low-fi and quite-lightweight

I didn't want the extra 6 lbs of lenses and tripods, cameras and cases. I didnt want canon sureshot-snapshots of campy faces, I wanted lightweight and control over aperture so I brought along the Holga, the best and worst of modern photography.

Up the steep thin collar toward Nancy Cascades along the granite stairs only New Hampshire allows,

natural flume to cascade, through the thick choke of forest only a hammock allows sleep in

Norcross Pond and Nancy Pond, their two cold trickling arms pressing gulches into the fainting face of Mount Nancy

Holga, 35mm. Photos not in any way enhanced or edited

"Hangin'" (literally) on The Parker River

Theres something sexy about a paddle that never leaves the water on returning from a J-stroke, the way it quietly slices and floats forward. The clicking Morse of crickets flick their Bics at the quiet the paddle mumbles out the sides of its lips, and I feel, as the artist does, pressing against her palette and panel, back and forth, moving forward through the life of a piece of art.

the day wheezing through the trees

that cackle and creek like the slosh of tide against hull

pine cones thumping

The rustle of light

and trot of curious ants

against reddening skin

the guttural rant of Plovers articulating lust.

Lightweight, Wood-Fired, Gourmet Range.

You want food to match the collage, the confluence of color and smell the river represents. You want to taste it, its banks and eddies, in fresh ingredients the Native Penobscot ate.

The right tools, be it glowing birch coal, French sea salt or pair of tongs, coax the meal from the pot or grill, enliven the spirits of the ingredient, not the cook.

I think two burners, a knife roll of cutlery, spice and array of utensils, along with a little bit of balls, throw in two good stoves...?....you're talkin' "Napa high". (the feeling of intoxication achieved through the consumption of food - GOOD food - imagine 9 courses for lunch at French Laundry, [you cant get in a car and drive after that])

As a two burner cook, not a one pot slop shop, the extra cooking tools always added extra weight to my pack or boat. But, without the weight and space canister gas adds, one can carry more fresh food or more importantly -booze, with use of this stove.

Settling into the cool dirt of riverside woods getting down on your knees actually working for your fire is meditative. Arched over your stove it begins to shine its old world charms, it's hobo beginnings.

It is the eppitiome of simple, yet advanced, lightweight stove. Nothing compliments a rushing river more than a lighter tread.

Dreaming of Fresh Riverside Camp Cooked Food,

...the chanting audience of birds whisked into the freedom of the North Maine sky, or deep golden chanterelles and shallots, fat Brook Trout, wild oregano and lemon against the crackle of a hot pan, the crackle of a beer can, ah, the two indistinguishable sounds of pouring beer and the faint cocktail chatter of river trickling through a downed birch strainer.

there are no pews more suitable for prayer

than naked river rock or exposed cliff ledge

no votary impulse more satisfied than at mountaintop

or at the base of inexorable whitewater

under big bossy cumuli

the whole body seems tempted toward campfire

as it does toward sunshine

breathing such living air

your skin is summoned to drink

the fine atmospheric champagne that on its own

comes to its knees

by earthy drunkenness or faith

faith in the wildness of life

in the sturdy storm enduring tree

and the white stamen of shooting star

that has been
abhorrently commandeered

by creation

For The Love Of A River.

When winter lacquers lakes and river tops, attacks breath and nose as it always does here in New England, when no bow can breach the white glass of January, we go along the waist, the feminine neck of what we would otherwise paddle, merely for our eyes to fondle the aching ice moaning under it's own weight, shrieking and shattering like a crystal chime on a windy day.