Gary's Outdoor Wanderings2

SOME THINGS RUSTIC IN EAST TENNESSEE

2022-07-09T15:55:00.001-04:00

VIEWS FROM THE PORCH

2022-07-09T15:49:00.006-04:00

HAZEL - AN IMMATURE BALD EAGLE

2022-06-04T06:53:00.001-04:00

THE MUTE SWAN

2022-06-04T06:43:00.008-04:00

Named a mute swan because it is not nearly as vocal as a domestic or wild swan. The mute swan runs around 17 to 30 pounds and has a wing span in the neighborhood of 7.5 to 9 feet. The males have a large black knob at the top rear of their beak while females have a smaller protrusion. Flight speed runs around 50 mps tops. Thats moving along for a 30 pound object.

This particular swan is a female and I photographed her last year on the Holston River. No mate was noticed then and none now. I don't understand that but nature is the driver here. These pictures were taken only a week ago, 5-29-22 in the same area as last year. Mutes are not common here and are rarely seen. This lady has been hanging out near white egrets and at times swimming geese.

The Bridge

2022-06-03T21:23:00.000-04:00

A railroad bridge is in the foreground and a motor bridge is behind and upstream.

HAPPINESS AND JOY ARE OF THE SMALL STUFF - Views from the porch

2022-04-06T21:45:00.003-04:00

THE PEREGINE FALCON

2022-02-13T10:55:00.003-05:00

REDTAIL HAWK

2022-02-13T10:35:00.002-05:00

HAZEL

2022-02-11T07:09:00.001-05:00

RUSTIC PORCH FRONT

2022-01-27T06:13:00.003-05:00

I noticed this beautiful wall decoration on an old, old house yesterday while driving along. It is amazing in its beauty and its reference to rustic America.

STUFF VIEWED FROM THE PORCH

2022-01-25T06:27:00.001-05:00

JUST RUSTIC STUFF

2022-01-24T06:56:00.005-05:00

These photographs have been taken over the past few months this year and there is no particular story behind them - just rustic pictures. I hope you enjoy them or find them interesting.

2021-12-21T07:31:00.002-05:00

THE LAST HUNT

The muzzle loading hunting season for December, 1976 was about to start. The Chevy Luv pickup made it's way up the highway in North Central Pennsylvania to a place called Norcross. Norcross is an extremely large tract of uninhabited mountains that runs from the town of Sinnamohning, PA clear to New York state. It is rugged back in that mountainous country. The two occupants of the truck, Bob and Terry, were planning on being in the woods for the first day of flintlock deer season by morning. The cap over the truck bed would be home for the overnight stay.

The temperature was twenty five degrees when they crawled out from under the truck cap in the morning. Both boys were well equipped for the cold. Terry wore a full Woolrich outfit composed of pure wool pants and heavy matching wool jacket. On his feet were U.S. Air force flight boots he bought from Army Surplus a week before this trip. He could pump air into a bladder within the boots that would supply an invisible barrier to the cold. Bob wore traditional hunting garb purchased from the local hardware. His feet were protected by a new type boot that contained thick "felt" packs. They were made in Canada and he was excited to try them. Each of them would carry a 50 caliber Hawkin type flint lock rifle. Pennsylvania law required and specified that this primitive fire arm was the only acceptable weapon permitted during the special flint lock season for deer.

In order to load this type of rifle, the powder is poured down the muzzle of the rifle followed by the round lead ball or possibly a slug. A ram rod would then be inserted down the muzzle against the ball to force the concoction clear to the breach of the barrel. Fine black powder would then be poured into the small flash pan and the striker or fritz-en closed over the now full pan. Ready to fire. All that would be necessary to shoot is to pull the hammer back that holds a piece of flint, aim and squeeze the trigger. The spark from the contact of the flint to striker creates a spark that ignites the fine black powder in the fritz-en. The spark from that ignition travels through the touch hole which guides the flame to the main charge in the breach of the barrel. The result is a sort of sch-kaboom. Flint locks have a bit of a delay from the time the powder ignites in the flash pan and when the main charge ignites in the breach. KaChink-Boom; if you will.

Terry was walking on the edge of a high ridge where he could look down the steep slope of the mountain. He saw deer from time to time but the distance was not acceptable for a good shot. The ground to his right, which was flat and forested with huge pines slowly changed in nature to an environment where blow downs and scrub bushes existed. This expanse of land obviously had suffered blight or maybe even a fire years ago. Terry's eyes constantly scanned this new defoliated stretch of mountain. He could see farther as the huge pines, for the most part, were gone. A distant boom sounded and reverberated across the valley below him. Bob had scored. Bob never missed. Bob was born in the Laural Highlands of Pennsylvania and resided so far back in the woods that air was a difficult commodity to acquire. His father was a highly skilled stone mason who was taught the trade by his father. From father to son; Bob was blessed with that talent and skill also. These folks worked with their hands. They were people of the earth too. Bob's family lived almost entirely on what his father planted or harvested from the forest.

Yes, Terry was sure that Bob was successful with his one and only shot. Terry had to score. He couldn't return to the truck empty handed. Just at that moment a very small doe stepped from behind a bush approximately seventy or eighty yards away. Terry froze. The little deer would lower her head, paw the snow with her foot and grab some morsel of grass or acorns with her mouth. Her head would then jerk erect and she would turn to face right and left, scanning her surroundings while chewing constantly. She would take one step and repeat the process. Terry waited until the doe's head dropped to the ground and he raised the rifle while placing his shoulder against the base of a large oak tree for support. The hammer was then pulled back. The deer was small; very small. He had seen large dogs as big as the little doe. Normally he would not take the shot on so small a deer, but surely Bob got one. It was late afternoon and he decided to go ahead with the ambush. He did not want to face Bob empty handed. They were both skilled hunters and woodsmen and those types always brought the bacon home.

The deer took a step forward and lowered her head. Terry squeezed the trigger and at that instant the doe started another step. The big gun roared and belched orange flame. The stock set against Terry's shoulder hard. "Must have put too much powder in," he thought.

When the smoke cleared; the little deer was on the ground. Then, to his amazement, she arose. Her left back leg flopped loosely about. When she stepped forward, the shoulder shot became a rear quarter, hip shot. the deer made a bawling sound. Terry felt sickened at that cry. It sounded like a human baby. He was instantly sorry for the deer. "How did that happen?" he thought.

He quickly poured powder down the barrel and inserted the big 500 grain pure lead slug. The wooden ram rod was withdrawn from the thimbles that held it in place under the barrel of the rifle. Terry inserted the ram rod into the end of the barrel until it touched the lead slug and pushed hard to seat it against the powder charge. The wooden rod snapped. Part of the wood was wedged between the slug and the inside of the gun barrel and the other half was held in Terry's hand. The splintered piece of wood could not be extracted from the barrel. The rifle was rendered useless.

He watched the little doe try to run, her leg flopping about as if it may come off somehow. He was sickened. He could not walk away from this situation. He wore a belt knife with a six inch razor sharp blade at his hip. Just maybe he could approach close enough to the deer to run it down. He had to try. He had caused this misery and it was his personal responsibility to end it. He set off toward the deer at a brisk pace. The doe saw him and tried to run. She completed two fast leaps and collapsed to the ground and lay there. Fifty yards, thirty yards, ten yards. He walked very slow at this point. The doe never took her eyes off him. At five yards distance she bolted and almost immediately lay back down again. He ran hard and fast toward her thinking he could catch her before she could regain her feet. He almost achieved his goal. He closed to within one yard of the deer when she ran. She was in agony and he was the cause of it. If he could maintain his speed he would overtake her. But, he couldn't. Perspiration poured from his face and his body was hot. The Woolrich coat had to go. He would get it later. He felt much better without the heavy restrictions of the coat.

The doe lay twenty feet away on the edge of a long mountain slope that had a stream at the bottom. again he walked toward the deer. He noticed the splintered hip bone protruding through the big hole in her hip caused by the badly placed shot. She watched his approach. Just a few feet more, he thought. She went to her feet and started another run. Terry was very close. His lungs ached as he ran. He had never put this much effort into a sprint in his life. He was closing on the wounded doe. Just a couple more seconds and he would tackle her. But then, the deer changed course and ran straight down the mountain side. Wounded game will always take the easier path. Terry turned with the deer without missing a stride. The doe slowed. He was beside the flopping leg when he leaped upon her back causing them both to tumble down the hill side. He lost his grasp of her at some point. He stopped rolling and came to rest on his hands and knees. There in front of him lay the doe staring at him. Her mouth was open gasping for air and her eyes were wide in panic. She was experiencing a terror she had never known. Terry took in huge breaths of air as he stared at the crippled doe. His hand slowly went to the hilt of his knife and he withdrew it from the sheath. They stared at each other. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. A feeling of shame arose in his chest. He suddenly thought, "what's this all about?"
Her eyes, even when filled with terror, were perfect and beautiful. Even in this despicable situation she appeared alert, with ears up as if she hadn't given up. The short brown hair that covered her body was outlined with white. It was perfect, accept where the ragged hole seeped blood and stained her hip. He caused all that. He had a sense that he had violated nature. He became sickened.

There was no sense prolonging the deer's agony. He slowly stood to a crouching position and moved across the three or four yards that separated them. The doe had to raise her head and look up to follow his eyes; he approached that close. He felt like an executioner. He had the power. He had the power of death that he would have to use to end the misery that he had created in her. She was the victim. She was the repressed. He was strong and she was weak. He would win and she would lose on this day. But, in the end it would be he who would lose. He held the knife out from his right side and with a powerful sweeping motion struck the doe across the throat with the knife. She never flinched or blinked her soft eyes. Her stare penetrated to his soul. Her eyes never moved from him once. Blood pulsed from her slashed throat with each beat of her heart; and still she watched him.

She seemed to say; "Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to deserve this horrible death at your hands?"

He could not answer that question;; the question why.

Her eyes became sleepy looking and the brightness was gone. At last she blinked and her eyes closed shut. The blood poured forth endlessly. Slowly she moved her head back along her body and tucked her nose just under her back leg as if sleeping. Her breaths were shallow. Terry watched her until her chest stopped the rise and fall movements that indicate life. She, at last found peace.

He prepared her body and carried her back to the truck. The climb up the mountain to retrieve his rifle and coat was tiring. As they drove away from Norcross, a decision was made by Terry. This would be the last animal he would ever kill out of sport. No more. He did not want to enter the forest for the purpose of causing death to nature's beautiful, innocent sons and daughters. He could not make sense of it any longer. The experience of this day would live in his mind forever and the sadness he felt for the little doe would return to him many times in his life. The memory of her terror filled eyes haunts him to this day. And he still can not answer her question of "Why."

2021-11-23T02:13:00.001-05:00

PACHELBEL, AND THOUGHTS OF EAGLES AND A CANOE RIDE

I’ve always been mesmerized by that piece of music. It has been accomplished in so many ways and all are beautiful to the ear. The notes move over my mind softly and elegantly leaving me in a melancholy stupor each and every time I hear it. The melody is sweet; sweeter than the nectar of the most beautiful flower imaginable. My eyes close and my mind becomes uncluttered with life. I can dwell deeply into all that is of importance to me. The violin speaks with clarity that helps simplify the tumultuous occurrences of daily life. The instrument’s perfect creation of sound demands total concentration from the listener; it beckons one to focus totally on the sounds emitted.

Tonight, as I sit here in this room surrounded by my animal friends, I envision myself in my beloved canoe, my escape machine, quietly floating on calm water under the great tree of the eagle. I think of all the times I have wandered under and past that great tree to gaze upon what few have had the opportunity to see. The bold, proud Bald Eagles sitting atop the highest branch on their tree keeping watch over their offspring below in the enormous nest designed especially for them. I can see their children looking over the top edge of the great wooden bowl; staring down at me, so curious as I look up at them in awe. So small they are and so vulnerable! They are fresh and new; They appear tiny yet, so valuable and important. They are the next generation of hope.

I lay back in my tiny floating stick and memorize their every move, their texture and separate them as individuals. I blink my eyes and they are larger. The babies materialize into near adult stature. They have the look of dignity and grace; pride and fortitude; power and might; truth and justice; and all that is good in man. I watch as they climb and flutter from nest to the tallest limb. They stretch out their powerful wings and hold them extended from their sides for but a moment. The extension indicates an all encompassing protective shield, a barrier, which will protect mankind from the evils that lurk in the dark. Their eyes are sharp and all seeing. Nothing can pass by that keen sight without their seeing. Talons, sharp as needles, ready to defend and turn back any threatening foe powered by muscular legs and thighs. A sharp sword is presented in the form of a razor sharp beak in any direction the eagle turns it’s head. The young eagles will prove all this eventually true. They will grow in strength and their vigor will increase. Each will become a master of the sky. They will own the wind. Their grandeur will inspire every American who is fortunate enough to gaze upon them to feel the surge of blood rush associated with the vision of their might, their freedom, and their power to inspire the importance of freedom.

And so, I float beneath the tree that once held the seeds of freedom and the tune of Pacchelbel resounds across my mind. I gaze up into the top of the now empty tree, the emptiness and the absence of the greatest hopes of mankind gone. I am saddened by their leaving but, comforted at the renewed hope they will bestow upon Americans as the young eagles mature and gain the unequaled strength to own the sky above our blessed country, and as the symbol of freedom, stimulate hope in the hearts of all citizens that freedom will continue; and above all, that it is as valuable if not more, than the blood that courses through each American’s veins. Farewell my eagles. Soar high and proud. Let your shrieks sound with the tone of the bell that sounds liberties cry. We will harken to your call when freedom requires defending.

I placed the blade of the paddle into the mirror surface of the water and slowly pulled the canoe quietly to it. My small floating boat moved away from the big tree. I watched it disappear into the night. A bright moon reflected its light off the ripples the paddle blade created at it’s entrance into the water. I turned to gaze one more time at the great tree. The inhabitants gone but, their aura remains. To me; it is a sacred tree. And Pacchelbel once again calms my soul as I paddle into darkness of the night..

2021-11-23T01:46:00.006-05:00

THE PATIENT TREE

His life started in the early 1800’s; his mother, a lady some called nature; his father a grand old oak of age 100 years. Tiny white roots no larger than a whisker extended from the green sprout. They soon swelled and extended across and down through the soil forming the beginning of a web work of roots that would anchor the tree to this spot for its entire life. The first few years of life proved uneventful to the young oak tree.

A grazing deer did snip off a few new Spring leaves from the tips of his limbs one year but, no damage occurred. As time passed the tree grew greater in girth and stood tall and straight. He was a magnificent, healthy specimen indeed. For several years he became a host for countless insects; one particular species of insect came close to causing his demise and probably would have if an extraordinarily harsh Winter wouldn’t have fallen upon the land that year. The parasites disappeared as quickly, it seems, as when they first appeared.

Through the years the oak stood against severe storms and even survived a fire that consumed his brethren. The fire burned dangerously close but, a change in the direction of the wind fanned the flames back toward the pre burned area from whence it came and the blaze was extinguished.

For many Springs and Falls the oak silently observed the formations of geese coming and going. It was a familiar ritual that punctuated the changing of the seasons. Nature’s perfect clock maintained precise, consistent accuracy without the aid of mechanical intrusion.

One dark November night a fierce storm brought with it lightning that illuminated the heavens with bolts of red and amber. An errant shard of red flash struck a lower limb of the oak where it attached to the massive trunk and it severed the limb completely from the tree with a loud bang. Morning saw the huge shorn limb lying next to the tree on the ground. The leaves were still rich, vibrant green and wet from the rain of the previous night’s storm. A nasty wound with jagged, sharp pieces of wooden flesh protruded from the offended area. The wound, however, would soon harden and heal.

A week later, sap secreted from under the bark to seal off the damaged area. Termites soon found the open sore and fed voraciously on the exposed pulp over the Spring months. But, before they could create their colonies, the woodpeckers discovered their presence and eradicated the termite threat. The birds arrived at the damaged tree four times a day and consumed the entire termite population. The damaged wood soon hardened and died. It became segregated from the main tree trunk with the formation of a thick knot growth of wood at the base of the broken limb on the tree trunk itself. The growth encircled the entire diameter of the stub of limb that protruded from the trunk. It would act as a barrier to disease. Seasons came and went.

The sounds of war filled the air with the cracking sounds of rifles and the roar of cannon. Gray and blue were added to the season’s colors. The noise was foreign in the wilderness until now. The round projectiles, both large and small, splintered off pieces of bark here and there on the trunk of the oak tree. It was a minor annoyance to the now old oak. The sounds of war were over quickly. The loud roars and clatter of human conflict lasted but a moment when measured by nature’s clock.

Later years brought saws and axes to the forest and all the old oak could do was stand firmly rooted to its birth place of two hundred years and face this new danger as it had done all the previous dangers over it’s life span. He watched as trees were felled, both small and large. Soon the axes would arrive at his hidden meadow. His destiny was arranged by his mother two hundred years ago when she placed his seed here in the soft loamy soil. She knew he would flourish and extend his massive root system out and down into the rich soil to protect it from the rushing waters that arrived annually with the Winter thaws and Spring rains. He withstood all the test that his mother threw against him proving his Herculean strength was unyielding. He was more than qualified to be the custodian of the precious nutrient rich soil in his meadow. Yet, the danger approaching him was like none he had ever witnessed. The sound of axes were deafening. One sunny morning found two men at the base of his trunk with a long rope that had knots tied in it. A knot was tied in the rope for every one foot increment. One man stood in front of the old oak holding the rope while the other walked around the tree with the other end. The men then lapsed into discussion while they gazed up into the massive branches above them. They counted thirty five knots. The sight before the tree was a mass of cut timber. Trees lay with their tops pointing in the same direction as if a strong wind blew them all down in an instant. Nature was witnessing the power of the ax.

A few mornings after the rope measurement was completed; four brawny men approached the old oak. Each man carried a long handled double bitted ax. They stared in awe at the size of the old oak. Each man took a position around the tree and with grunts each drove his ax into oak. The blades were twisted to loosen large wedges of wood after every other impact of the ax blade. The old tree withstood the torments of time only to be destroyed by the steel of man; not to mention greed. Their axes thudded against the oak’s hardness unrelentingly. Their grunts and groans could be easily heard. Then the words “hold up there” were yelled as a fifth man appeared and the four men sat their axes on the ground and kneeled or sat while the new arrival talked. After a short period of time they strolled away together down the dirt wagon road from whence they came.

Weeks passed and the old oak tree started its recovery from the damage done by the axes. It would show deep scars but the sap would seal the wounds. Men came in the afternoon that day in April a full year later with wood and sledge hammers. The old oak braced himself for the worse. The men pounded stakes in the ground and hung a five foot wide by four foot tall sign between the posts not fifty feet in front of the old oak. The sign read:

GRAND OPENING

GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK

ELSPETH & DRAGONE - Holston River Bald Eagles

2021-10-18T21:39:00.011-04:00

WARRIOR'S PATH STATE PARK

2021-10-07T19:30:00.004-04:00

AUTUMN IS NEAR

Warrior's Path State Park. The leaf color is only starting on lakes that have elevation and are colder. The color in these pictures is caused by the warm light of late afternoon reflecting the soft colors on the trees that are just beginning to show. The colors are exemplified and appear rich - vibrant and the water glimmers a dark, velvety surface sheen that is darkened by contrast with the blue sky. The birds are young cormorants. An adult can be seen racing close to the water's surface. All in all, a gentle way for me to end my day.

BELOW: Confusion

WALKING STICKS ( Phasmatodea)

2021-10-07T05:27:00.005-04:00

https://kidadl.com/animal-facts/stick-bug-facts

These interesting critters are very common and yet go unseen by everyone. This one was on a porch chair. They are harmless and are scavengers of dead, rotting plants. Look at the shots closely and note the mandibles are on one end of the bug and the antennae and head on the other so, which end is the front and I wonder how it tears up the food with the mandibles on its anterior end and eats with its opposite end. Amazing critter.

I MISS THEM

2021-10-06T19:13:00.002-04:00

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWyiEyTofsk

MOM AND DAUGHTER

2021-10-04T18:43:00.005-04:00

MY DEER FRIENDS (whitetails)

2021-10-04T17:40:00.008-04:00

They have been passing by all summer and its been really fantastic to watch the does show off their fawns. So, I invited them all to supper ---- nightly. Some of the shots are crisp and clear and a double click on them will be beneficial, while others are a bit fuzzy. This is because of the large lens used to photograph with late in the day when light is minimum. But, there they are. Beautiful!

They chased each other round and round and round.

GUESTS FOR LUNCH

2021-10-04T17:27:00.002-04:00

It is a gratifying thing to be nice to wildlife. These turkeys have been coming through my place for a week now and I took some corn down to the edge of the meadow and tossed it about as if feeding chickens. The wild turkeys have been hanging out gorging themselves for an hour down there. I'm happy to help them out. I hope they stay over winter as I can be of service to them when food gets slim pickins.

PHASMATODEA (Stick Bug)

2021-10-04T17:20:00.001-04:00

I had the wrong camera with me when I came across this beauty. The Phasmatodea, or Walking Stick is an amazing creature and most welcome at my home.

Walking sticks are herbivores that enjoy dining on the leaves of deciduous trees and shrubs such as oak, rose, rhododendron, ivy, eucalyptus, apple and strawberry. Their feeding activity may be beneficial because they prune foliage, encouraging new plant growth.

The Stick insects have unique camouflage qualities to protect themselves from its predator, the most important thing they can do. Since they are herbivorous, they do not bite or sting humans or other insects. ... You won't die from a Walking Stick Bug bite; their pinch feels like a tiny needle pinch.

A BUTTERFLY'S WORLD

2021-07-30T19:00:00.003-04:00

They are little pieces of floating fluff that stimulates our perceptions and understanding of the term beautiful. Their world is beautiful and they deserve that wondrous habitat, fore their place on this earth is sadly limited.

Below is a hummerfly. Note the plumage on his legs

TEXTURES

2021-07-06T20:11:00.007-04:00