Garden Of Bliss

All smiles.

Love.

An original.

Tilted.

Boo!

Sweet purple.

Say whaaa.

Say cheese! Or not.

A gift.

Scent.

Mellow yellow.

Veggies.

Whiteout.

Super hard shot.

Allison's dog.

Nostril effect.

Tubular.

Daisy.

Queen of hearts.

Song For The Evening...

Twist Of Cain

 

Enjoy this delightful tune while scrolling through my flower pics.

From April Showers To May Flowers, Then Back To Regular Showers

Who Cares.

Battle at the bridge. 

With coffee at Bridge 99.

Turned out nice.

Ran into Cindy's sister Julie at the
park, with her kiddos.

Darling flowers.

I didn't pick them.

April showers bring May flowers. 

But in Oregon, it's more like April showers 

bring May flowers drenched with additional 

showers until July when the sun comes 

out with its seldom seen powers.

I just wanted to lay there

Bush Park.

Trophy Number One

Obama has finally done something right. I gotta give him praise. I think he has more respect for our country and our SEALs than I ever really gave him credit for. But the immediate DNA testing and burial at sea leaves me somewhat skeptical. We've got something done, now show us the trophy.

You can even charge for showing the video.

Something Smells Fishy At Sea

I hate to say this, but the death of Osama Bin Laden sounds like a new birth of wild conspiracies on the rise. For instance, Obama allowing the body to be thrown at sea. Why oh why would you get rid of the evidence? "We have photos, we have videos." Any forensics lab would laugh at photos or a video without the actual body being there. You've heard of photoshop, right? And with video editing software, hell, it'd be nothing to create a video of Pelosi and Osama...well, I'll leave it at that. There is a good chance that Obama lied to the American people when he gave his press speech, and I think he had no idea beforehand what had actually happened. If it happened on Sunday, like Obama said, under his orders, then why would he permit dumping of the body at sea? If he thought he was in a mess before, just wait until he gets asked about the body…if there even was one. 

Shattered Bronze

 Clay could feel the passing of boxcars nearby, there vibrations claiming every inch of earth. Thick dust rose and drifted in lazy clouds. Steel screeched and groaned, with tracks flexing and ticking as each boxcar crept by. He sat on river rock, his back against a towering aspen. He watched the train weave and inch its way up through the canyon, almost like a sliver of brown and gray matter. Off to his right, a set of shallow riffles were muted for the time being. Even the roar of river was silent, replaced with the sound of moving steel. 

When the train had passed, the river returned back to life. Sound of shallow riffles came back, continuing with wild chatter. Clay watched the riffles, feeling the heat closing in, and he thought of the chilled current. He felt like a nap, and wiped beads of sweat from his eyebrows.

“It’s still dropping,” Keith said. Keith had been one of Clay’s closest friends since childhood. He was also a guide, although seldom seen with much of any clients. He had found an aspen not far from Clay, and took up residence in its shade.  

“It’ll drop some more. Always does this time of year,” Clay said.

“I got a few beers in the cooler, but don’t make me walk over there.”

“Don’t worry about it, mine is still half full,” Clay said, holding up a can.

“Good to know.”

Keith lit a cigarette, then handed one to Clay.

He took a long drag.

“What’s the latest?” Keith asked.

“Better not say.”

“Yeah,” Keith said, then laughed.

“How is the girl?” Clay asked.

“Which one?”

“Your latest investment.”

“Ah that is pure fun.”

“No interest in dating,” Clay took another drag, a blue fog gathered in front of his eyes.

“This dog ain’t meant to be caged,” Keith replied. He held his cigarette, fidgeting with it, rolling it back and forth between his index finger and thumb. 

“That sounds about right,” Clay said. He leaned his head back, feeling the white bark of the aspen. 

“No need.”

“But all dogs, especially you, need to be leashed.”

Keith erupted in laughter, “You must be reading my mind bro.” He took another drag, then leaned forward, his forehead dripping with perspiration. 

“Another scorcher,” Clay said. Keith looked tired. 

“Another day on the river. Too warm to fish.”

“Their was this couple, I recently took them out. She had a body, and I’m not kidding, I felt compelled to reach for it,” Clay said. 

“You kidding?” Keith asked. “You reach for it?”

“What? You nuts? She was with some yuppy, and a yuppy herself. What’s this world coming too.” Clay shook his head, then continued, “A couple from Seattle. Can you believe that?”

“I believe I can.”

“Anyways, they wanted a full day on the river,” Clay picked up a flat rock, and held it. “They wanted a full day on the river, and that came about mid-last week.”
“Last week? They must’ve been nuts.” Keith reached for a rock himself. He rubbed the dirty gray surface, smooth and free of cracks.

“Yup. Last week. The heat wave would’ve killed them, I know it did almost me,” Clay’s tone changed. “You should of seen them. Half way through the day, they wanted to jump in.”

“You let them?”

“Had to.” 

“Bet your ass.” Keith chucked the rock, and watched as it collided with the set of shallow riffles.

“Yep.”

“You were probably the only fool out,” Keith said.

“That I was. And so they went for this swim. Just above around the bend,” Clay nodded that way. “So she gets all giddy, and he’s getting pissed. He’s got on an expensive salt water button up, kind of like those handy dandy handkerchief-weight shirts. And he’s not gonna let that damn thing out of sight. Brand new. He finally takes it off, throws it where his fat ass was seated, and drops in. All pasty white.”

“It’s a recent appendage for western river decor.”

“Unbelievable,” Clay said.

“It’s a progressive society brother.”

“The progressives eyes have been altered.” 

“Must’ve been money. Girls with guys like that. It’s pure money,” Keith said, reaching for another rock.

“I agree, and this guy was a douche. Hell, she wasn’t much better. Very attractive, but that’s about it.”

“So, you get them into any?” Keith asked.

“A few rainbows. No steelhead. A five hundred dollar day, and they spent the evening without a rod in hand, getting sun burnt,” Clay said. He placed the flat rock by his side. 

“What a waste.”

“Yep. I enjoyed watching them turn lobster red.” 

“Bet they got sick as hell the next day.”

“I reckon they did.” Clay stretched his legs out. He was tired. The heat had began taking its toll.

They both sat, watching the river. The sun high overhead, not a cloud in sight. Their skin dripped, shirts soaked, the heat penetrated everything in sight. 

“I heard about Greg’s outfit, and I guess they’re expanding,” Keith said.

“Great. Good for him. I hope he fails. The bald prick.” Clay shook his head, then continued, “Every time he’s out on the water, I can smell his arrogance about a mile up and downstream.”

“Yep. Heard he got booted from Max’s,” Keith said. Max’s was the local watering hole, a lodge turned tavern, about a five minute walk from the river. 

“That doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

“Guess he had a little bit to much fun, knocked over a few tables. Some outsider told him to calm down, and Greg can’t handle stuff like that. He went over, or I should say stumbled over, and took a swing at this patron. Of course he missed, tripped over a chair, and collapsed on this patrons wife,” Keith told the story with a slow monotone voice. “And I guess this patron freaked, as would any guy, and just pummeled Greg.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Clay said. He was soon laughing, and a chill passed through him. A faint breeze came and went, barely noticed.

“Yeah, booted from the place. Nothing much happened to the stranger. Rumor was, he was probably one of the sad sacks that was out with him on the river that day.”

“So good. I love hearing that. I think that made my day.” 

Time passed along with their thoughts as it often does on a river. Clay began to think about the old days. His youth was spent on these very banks, these very waters. He began to think of his early childhood, and his even earlier decisions to become a river guide. 

“You recall ol’ Thompson?” Clay asked.

“I recall.”

“How old were we?”

“Thirteen. Twelve or thirteen.”

“You remember his brother?” 

“What a mystery,” Keith answered. 

“Never found his body.”

“Gone.”

“They dredged the river.”

“Pointless in the summer.”

“He never turned up,” Clay said.

“I sometimes wonder if he even drowned, or just didn’t leave the river and his belongings behind skipping town. Sketchy bastard.” Keith yawned, wiped his eyes, and continued, “Bud was different. The knowledge in that head of his.”

“Taught us a whole lot.”

“Taught us pretty much everything.”

Clay’s mind raced back to his younger days on the river.

“I remember this one time.” Clay pointed upstream, then continued, “We had the river all to ourselves. Bud was tossing caddis flies out onto a set of riffles. I was watching from someplace further down, think I was by that one pool. That was the day, I don’t know what happened, but that was when I knew I’d be a guide. Must’ve been only thirteen.”

Clay knew what had happened, and it was at a time in which he’d never forget. The sun was high, and the heat was in its last days. Bud was working the riffles above the pool in which Clay stood by. He could remember the colors, how brilliant they were. Early October, at such a young age, barely two decades ago. Bud worked the riffles, and Clay watched. He was soon walking the cobblestone banks, heading towards Bud and the sound of laughter coming from the riffles. He caught the suns glare, noticing how it fell across the flat pool. He walked further upstream, and soon stood at the riffles. Here there was no longer a smooth surface. This surface was shattered into a million pieces. The suns glare brought on a different contrast, and it had caused him to squint. He eyed the riffles, and they stared back at him, a thousand different reflections of shattered bronze. That was the best way he could have described it, but he kept this all to himself.

He came back to the sound of river, and his thoughts readjusted themselves. 

“She’ll love you, but she won’t keep you. Bud Thompson always said that. Said to never forget it,” Clay remarked. “Guess he was right.”  

The Slow Volcano

 Earlier, I had found myself atop a rocky ledge that gradually dropped itself off, down into thick massive valleys of sage brush. My thoughts had traveled, and soon I was wondering how long Fort Rock had sat as an old volcano. Must've been a long time. I had felt positive that some indian long ago, had shared this same vantage point as I, perhaps even sharing the exact emotions.

Dad and his small cave.

It seems that everything slows in the desert. Time takes a step back. Progression naturally evolves at a much slower pace. The desert doesn't mind time, and if it did, there'd be none of it.

I found myself in awe, gazing up at the steep red, rust colored walls. One giant formidable rock, bringing on an eerie kind of silence, seeming to almost reach out and creep up on my skin. Such a quiet solitude fell all around, and for the time being I felt deaf, but the atmosphere showered smiles upon my heart.

Not a drop will touch the ocean.

Soon my gaze shifted to the valley much further below. Out there, sage spread in long drawn out miles, carpeting the desert floor. Out further, the colors changed, but then stayed the same. Out and forever across, the sage brought on a sweet fragrance, which traveled as far as the breeze.

Raven games.

The expanse.

 I know this view will be here tomorrow. Same goes with the other high plateaus, and rocky bluffs. If they had eyes, they would capture each dawn, with hues of orange waking the day, bringing coyotes into song and dance.