Roadtrip into the Past

    I embarked on an 11 hour road trip last weekend with my good friend Sandy along some fifteen miles of gravel roads, miles of two lane blacktop, and through a few old towns. Our  plan was to find a place he had visited 35 years ago, Pennville, Ga. We finally found it with the help of locals in the afternoon.

    Conversations went a good thirty minutes or more each time we met locals. Storytelling and reminiscing.

    We spent the day in a steady and sometimes heavy rain. I enjoy the sound of rain filtering through trees during the summer. Walking through a drenching shower is therapeutic for me, with raindrops peppering my hood like an umbrella wrapped around my head. It's a surreal world where the harshness of sunlight is gone along with its shadows and deep contrast, and what is left is an evenness to the world where everything can be calmly visualized, and  sounds are diffused as well. For me it's calming. 

Lots of treasures are out there, ready to be found before they are all taken over by nature. I spoke to someone recently about his experience riding dirt bikes and all terrain vehicles on forestry roads. He said just off trail, sometimes dipping into private property you find remnants of homes and cars with trees growing through them. Forgotten mementos that won't be around forever.

Here are some images from our eastern Georgia roadtrip-

The old Athens Highway route, with an outhouse thrown in for decor

Durham Apothecary Museum in Maxeys, Ga. A former doctor's office recently renovated and opened as a museum. Est, 1870. Free admission

Maxeys, Ga. Former garage and bank needing renovation

Scull Shoals Historic Site, between Athens and Greensboro on the Oconee River. Pictured is the ruins of the store and storage building from the former mill village

Sandy walking in a driving rain. Scull Shoals Historic Site, between Athens and Greensboro on the Oconee River.

Scull Shoals Historic Site. The riverside hiking path alongside the rain swollen Oconee River

Near Greensboro, Ga

Near Greensboro, Ga

Pennville, Ga

Pennville, Ga. Old service station

Pennville, Ga. Old service station

Pennville, Ga. Driving into the shadows

Pennville, Ga.

Pennville, Ga. Old gas line

Greensboro, Ga. The magnolia tree has the most knotted up trunk we'd seen. Fit right in

Greensboro, Ga

Greensboro, Ga

Greensboro, Ga

Elder Mill Covered Bridge and Rose Creek, Watkinsville, Ga

Elder Mill Covered Bridge and Rose Creek, Watkinsville, Ga

The Backstory

Cascades flow nearby, its steady rhythm lulling me into a trance. The smell of the woods is delicious. The rock I sit on is multicolored with splashes of white and strips of green lichens growing along crevasses. It has a life of its own. I notice more detail the longer I sit here. Things that existed all along, but were somehow lost in the busy scene in front of me. After a time I notice something struggling.

A large tulip leaf lies plastered over a rock, drenched by the sporadic shower as whitecaps flow on either side of the rock. The colorful leaf is hanging on for dear life. It looks like four legs are draped out trying to hold on with not help in sight. This is the life of a loner.

He will see things that can only be imagined by most, and he may die in a spectacular way or with remarkable circumstances. Flying solo, he has no backup when the day goes awry. Swept off a rock, clinging for life. Yet still we all die someday. If only the loner’s story could be told.

Beauty emanates as he grips the rock, practically wrapped around it, perhaps in his finest hour based on the richness of his color. But I don’t feel compelled to help him. This is the final page of his story and he must write it. He could be an artist; someone who hopefully has published his story along the way to help us to understand how he got here. The backstory is always tucked away conveniently in the shadows.

The leaf has gone through its years of attachment to its mother, clinging on for survival. As youths we hear the loud directives, often times the only way they know to speak. Often for our own survival. Family, teachers, friends all had their say. Friends chose to stay among those of like interests, and some took cover to mature and present their gifts later, at their appropriate time. We must cut loose to finish our course.

A solitary yellow butterfly darts in and out of shadows, preferring sunlight. In the shade hides unsightly things and those who choose to be hid. I watch the butterfly dance about but not really wanting its place in the sun. I prefer to be the yellow or red leaf, floating lazily downstream, enjoying those final days or hours to the fullest. Seeing what others don’t see that dance about in the spotlight, among crowds, wanting to be noticed. Along the way the leaves fit into their own groove. They morph into what seems the fittest. 

Passerby’s stop and look upon the fall scene and smile, reflecting on their own lives as times past and memories wash over them as the beauty unfolds. The leaf is part of the bigger picture, part of a complete scene. Like an actor, one of dozens, with a bit part.

I am following a leaf now; it survived a small set of rapids and is floating again, further downstream. Some get collected in bunches around rocks and limbs shortly after leaving their tether. Others make it through the crowds on to new adventures, in their golden hour. A portion sinks to the bottom after being set free and turns quietly into the foundation for their successors. Why is that? Shouldn’t we all enjoy the glory of our golden hour?

Deep pools of black water pull in what’s dancing overhead, its reflections capturing them peering in. The butterflies and their friends. Their beauty is diffracted by the pools of darkness, but the result is stunning. Black water deflects light, but dark normally absorbs. During nighttime it pulls in all illumination and blankets its hidden secrets in a cloak of protectiveness. During daytime it does the opposite. The creek is a place of renewal and follows the course of life.

I see a city in the dark water’s reflection. Our worlds merge here. Ripples of life run out from the center and touch everything in their path. I see myself in a small corner of the city, then spreading out as though a pebble was dropped in, sending my introspections to all four corners.

A lower tone of light just settled on me. A reminder that the twilight hour is approaching again. The leaf won’t be there tomorrow after the overnight storms change the landscape. Its time is now.

Another gentle shower of yellow leaves is falling into the creek, beginning their final journey after spending a lifetime connected to a branch for nourishment and survival.

A couple is watching the scene from the old stone arched bridge. 

Will they be inspired, take photos, tell others, and encourage a love for nature in their kids? That’s quite a legacy for a single leave floating along, painting the landscape with its unique art, and dissolving into the bigger picture. Maybe someone is watching me that way from a distance, from a bridge or otherwise.

Prelude to “The Backstory”

Craig Elliott 2016

Writing and Inspiration

I sat at our dining room table this evening, finishing a chapter of the novel I have been working on for some time. It's grown to somewhat of a runaway snowball tumbling down a hillside, getting larger and larger until I wonder if it will ever stop. But I keep writing, regardless.

My brother-in-law and I were talking this afternoon, and the subject came up of things we enjoy that aren't really an essential thing to our financial well being or critical in other areas, such as spiritual or health related. My writing is a passion that takes me out of the ordinary and into a world where anything is possible;  failure can be avoided with a handful of keystrokes, life's problems become a dull ache that really don't mean a lot in the big picture, and whee I can become absorbed in someone's world other than my own to the point reality doesn't even matter, for a time.

I can express myself on my terms and take all the time I need. Once finished, it's there forever. Yes, writing gives us a chance of immortality.

As I sat here into early stages of darkness the thunder in the distance turned louder, and a soft, gentle rain began to fall, tickling the leaves outside and playing a harmonious tune. It blended with a symphony of unseen musicians, their performance not as individuals, but a wall of sound that filled the air from all directions. Then a trail came in from the west, a low whistle that soon turned into  a rumble and scream.

Now the magic has gone in hiding. The trains have passed, and rain showers are further down the road, singing its tune to a new group of people, some who will see it as simply a nuisance. For me, life is a new adventure about to happen. Sometimes I'm disappointed, but I don't miss nearly as much as I used to.

Springtime Walk Through the Woods

I ignored the 60% chance of rain forecast and got out today for some natural remedies for my stresses and other ailments that only a walk in the woods can cure. Mild temps with winds that got stronger as the day progressed.

I felt rain twice, with the second round almost enough to pull out my rain parka. I walked just under 5 miles.

A beautiful day to get out, with ever changing skies and plenty of scenery to soak in and enjoy. This is a good time of year to explore Big Haynes Creek in Conyers, Georgia. The trees are still mostly bare of summer leaves so you can see a lot of detail, and wildflowers are starting to color the world.

Muddy footprint. Not sure what this was

Reflections of a changing sky

Crossroads

Break time

Springtime colors growing on the rock outcrops

Fungus growing on a fallen tree

First round of spring wildflowers

Water was a bit high today after yesterday's rain

Hugging the lake

Undisturbed Beauty

Sitting on a large rock at water’s edge I relaxed to the sound of the Little Pigeon River, tumbling down a small cascade forty yards in front of me and then dispersing into deep pockets. Aqua green and darker shades intermingled, distinguished by the water pocket’s depth and proximity to the rapids. After a six mile hike I had settled down to relax among the roar of water that is both pleasant to the senses and loud enough to drown out footsteps and sometimes voices. I tuned in to the river.

The beauty is always here, mostly undisturbed, waiting to be discovered. During nighttime hours when the day hike guests are gone it still flows, serenading a different set of admirers among the wildlife. I have to wonder if the loud screams of night crawlers and other creatures of the night manage to be heard among such an all-encompassing sound that fills in all the quiet places and mental gaps of nature’s other musicians, along with soothing life’s weights.

The river is content if no one ever notices because she is living by design. No regrets, and she’s okay with going it alone if need be.

River rocks are smooth from a lifetime of being sculpted, one cascade of flowing water at a time, into their current form. You know it’s a river rock. Take them out of the water and with a quick glance, or perhaps a touch, you can tell because the look takes time and dedication to create. Colors and shapes may differ, but they’re all beautiful and a crafted work of art. Like people. Gentle touches and inspiration, added day in and day out, shows on a person after a while.

Reflections on the water’s surface float overhead and paint an image below on those resting underneath the surface, catching their breath. Like a gentle hand covering and protecting. It’s a gentle reminder of where you came from, the beauty it extends, and how we fit into a master plan. The scene would be missing a piece of the puzzle without any one of us.