Strung Between One Season And The Next

we wait on the embankment

in front of tombstones of trees

waiting for the siege of winter

watching the shadows of lanky birches

scar the burnt mountainsides

and the creek cough it’s weak trickle

the footsteps of wind emerging from every corner

Januarys use to be more fertile

use to drop its dress over the

rusted ironwork of branches

by now

Mt Tecumseh would lower it’s staircase to our

two conspiratorial hammocks

strung between two seasons

two falling birds and two twin leashed suns

when finally the library above pushed its books from its shelves

released its white roosters

we pressed on ahead

cut the virgin day in two

composed the most marvelous living music

of ski against snow

crunch against slide

and finally when flanked by night and temperature

a fire rose from the snow

warming a pouch of wine

and toes gnawed on by cold

we retreated to the swing of a hammock

dangling from one season to the next

the chandelier of snow above us mounting

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Under The Burn of Going Without


All year long my skin whitened under the burn of going without. -No travel in the most beautiful and aesthetic vehicle I know -no slap of wave against it’s hull -no satin surface to carve with the wood of paddle -no taste of that freedom only a river or lake affords -only obligations and responsibilities ate at any true sense of that freedom

until i went alone

the big boisterous sky ahead

under a hot mid-October sun

on a rocky outcropping

in a Thermarest with

a beer

and a smoke

above the lip of Lake Umbagog

my skin ripening

my legs crossed

the wave against rock

discussing their fears

of the weakening economy

the ignited hills above

gesturing towards the south

its orange airline traffic lights waving

the lone kayak passing by

complimenting the earth on her choice of weather

the tandem canoe in the distance clearly loafing in the sun

the bow adrift in no direction

the sequence skirt of the lake’s surface

showing off her goods

and my eyes when closed

were starry against the bright red

of that smoldering day

hot enough for a swim

“Packing my dry bag, sitting in a broken down camp, gives me anxious uncertainty. Not about the wind or the paddle but about what I am returning to. Theres so much friction in the gears of days, I need to simplify the design. The fewer working parts, the less there is to go wrong.”

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/892/

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/888/

“Time is an enormous, long river, and I’m standing in it, just as you’re standing in it. My elders are the tributaries, and everything they thought and every struggle they went through and everything they gave their lives to, and every song they created, and every poem that they laid down flows down to me – and if I take the time to ask, and if I take the time to see, and if I take the time to reach out, I can build that bridge between my world and theirs. I can reach down into that river and take out what I need to get through this world”

https://crookedblueline.com/2011/11/01/886/

Going Solo

When You Cant Put Your Boat In A Cold New Hampshire River

…You can always find art in its folds

Bikerafting

There’s something Inspector gadget-like in pulling a fully capable class IV boat from your backpack…or even more -your noisy muddy pannier a craft capable of your 35lb pack AND your bike! The infamous Alpacka Raft has quickly become the most versatile paddle craft available. Your first time, blinds all others-it becomes impossible to forget the absolute and incredible fun packrafting in rapids alone can be, forget it’s utility. It’s like taking a recliner down a river only this lazy-boy carrys your food, your bed, your shelter and has room enough after all that -for a beer nestled between your feet.

Packrafting The Pemigewasset River, NH

Dutch Oven Sourdough


I can almost smell the aroma wafting through camp. The river as slow as bread is to rise. A little flour and water, mixed over a hundred years ago, bubbling in a jar in a dry bag, just waiting to be as beautiful as its surroundings.


“I rolled up some bread and tea in a pair of blankets
with some sugar and a tin cup and set off.”
When asked what kind of bread he took to the mountains,
John Muir replied,
“Just bread.”