Mountain Bike Pile-up

Photos by Greg

I'm not sure where these all come from but they seem to keep accumulating. Just a pile of mountain bike photos from November, which has been brilliant for riding, with warm daytime temps and lots of sunshine. Tough to think of something we'd rather be doing. Which I guess explains where they come from... Enjoy! Then go ride!

A Fairy Tale

by Greg

A romantic man may be inclined to think of the special woman in his life as something of a princess. She is a delicate, refined flower who shines in spectacular glory at the King's Ball.

In this case the Ball was a picnic dinner on a rocky bar at the edge of the river. The delicate flower was, of course Trina. She, as usual, was hungry, and had just sat herself down with a container of cole slaw acquired from a local BBQ restaurant. Suddenly, an evil Troll (played by Sprocket, the red dog) demanded to be petted by shoveling his head firmly under the fair princess' arm, causing her to lose her grip on her cole slaw which sent the contents tumbling downward into her glass slipper a.k.a. an aged and filthy clog.



A foul word was uttered by her highness. And from where I sat next to her, it looked like the happy little dinner was over. Half the cole slaw was ruined. Trina would be hungry. And perhaps, even, the rotting corpse of the ancient clog could be -- at last -- discarded.

I however, underestimated the situation. Trina simply picked up the foul shoe and scooped forkfulls of only slightly gritty (she said) slaw into her delicate mouth. Then rinsed this most recent of indignities from her shoe with river water, put the shoe on, and -- satisfied and happy (insert sailor-like belch here) -- trundled off to throw sticks for dogs, find pretty river rocks, spy on ducks, or whatever beautiful princesses do on lovely afternoons down by the river.

Water Line

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

A couple of recent warm November afternoons have found us outside, following a crooked line through the desert. We scrambled through brush, clambered over rocks, and squeezed beside it in sandstone channels, doing our best to trace this line of water as it flowed toward us and past us toward bigger rivers. We tromped upward through the deepening rift, while far ahead somewhere lay a source.

Though we set out to discover, we were not intent on discovering a source. Instead we sought only to discover what was there to be discovered. The cold of ice written in shadow. The crisp grasses and bare branches contrasted with bold November blossoms. The spice of willow and sage warmed by sunshine. And the sound of something like silence, but a silence made of shy birds, of dogs in brush, of gravel and stone underfoot, of music made by water pouring into secret pools and pouring out again.

To say that water in the desert is a gift would be to imply that it is given, that it is received. I do not think that water can have this intent, or that a small canyon can show gratitude. I am not water. I am not a canyon. I will try to live and be grateful for water and life in an arid land. On a warm day in late autumn in a small, secret canyon, it is easily done.

Scenes from a Changing Season

by Greg

Warm days. Chill mornings. Bright leaves. Leading to long nights. First snowstorms. Bare branches. Through it all we jaunt along the path toward the next season. Here are a few scenes from recent mini-adventures.