Birds, Bulldozer, Blocks--Catching Up With My Week

Since J. pruned the "burning bush" outside the dining area glass doors we have had a clear view of the feeder which holds the black thistle seed. The usual visitors are these goldfinches,

juncos and the occasional purple finch.

As if in payment for our balmy weekend of sunshine, the weather has been drab all week

with a raw bluster that has invaded my bones.

Perhaps the chilly weather has brought out some latent beligerence in these beautiful little birds, as they have jostled for best advantage at the feeder.

I stood watching the birds late this afternoon, camera in hand.

J. joined me and we soon determined that of the half dozen or more birds swirling round the feeder there was definitely a bully who didn't want to share.

There was a near collision or two as the goldfinches battled for position!

Several finches perch just to the right of the feeder waiting for an oportunity to

snatch some seed.

Now, for the bulldozer episode.

On Wednesday I was invited by J. to ride with him to a town on the Kentucky/Tennessee border to look at [oh, joy!] a second hand bulldozer which he had discovered on craigslist.

[If you're counting, this is the second such which he has acquired since moving here.]

The destination was the hamlet of White Oak near Jellico, TN.

Once we left the interstate highway the road wound tortuously upward around the side of a mountain. The terrain is very like that in the coal mining areas of eastern Kentucky and West Virginina--deep valleys so narrow that even sunny days scarcely brighten the gloom of the valley floors. Small houses are shoved against the steep dark sides of the mountain, the serpentine road almost at the front doors.

We stopped by arrangement at a convenience store where J. phoned the owner of the dozer. Not knowing how long we would have to wait, I bought an ice cream bar, J. bought a Coke. The proprietor of the store was a burly man in a camoflauge sweatshirt, his hair styled in a pompador modeled on the look of "country" singers popular in the 1970's.  Two middle-aged woman clad in baggy sweat pants and camo "hoodies" poked past the shelves of  canned Spam, rows of snack food, stood to comment on the gaudy covers of the "tell all" celebrity mags which hung in their wire rack near the check-out counter.

We had barely settled in the car with our goodies when a battered, mud-smeared pickup truck lurched off the mountain road and drew in beside us in an odiferous oily aura. The driver cranked down his window and suggested that J. follow him to the site of the bulldozer. The cigarette adhering to his lower lip wobbled as he spoke.  On the passenger side of the truck another man, beard flowing down over his camo jacket, nodded vigorously and removed his cigarette long enough to jab helpfully in the direction from which the truck had appeared.

More winding road, past trailer houses and small cottages, yards crowded with disabled vehicles, rusting bits of unidentifiable machinery.  In many of the dooryards groups of men stood, most of them camo clad.  They clustered around  old trucks with raised hoods, smoking, gesturing, talking.

I wondered if the landscape looked better in summer, if the women planted flowers, tried to tidy and civilize a space in the cramped dooryards.

Our guides slowed at a small house, the yard littered with several junk cars.  A bevy of hound dogs gave voice and climbed on doghouses for a better view.

The battered truck jolted to a stop at a metal gate and the bearded man appeared at J.'s window. He gestured at the muddy track beyond the gate, and inquired politely if J. would like to ride the rest of the way with them.

J. declined, and put our car at the rutted muddy road. [It does have 4 wheel drive!]

The bulldozer, engine bellowing, sat at the bottom of the washed out track amid a strewing of old tires and tin cans. Nearby a small bonfire of trash smoldered in the damp air.

Several horses and four young boys appeared from somewhere and milled about.

I was quite intrigued by this gathering, but thought it might not be kosher to hop out and record the transaction with my camera.

I contented myself with a shot taken through the car window.

Rather a desolate appearing hamlet.  There seemed to be no order to the layout of the street, and small houses and trailers, some abandoned, perched at odd angles with an air of impermanence.

The road down the mountain curved under great overhangs of rock.

It is a road where you feel that you meet yourself coming back!

J. returned there on Thursday to haul the bulldozer home behind old Snort'n Nort'n.

I decided I'd had enough adventuring and would stay home and stoke the fires.

I kept the fireplace and the basement fire tended all afternoon against the chilly day.

Knowing J. would be home late I brought in more wood, topped up the bird feeder, gave the barn kittens a treat.

I then happily retreated downstairs, mug of tea in hand, to create more of the Civil War quilt blocks.

I put on an audio book, pulled out my Kansas Troubles fabrics, thoroughly enjoyed my creative afternoon and evening.

An odd blog post this, no doubt. Somewhere I think I "lost" a day this week, perhaps because other than the trip to Tennessee the days have been spent in small homely chores, reading, sewing, bundling up in warm clothes to venture outside for awhile. I've ridden along when J. had errands in town, stopped for a visit with a friend, ordered tomato seeds.

I sit here tonight rather sleepily. Behind me on the bed Charlie Cat and his family are sprawled companionably.

Cats, birds, horse, humans, have been well fed, the little house is warm.

Time for bed!

Images of Autumn in Kentucky

On the 10th of October we drove to Falmouth, Kentucky, where J. bought a vintage John Deere crawler.

Our route took us through an area of wealthy bluegrass landowners--horse people with legendary

 thorough-bred stables.

The horse properties are surrounded with miles of fencing--often double-fenced as in this view of stone wall backed by plank fencing.

Some of the homes are lovely old mansions, meticulously kept; others are modern monstrosities with oddly jutting gables, crenelated bits sprouting from a roofline, gothic windows, lacking in any beauty of line or symmetry.

It has been even drier in the northern part of the state than here.

Many lawns were brown and crisp, leaves had colored and fallen early.

At home the barn kittens thrive. Willis presents a hazard underfoot, appearing as soon as I step outside the house in the morning.

He wanted praise for this mouse, which in true cat fashion he tossed and batted.

{It was very dead by the time it was displayed for my admiration.}

The window above the kitchen sink looks directly into this maple tree.

When the sun shone through the colored leaves the effect was dazzling.

The glory of the colored leaves lasted only a few days.

Wind has stripped the leaves from the tree and they lie curled and dry, scattered over the back lawn.

Willis seems to enjoy appearing at the dining area sliding door.

Charlie's reaction is dramatic--he hisses and puffs, flattens his ears.

Willis is quite undaunted.

No one has been able to identify this shrub for me.

Its spring flowers were tiny and insignificant.

As the leaves have turned to this bright scarlet I've concluded that the shrub must be valued mainly for its fall color.

Rose--Double Red Knock-Out.

This is a popular landscape rose in this area.

With the cooler weather roses are reviving for late bloom.

I think these may need to be moved to a spot that gets sun for more of the day.

I planted them along the east-facing wall of the old garage.

They were in competition with the sunflowers for much of the summer.

These Michaelmas daisies have come into bloom in the perennial border as the several earlier varieties have faded.

Broccoli and cabbage planted at the end of August are thriving.

I gave them one powdering of sevin dust and there has been no damage from cabbage "loopers."

I look at this spill of leaves and remember raking huge piles of maple leaves as a child.

We heaped them into high drifts, ran and jumped into them--endlessly. I  recall reclining in maple leaves up to my neck, dreaming the hours away, looking up at a bright October sky seen through the mesh of dark bare branches.

Nandina berries.

The nandina appears to have appreciated the severe pruning I administered in the late spring.

The pods [or cones?] on the magnolia tree.

A last glistening blossom graced the top of the tree this week.

That nameless yellow flower in what remains of a hedgerow.

The dried stems of blue vervain.

We've not identified the few straggly trees which were left when the hedgerow was bulldozed last year.

Sycamore?

Seedheads of that yellow mystery flower.

The flower looks like the illustration for tickseed in my wildflower book, but the seeds don't seem as barbed.

Evening primrose growing along the ditch behind the barn

A harvest of kale being inspected by Teasel who announced that it smells odd.

We decided that we should have cut it when the leaves were smaller.

White snakeroot [?]

We are grateful for the mild autumn after the seemingly interminable heat of July and August.

Mornings and evenings are cool, warmed indoors by a blaze in the fireplace.

Afternoons are mellow, muted, too quickly chased into twilight as the sun slinks off behind the woods which deliniate our western boundary.

"The Clear Thing To Do"

It has been raining in our corner of Adair County.  T-storms have rumbled uneasily through the hills and hollers, bringing sudden gusts of wind-blown rain to pummel the ground and spatter from the leaves of trees and bushes.  I picked green beans yesterday afternoon, driven inside twice by showers, then deciding to get on with it, staying outside to snap the beans from the damp plants while rain drizzled down my back.

It rained softly in the night, and a gentle mizzle was still falling when the cats and I trouped down the hall from bedroom to kitchen about 7 a.m. this morning.

I served the felines their breakfast treat, slid back the dining area door and sniffed. The damp, warm scent of grass and garden--with a faint tinge of horse--mingled with the aroma of brewing coffee.  

A few moments later I sat comfortably, cherishing the coffee and the silence. A light fog swirled and hovered  above the creek bed across the road. Beyond, at the edge of the woods, two deer grazed, softly blurred shapes in a misty green landscape.

Rain slanted down fitfully, wrung from a heavy sky, and I recalled a day, perhaps 15 years ago, spent with J. exploring the old Fortress of Louisbourg perched above the sea on the east coast of Cape Breton.

Giant clumps of angelica leaned against stone walls, rubbed against fences.

Showers of rain puddled the gravel lanes of the restored village and rain dripped coldly down our up-turned collars as we ducked in and out of the restored buildings.

The gardens drew me.  Tucked behind high paling fences, vegetables and herbs such as might have been favored in the 1750's grew in tidy rectangles, separated by paths of packed earth.  Here and there a few flowers bloomed, softening the grim stone buildings. The little gardens weren't a favored attraction for the families shepherding youngsters around the village, so I had their quiet enclosed spaces nearly to myself.

When we left an hour or so later, our feet squelched in our shoes, our jackets were unpleasantly damp.

It was past lunch time and we drove through the rain to the nearest sizeable town--Sydney perhaps--and bolstered ourselves with a good hot meal  in an expansive hotel dinning room, where we watched rain stream down the windows as we ate.

The afternoon passed in following winding roads measured in kilometers. Accustomed to thinking in terms of miles, we would find ourselves suddenly entering a little town in less time than seemed possible upon reading the posted distances.

Late in the afternoon we began looking for a place to spend the night and came upon several housekeeping cottages perched above the river in a hamlet whose name I have forgotten.

J. went into the small store that served as office for the cottage owners, paid the fee and was handed a key.

It was a delightful log cottage, comprised of a living area furnished with a deep sofa and squashy chairs, a tiny kitchenette, bedroom and bath.

We brought in our bags, rummaged out dry socks and shirts, toweled our hair.

Inspecting the kitchen, I found a shiny aluminum kettle, mugs, spoons.

A cup of tea suddenly became a longed for necessity.

Trudging across the road, I entered the store and trolled up and down the aisles.

I picked up a box of tea bags, another of sugar packets, some molasses cookies.

When I put my selections on the polished wooden counter, the sandy haired woman asked if we were suited with the cottage.

I replied that we were delighted with the tiny house, but a day of touring Fort Louisbourg in the rain had left me with icey feet and I was feeling the need of hot tea.

The woman pushed her spectacles up her nose and regarded me for a moment with her head cocked to one side.

Then she smiled and said appreciatively, "Hot tea!  Isn't that just the clear thing to do!"

Briskly whisking my selection of tea and sugar aside, she ducked and pawed under the counter.

In the softly burred speech of the Maritimes, she assured me there was no need for me to buy tea.

Swifty she tucked teabags and sugar packets into a small paper sack and handed them over, with the promise that if these weren't enough to see me through our stay, she had plenty more stashed under the counter.

For all the charm of the log cottage, the bed was a small one, the sort that used to be known as a 3/4 size. We spent much of the night trying to arrange our legs and arms and pillows in such a way as to give each other room to relax.  At about daylight J. gave up the battle, dressed and went out to the living area.  I heard the cabin door close and his footsteps thudding across the wooden porch.

Thinking I might have a few moments to catch up on sleep, I rolled happily into the middle of the bed.

Almost immediately, J returned and flung open the bedroom door.

"Get up, " he ordered.  "There are otters playing on the river bank and we can watch them from the bridge."

I blundered from bed, hauled on jeans and a sweater, thrust my feet into shoes and followed him, unwashed and uncombed out into the cool grey morning.

The otters obliged us for a few moments by frolicking in and out of the water, then they left to do whatever otters do. It was only 6 a.m.

"What do we do now?" I queried a bit crossly. [Early mornings are not my forte.]

"Lets walk up that dirt road and see where it goes."

J. strode briskly up the hill, while I scuffed along behind. 

A small white building loomed out of the mist, a structure that at one time had clearly been a rural crossroads school.  As we approached, the windows suddenly shown with warm yellow light.

A sign on the wooden door announced that this was the "Old Schoolhouse Cafe."

It wasn't quite opening time, but our hungry wistful appearance gained us entrance.

We were settled at a table and presented with a steaming pot of tea and the cheerful assurance that porridge  was in the works and a great pan of "bannocks" had just gone into the oven.

We sat there, a bit bleary from a restless night, hair wild from the damp, hands tucked around the warmth of mugs. Within moments the bannocks appeared, with butter and honey, bowls of oatmeal were set before us to be garnished with brown sugar and cream.  On the wall an old clock ticked.

Clearly, we were in the right place at the right time and "the clear thing to do" was to cherish these hours.

The link below is the best that I could find for information and a few photos of Fort Louisbourg.

Wikipedia provides an article as well.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortress_of_Louisbourg

louisbourg

A Day in Bowling Green

Our 08 Toyota Rav 4 has been making some scraping sounds when the brakes are applied.  I have driven very little since our arrival in Kentucky, but noticed the grinding rear brake when I drove the two miles to the Post Office and back about 10 days ago.

J. is more than capable of doing a 'brake job", but given that Toyota has had numerous recalls and problems with different models, he decided one of their service centers should do the work. The car has only 12,000 miles on it and is still under warranty.

He learned that the nearest Toyota dealership is about an hour away in Bowling Green, KY. With a 10 o'clock appointment, we decided to leave home about 7 a.m. which would put us in Bowling Green with plenty of time to order breakfast at a favorite restaurant, [Cracker Barrel] eat in a leisurely way, [Actually J. always eats very slowly] and locate the dealership in good time. 

We were checked into the service department shortly before 10. The dealership also handles Honda cars.  We decided to troll around the lot looking at new models and also seeing what might be available in used cars.  NOT that we intend trading cars---we've just always had an interest in such things.

By the time the 3rd or 4th salesman had popped out to ask if he could help us, by the time J. had repeated the tale of our vehicle being in for service, the fact that we had bought it in Wyoming, recently moved to Kentucky, etc, etc, etc, I was over it.  We had passed a mall about a block away and while I'm not excited at thought of doing a mall crawl, it seemed like something to pass the time.

We didn't make it to the mall. Across the side street we found a bookstore and I headed determinedly in, leaving J. little choice but to follow.

A quick glance at the display tables and shelves reminded me again that we have moved to the "Bible Belt" south.  There was a huge inventory of "Christian fiction," devotional books, self-help books with a spiritual slant, as well as the usual aisles of young adults' books, childrens' books, mysteries and such.   There was also a large sale table with books on crafting, building, decorating, gardening.

I was on a mission for a new bird book. Surprisingly I didn't find one.

I did find the first in a new series by Susan Wittig Albert, whose China Bayles mysteries I have enjoyed.

J. found a book on renovating basements into usable living space ,and a historical novel of the prohibition years in neighboring Virginia.

We trudged back across the road, expecting we would retreive our car with its repaired brakes and be on our way.

I found a comfortable chair in the customers waiting area and was quickly transported to an English country village via my new book.  I had reached the moment where [of course] a body is discovered when J. appeared to say that the mechanic had found a defective part in the steering linkeage which needed replacement [also under warranty] and that a loaner vehicle, a late model Toyota pickup had been rolled around to the side door and was at our disposal.

J. has been wanting to tour the nearby Corvette Museum, so we headed across town to find it.

I was sure that I had brought my camera, but a hasty search of our car hadn't turned it up.  We do have a photo from the museum.

We didn't buy a collector's Corvette!  As visitors come to the end of the tour, they are asked to pose against a green felt wall while two photos are taken.

Emerging  from the museum area into the gift shop, one finds a young man earnestly working at a computer.  The basic photos are brought up, and you're given the option of purchasing two photos. We chose to be inserted into a vintage model for the print. [Maybe because we're getting to be vintage models ourselves!]

From the Corvette Museum we drove to the Railroad Museum. [We had been told to expect a 4 hour wait while the car was repaired.]

A very personable volunteer tour guide took us through the restored L&N cars which are on their own permanent sidings created specifically for the purpose. The museum itself is housed in the old L&N terminal. [Louisville and Nashville]

I expect that from now on whenever I read of train travel whether in fiction or history, my mental images will be influenced by the two hours we spent in this interesting place.

http://www.pbase.com/hro1957/corvette_museum

http://www.historicrailpark.com/railcarhistory.html

In lieu of photos, here are links to the museums.

My camera?  Oh yes, when we returned home in early evening [after stopping again at Cracker Barrel] I was entranced by the peonies and iris which had more fully opened during the warm day and wanted more flower photos.  I began rummaging for the camera in any of the places which have become somewhat usual in our still disorganized house.  The camera didn't turn up and my frustration grew by the moment.

With a sort of desparate intuition I pawed once more through my large shoulder bag.  The camera, tucked in just before I floundered out to the car at 7 a.m. had been with me all through the day.

It is happenings such as this which cause me to insist that "I don't do mornings!"

Paducah, Kentucky

Two drivers with horses and elegant carriages waited in the parking lot to drive visitors through the old, picturesque part of Paducah.

Paducah, Kentucky [named for the chief of the Indian tribe displaced from that area by white settlement] is located on the Illinois/Kentucky border near the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee rivers and near where they empty into the great Mississippi River.

It is an old city with bricked streets, shade trees, planters crammed with flowers, intriguing small shops.

It is also a mecca for quilters.

Our neice, an excellent needlewoman, recently purchased a long-arm quilting machine and signed up for classes given at the annual quilt expo.

We made plans to take a day off from house renovating and drive the three hours to Paducah to meet SA and her husband, B.

J. and I had breakfast [late] at a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Bowling Green, KY.

These are a chain of restaurants housed in distinctive buildings fronted with a wide porch full of hickory rocking chairs.  One enters through a gift shop and is then escorted to a table in a long room decorated with all manner of antique and vintage items.  Old portraits in ornate frames share space with collections of everything from colorful tobacco tins to washboards hung on the latticed walls and a fire burns in a huge stone fireplace.  The food is down-home style and excellent.

J. took this photo of me with SA and her husband--after we had trudged the streets for several hours.

Don't we look inspired?

I took this of SA as the two of us toured the quilt show and vendors' hall.

I taught her the basics of sewing when she was a teenager. She and her younger sister [whose work I showed in a December post] both do stunning hand applique.  SA is a busy nurse-practitioner in a dermatology clinic in TN. She says that hand sewing helps her to de-stress after long days at work.

One of the prize-winning quilts at the show.

A detail of the above quilt.  While I deplore the mess that mice can make [having so recently removed that huge mouse nest from beneath the old kitchen cabinets!] they are so "cute" as depicted in stitchery or art work. This one has a look of having stepped from a Beatrix Potter sketch.

Another ribbon winner.

I liked this one with its use of shaded Log Cabin variation blocks as a background for the bold appliqued sunflowers.

This quilt was made in softly colored woolens.  Click to enlarge the photo if you would like to see the hand embroidered details.

Stunning, but not something I would likely attempt. I suspect it may be an example of paper-piecing.

While SA and I "did" the quilt show and vendors' stalls, the men betook themselves to a Railroad Museum. We met late in the afternoon and found a coffee shop where we could buy lovely cold drinks. It was in an old building with pressed tin on the ceiling. The whole place smelled richly of freshly brewed coffee, green tea and fruit smoothies. The scent of pastry wafted from racks of tempting goodies.

Our last stop of the day was at Hancocks of Paducah.

This is a huge retailer of quilt fabrics, patterns and tools. Their "wishbook" is sent out to quilters all over the country and we tote it around as the ultimate source of delectable fabric.

Did I need more fabric?  NEED?

My stash of fabric has been packed away since January when we knew we would be moving. I can't open a closet door and gloat over shelves of beautiful stuff just waiting in color coordinated stacks for me to have a burst of creative energy.

SA is more sensible than I am when it comes to fabric purchases.  She selects a pattern or plans a project and then shops for what she needs.  I snatch at fabric that catches my eye or suggests possibilities. Working part time in a quilt shop for 5 or so years, I was part of the team that viewed new lines of fabric when the fabric reps came around.  For a number of years I made a habit of buying [with my shop discount] any that I loved of the selection on our shelves, then purchasing other patterns or colorways from the same line through catalogs or when I managed to sneak into a quilt shop on trips I made with J. for building materials.

SA and I had a wonderful hour at Hancocks.  We limited our selections to batiks, each of us delighting to spy a bolt which would coordinate with the stacks already in our shopping carts. What fun to pull out a bolt of a glowing sunset orange or a muted purple and trot over to SA's cart to see if it was one she could use. She in turn, chose several colors to coordinate with my choices.

Our long-suffering husbands sat outside happily grousing over politics and the lamentable state of the world.

How could I have resisted  batik fabric printed in a cat motif? And since it was in two colorways I decided that I needed some of each and then the other pieces to pick up the beautiful colors of the felines. The two books came from a shop which had tables and bins of surplus pattern books. They were at such a reduced price that I chose two--whether or not I ever make up one of the projects, the books will provide some pleasant dream time. 

The Day of Wild Geese

Web photo of Canadian Geese

US route 26 runs across Wyoming and into Nebraska, where it follows for many miles the course of the North Platte River. All day on Saturday we drove this route easterly until it eventually brought us to Interstate 80. I have always enjoyed seeing wild geese, thrilled to hear their honking cries as they fly overhead on their migratory routes spring and fall.  Never have we seen so many geese. In small groups of a dozen or so, or in flocks [gaggles!] of many hundreds, the geese foraged in the bleached stubble of corn and grain fields. In the sky overhead they wheeled and circled in ever-shifting patterns as old as time. The skiens of flying geese intersected, spread apart, mingled and separated again, each goose somehow knowing its own place in the flapping, honking throngs.

We stopped in Ogallala, Nebraska to fuel the truck and to buy hot coffee.  I walked back toward the truck, styrofoam cup clutched in my hand, head raised as two more flocks of geese surged through the sky above. Near the leading wedge of geese were two flying side by side who were different.  From their white plummage they were likely Snow Geese who often co-habitate with their Canadian cousins. 

J. always practical, said wryly, "Do you think its wise to walk under such a flock of geese, staring upward with your mouth open?"

I conceded his point, lowered my coffee mug, but not my gaze from the spooling and weaving of the winged bodies.

Although I've had no opportunity to do any research, we think that the North Platte River provides a seasonal flyway and winter feeding area for thousands of geese before they fly farther north with the spring.

Their movement gave beauty and interest to a long day of many miles.

On The Way

The closing went smoothly, an hour behind schedule. Then a trip to the courthouse to file some papers, a trip to the bank to deposit the check [!!!] and a stop to eat at a local restaurant--our buyers were also there eating.
Back to the cabin to load up suitcases and the inevitable paraphanalia and for me to part sorrowfully with the cats.  The cats have hardly recovered from their change of abode and are very suspicious of boxes and heaps of untidy belongings which are clogging the small floor space of the cabin.
We turned over the house in spotless shining order, thanks in part to daughter G. and grandson D. who decided helping us on our way was more important than a school day.
I meant to have another session at the computer setting up some blog posts and answering some mail, but returned from errands in town to find that SIL had helpfully dismantled the computer.
Just as well.  It had been a very long day.
I took a photo of our entourage ready to head out.  It consists of "Snort'n Nort'n" with the truck bed loaded with a riding lawnmower and a 4 wheeler.  Tagging behind is the car trailer carrying our car, which we will leave in Kentucky parked at the home of friends of J's brother. [What a lot of  prepositions in that sentence!]
We have made it across Wyoming and over the Nebraska line before J. decided to make an early evening of it.  He is prone to driving half the night as a rule, but even he is ready to admit that we are tired.
The eastern part of Wyoming had less snow than at home.  We saw antelope by the hundereds grazing the frosty sagebrush plains, and every other fence post sported an eagle or a hawk, scouring the landscape for prey.
Thank you for all the encouraging comments.
The saga of the house search and move will continue as I have internet access.

Wildlife Photos From This Week's Travels

We drove to Casper last Monday by way of Muddy Gap. We saw many groups of antelope. These were near the highway.  When we pulled over and put the window down to attempt photos, they dashed away in a rush. They can put on incredible speed for short distances.

On Friday afternoon we saw these two moose in the dense shrubbery near a creek just outside of Boulder. WY. These were taken from the open window of the car, and the standing moose began to move off as I attempted to zoom in closer, so my other photo of them was a blur.

On the road that leads from Pinedale to Cora we slowed as we saw three deer ahead in the road.

The three were at the head of a group of perhaps 9 deer.  A magnificent buck was evidently herding his harem and offspring from one side of the road to the other.  You can see him at far left of the photo with his "rack" poked through the fence. In the distance are the "backside" of the Wind River Mountains--the opposite side of the peaks that are fore-shortened here by our closeness to the foothills. The road heads north and the late sun laid a cloth of pure gold from the west to the high snow covered peaks of the eastern horizon.

This pretty doe stood facing us with a fawn at her side.

A few miles before we turned onto Forty Rod Road [where Howard and Heidi live] we saw these two buck and a doe. The buck on the left was the bigger of the two and he seemed to be headed with malicious intent toward the smaller male.

The two buck met and faced each other a bit menacingly. I beleive they noticed that we had stopped to watch them and maybe were distracted from a confrontation.

On Saturday morning I saw this lone bird hopping about in front of the woodpile just outside H. and H.'s window which faces the drive. Heidi informed me that it is a Purple Finch.  A look through her bird book suggests that this is a variant coloring particular to the Northwest--a "grey-capped purple finch."

The Finch in silhouette on a chunk of firewood.

Driving home today, a fine, dry afternoon, J. took the Big Sandy cutoff.  There are several short cuts from the main road which follow trails carved out by wagons on the Oregon Trail. Much of the way is seasonal road and not maintained during the months of snow and spring mud. There were numerous groups of deer. At this time of year their coats are a dull grey-brown and they blend with the faded sagebrush and the strewing of dark boulders. Sometimes I don't spot the deer until I see the distinctive "muley" ears against the sky.  Note the deer in the top left of the photo, peering warily from behind a large hump of rock.

We saw several eagles on this trip---most either at a distance or at a point on the roadway where it wouldn't be wise to stop. We decided this was a golden eagle, then dithered, thinking it could be a vulture. Before I could adjust the camera's zoom or get out to try for a closer shot, the bird flapped off.  A short distance away four ravens sat in a row on a flat-topped rock, glistening black backs turned to the slanting sun.