird rehab hospital; this guy was well enough to release. We turned around again and drove back to the scene of the crime.
I thought it would be cool to get a picture of me holding a live, wild quail. I handed Kelly my cell phone and tried to extract the quail. It exploded again and flew to the floorboards on the driver's side, discovering a nook that we never knew existed, up around the roots of the gas pedal and brake pedal.
Kelly opened her door, and I opened mine. We stayed motionless. So did the quail. After a lengthy wait, I got out and began to walk over to Kelly's side to crouch down and try to extract the quail. After I had taken a couple of steps, Kelly told me that quail had bailed out. We watched as it meandered off into the tall grass and shrubs.
In other words, no picture. But a happy ending. And, up close, that quail was beautiful.
We had lunch at Big Bad Breakfast. I had a "cathead,' which is a big, homemade buttermilk biscuit with a slice of cheese and, in my case andouille sausage. Real yummy.
Off we went to Oak Mountain. In several cities that I know, there are large parks that are icons: Central Park in New York, Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, Griffith Park in L.A. Birmingham has Oak Mountain, and they should treasure it. Several miles long, with vast woodlands, lakes, and ranges of hills, it's a great retreat from the somewhat ordinary metropolis of Birmingham. On the way to the rehab we stopped near some rental cabins and out flew a Pileated Woodpecker. I had glimpses of this bird, a lifer for me, a few days ago, but this one offered great looks. The bird rehab facility was large and interesting. I began ID'ing new species almost from the moment I got out of the car. As we approached the entrance a staff member stepped out wearing a heavy raptor glove, on which perched a small raptor. It was a Mississippi Kite, the first I had seen in person. We talked for a while as a Gray Catbird (lifer for me) appeared in the shrub behind us. We went into the center and watched the feeders as a wave of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks mingled with Tufted Titmouse (lifer for me,) American Goldfinch, Blue Jay (a lifer for me last week,) Hairy Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, and other species. We stood in a darkened corridor in the treatment rooms and got dim looks at dozens of birds, orphaned or injured, in incubators and small cushioned laundry tubs. Later we checked out the large, separate raptor rehab outside. Then we went down the road to the Treetops Trail, where large cages held raptors that could never be released due to the extent of their injuries.
Nearby was "The Beach." All the soil in the area is red clay, which makes the typical lake shore unappealing. At The Beach, the state had dumped hundreds of tons of sand to make a realistic beach for swimming.
On this day, where occasional light rain showers pocked the water, the Beach was deserted. But the hot days of summer will be here soon enough and the place will be packed.
On the lawns here, we saw a few Brown Thrashers, a bird that the guidebooks claim is uncommon. We've been seeing a ton of them.
After Oak Mountain we made our way to Saw's Juke Joint to meet Kelly's mom, my ex, for dinner. Good food.
All this was yesterday. Today I was up early doing stuff for work and everyone else slept in. When we were all up and about, Kelly and I took a couple of kayaks down to the water's edge. She lives on the shore of a slough off the Coosa River. Here are some shots from sunrise.
We set off across the slough, idly targeting a Canada Goose escorting six goslings. They took to the brush-covered opposite shore to avoid us.
Kelly showed me a fascinating little bayou. The narrow inlet led to a quiet, shallow pond a couple of acres in size, completely hidden from the slough. Much of the pond was filled with plants rooted in the shallows.
We flushed a female Wood Duck with a brood of ducklings, and off they scattered into the floating weeds, which were just tall enough to hide them. We flushed a large fish, too, seeing just its back as it thrust itself out of the very shallow water into the deeper channel.
Once we were out of the little bayou we headed farther up the slough. Wild irises bloomed at a few spots along the shore.
A turtle slid off a stump that barely broke the surface of the water. Red-winged Blackbirds flew in and out of reeds. An Eastern Kingbird (lifer for me) hunted from a twig among the floating weeds.
And, as I maneuvered next to the weed beds in about a foot of water. I spotted a strange fish, motionless among the weeds. It was long and slender. I couldn't see either end of the fish but the middle of its body was patterned in darker and lighter reddish tones. I called to Kelly to come see it, and for nearly a minute it stayed motionless, within arm's reach. As Kelly approached it wiggled and slid off through the weeds.
I was really puzzled about what fish could be that color, and this evening I asked some passing fishermen about it. They had a theory that I had not considered. I checked it and found this very close match for what I had seen:
It was a water moccasin. Live and learn.Those things can remain submerged for a long time.
As we made our way back home, we passed some of the less extravagant dwellings along the slough.
I had a great time blissing out in a kayak with my lovely and talented daughter. Then the parents took the daughter to lunch in Columbiana. There's only one decent place to eat in that tiny old town, but one is enough.
After lunch, a tentative trip to a nearby state park was dismissed in favor of hanging on the deck and watching birds. \There are a lot of birds here at my ex's house. I'm just going to throw some images up here now. It was fun figuring them out. Most are not lifers for me, but they are sure uncommon for me.
And... Red-headed Woodpecker.
These photos were taken with a Nikon Coolpix P600. I like it. It is the replacement for my late, lamented, Canon SX50-HS, which was run over by a car in Texas.
Also on the reptile front, we had this visitor on the porch at the house.
It was a Green Anole (although, as you can see, they can also phase to a brown color, thus their popular name, chameleon.) It was my favorite pet as a kid.
Now I've just finished a nice home-cooked dinner. Soon I'll hit the sack and prepare for tomorrow's run to Georgia to have a motorcycle mechanic acquaintance check out the Brave Little Ninja before I make the big turn for home.
On my first full day with my daughter, Kelly, we decided to go to breakfast/lunch in Birmingham, then on to Oak Mountain State Park. As we rolled down the country roads from her house at a spirited pace, a female Northern Bobwhite Quail darted across the road. Kelly steered wide of it and was about to congratulate herself when a male darted out behind the female. The Subaru went right over him.
Kelly is pretty soft-hearted about animals. Part of our plan for the morning was to visit a bird rehab facility at Oak Mountain, and she wanted to turn around and take the quail with us. I was pretty sure that the quail was very dead, and disagreed with her at first. I gave in and we turned around and headed back to the scene of the accident. Traffic was light and no one else had passed our way in the minute or so before we got back.
The quail was exactly where we had run it over, motionless. I got out of the car, walked over to the middle of the road and... it looked intact. I approached from behind, picked it up by the sides, and it stirred a little. I got back in the car and it stirred some more. To keep it from getting spooked, I tucked its head inside my unzipped rain jacket, and we headed off toward Oak Mountain.
Well, the quail stirred again. Actually, it tried to take flight inside my jacket and ended up somewhere near my armpit. I had heard bird hunters describe bobwhites as "explosive" when they flush and that was the impression I had, too. I told Kelly to forget about the bird rehab hospital; this guy was well enough to release. We turned around again and drove back to the scene of the crime.
I thought it would be cool to get a picture of me holding a live, wild quail. I handed Kelly my cell phone and tried to extract the quail. It exploded again and flew to the floorboards on the driver's side, discovering a nook that we never knew existed, up around the roots of the gas pedal and brake pedal.
Kelly opened her door, and I opened mine. We stayed motionless. So did the quail. After a lengthy wait, I got out and began to walk over to Kelly's side to crouch down and try to extract the quail. After I had taken a couple of steps, Kelly told me that quail had bailed out. We watched as it meandered off into the tall grass and shrubs.
In other words, no picture. But a happy ending. And, up close, that quail was beautiful.
We had lunch at Big Bad Breakfast. I had a "cathead,' which is a big, homemade buttermilk biscuit with a slice of cheese and, in my case andouille sausage. Real yummy.
Off we went to Oak Mountain. In several cities that I know, there are large parks that are icons: Central Park in New York, Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, Griffith Park in L.A. Birmingham has Oak Mountain, and they should treasure it. Several miles long, with vast woodlands, lakes, and ranges of hills, it's a great retreat from the somewhat ordinary metropolis of Birmingham. On the way to the rehab we stopped near some rental cabins and out flew a Pileated Woodpecker. I had glimpses of this bird, a lifer for me, a few days ago, but this one offered great looks. The bird rehab facility was large and interesting. I began ID'ing new species almost from the moment I got out of the car. As we approached the entrance a staff member stepped out wearing a heavy raptor glove, on which perched a small raptor. It was a Mississippi Kite, the first I had seen in person. We talked for a while as a Gray Catbird (lifer for me) appeared in the shrub behind us. We went into the center and watched the feeders as a wave of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks mingled with Tufted Titmouse (lifer for me,) American Goldfinch, Blue Jay (a lifer for me last week,) Hairy Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, and other species. We stood in a darkened corridor in the treatment rooms and got dim looks at dozens of birds, orphaned or injured, in incubators and small cushioned laundry tubs. Later we checked out the large, separate raptor rehab outside. Then we went down the road to the Treetops Trail, where large cages held raptors that could never be released due to the extent of their injuries.
Nearby was "The Beach." All the soil in the area is red clay, which makes the typical lake shore unappealing. At The Beach, the state had dumped hundreds of tons of sand to make a realistic beach for swimming.
On this day, where occasional light rain showers pocked the water, the Beach was deserted. But the hot days of summer will be here soon enough and the place will be packed.
On the lawns here, we saw a few Brown Thrashers, a bird that the guidebooks claim is uncommon. We've been seeing a ton of them.
After Oak Mountain we made our way to Saw's Juke Joint to meet Kelly's mom, my ex, for dinner. Good food.
All this was yesterday. Today I was up early doing stuff for work and everyone else slept in. When we were all up and about, Kelly and I took a couple of kayaks down to the water's edge. She lives on the shore of a slough off the Coosa River. Here are some shots from sunrise.
We set off across the slough, idly targeting a Canada Goose escorting six goslings. They took to the brush-covered opposite shore to avoid us.
Kelly showed me a fascinating little bayou. The narrow inlet led to a quiet, shallow pond a couple of acres in size, completely hidden from the slough. Much of the pond was filled with plants rooted in the shallows.
We flushed a female Wood Duck with a brood of ducklings, and off they scattered into the floating weeds, which were just tall enough to hide them. We flushed a large fish, too, seeing just its back as it thrust itself out of the very shallow water into the deeper channel.
Once we were out of the little bayou we headed farther up the slough. Wild irises bloomed at a few spots along the shore.
A turtle slid off a stump that barely broke the surface of the water. Red-winged Blackbirds flew in and out of reeds. An Eastern Kingbird (lifer for me) hunted from a twig among the floating weeds.
And, as I maneuvered next to the weed beds in about a foot of water. I spotted a strange fish, motionless among the weeds. It was long and slender. I couldn't see either end of the fish but the middle of its body was patterned in darker and lighter reddish tones. I called to Kelly to come see it, and for nearly a minute it stayed motionless, within arm's reach. As Kelly approached it wiggled and slid off through the weeds.
I was really puzzled about what fish could be that color, and this evening I asked some passing fishermen about it. They had a theory that I had not considered. I checked it and found this very close match for what I had seen:
It was a water moccasin. Live and learn.Those things can remain submerged for a long time.
As we made our way back home, we passed some of the less extravagant dwellings along the slough.
I had a great time blissing out in a kayak with my lovely and talented daughter. Then the parents took the daughter to lunch in Columbiana. There's only one decent place to eat in that tiny old town, but one is enough.
After lunch, a tentative trip to a nearby state park was dismissed in favor of hanging on the deck and watching birds. \There are a lot of birds here at my ex's house. I'm just going to throw some images up here now. It was fun figuring them out. Most are not lifers for me, but they are sure uncommon for me.
I've seen Spotted Sandpiper (above) many times in the winter, but never in the breeding season when they actually live up to their name. And I've seen Western Bluebirds many times, but this Eastern Bluebird male and female (lifer) were exceptionally photogenic.
And... Red-headed Woodpecker.
These photos were taken with a Nikon Coolpix P600. I like it. It is the replacement for my late, lamented, Canon SX50-HS, which was run over by a car in Texas.
Also on the reptile front, we had this visitor on the porch at the house.
It was a Green Anole (although, as you can see, they can also phase to a brown color, thus their popular name, chameleon.) It was my favorite pet as a kid.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Past and Present
This morning's status:
I have a status meeting at work in an hour. I'll be packed up by then and ready to roll right after the phone call.
Yesterday at lunchtime I braved the brutal streets of Jackson and rode downtown, past the governor's mansion, the Capitol, and to the Supreme Court building. I parked across the street and went lunch at Two Sisters' Kitchen. It's a buffet setup in an old house. Nice surroundings and great food. Collard greens! I love those and they're hard to find in L.A. - at least, the part of L.A. that I live in.
Rain is forecast for today. It's been very light rain so far. I'm going to extend my distance a little in order to go to Selma. No, I haven't seen the movie. But I am going to go stand at that bridge and do some thinking.
After that, I'm headed to Montevallo, where my daughter attends the university. I just want to see the place. She'll be there, but she'll be in finals, so I'll ride on ahead to Wilsonville, where she lives with her mom.
And that will be the target destination. Everything after that, further explorations or the return to L.A., is open at this point. Stay tuned.
This evening's status:
I dragged myself across Mississippi on U.S. 80; bad pavement, bad drivers, and not much pretty countryside until I got far east of Jackson. I don't often photograph road signs, but this one west of Meridian got my attention.
East of Meridian I crossed the Alabama state line and suddenly the road was wonderful. Smooth pavement, higher speed limits, better scenery. Got to the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma and spent some time there just as the rain, which had been threatening all day, began to fall gently.
I rode north to Montevallo. Once out of town, it was a rainy but lovely ride through low wooded hills. The university was small but nicely laid out. My daughter took her car as I followed and we traveled northeast to her mom's house on a lake, a dammed portion of the Coosa River. Very nice setup.
My mileage is 29,316. I traveled 3,449 miles from L.A. to this house. I kept my vow of no freeways, but now I'm free to do as I please.
I now have a replacement camera for my smashed Canon and more photos should be forthcoming. Tomorrow? Looks like rain in the morning, so maybe an indoor activity. Like a brewery. :)
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