29Nov2008

Freezing temperatures and the prospect of foreign landscapes pry me out of my warm farmhouse and nudge me into the Spruce Hill climate once more. I spend the next 5 hours, observing and recording impressions.

It's hunting season; Minnie, Ralph and hunter orange are my shields.
Diagonal patterns at the isthmus---trees all fall in line with the raging winds that sluice up the ravine from Paint Creek Valley.
Frosted patches, brown leaf blankets, pileateds, sea of dried seedheads.
Copse of shrubby trees, deer-colored haunts; four white tails bound across the field, bellies tickled by dried goldenrods.
Plastic ribbons--artificial green; orchid leaves--real green, ferns, too--all on brown palettes with horizons broken by hefty sandstones.
Down the footpath, out to Orchid Point, woods with that unique exposure, oh the orchid leaves, many, many.
To the parking lot--glint of red, silver, metal. What? Hunters? No--gatherers, gathering for a National Park Service tour. I pass by barely noticed, audience enthralled by Hopewellian culture tales.