 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| GOING WITH THE FLOW by Perry H. Biddle Jr. Life is a canoe trip down a rushing mountain stream. You can’t turn back , though you long to do so. You can only move with the current, churning and splashing along .But how I would like to go back upstream and take another look at that breathtaking view of mountain peaks. Back upstream to a spot where the water is calm in a pond built by a family of beavers. Back upstream to the point before the canoe overturned and drenched me and I had to pull it to shore and bail it out. Back upstream, knowing in advance where the whirlpools are and the hidden rocks lie waiting to ram my shining craft. But, life flows on and I must go with the flow. Go with openness and flexibility to what life brings. Going with the flow is risky. You never know when you may capsize again or even get a hole punched in the bottom to end the trip. But that’s the thrill of it all, isn’t it? The life and death struggle to keep afloat and moving with the flow. Moving along the stream gets broader and I become more skillful in maneuvering the craft of life. Going with the flow I discover even more thrilling views never even dreamed of, the serendipity of it all is almost too much. I hadn’t planned on passing through a meadow blazing with spring flowers or seeing a proud buck grazing in the distance or an eagle soaring overhead. These are extras of life, things I hadn’t earned or counted on or deserved. They are gifts, gifts from the giver. I know not what lies ahead. But I know I must go with the flow and I would not turn back upstream. No, not really, even if I had the chance for there are too many challenges and thrills ahead to lure me on and on and on. Moving with the flow demands my best in guiding the canoe with a burst of paddling now, then a time of flowing through calm waters to the next rapids.. Moving with the flow demands a sharp eye for what lies ahead and how to avoid the spills. It calls for split second decisions which can’t be undone and relived. Moving with the flow means using my mind and body with all the skill I have. But sometimes the flow takes me past willows bending over the stream where I duck my head and lose sight of the way. My skills are of little value. I must trust the one who created the woods and streams, the mountain peaks and sky and , yes, even me. It means trusting God to bring me through the rapids of life to a safe ending where all streams meet and find safe harbor in the eternal. |
| A Different Christmas Poem The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light, I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight. My wife was asleep, her head on my chest, My daughter beside me, angelic in rest. Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white, Transforming the yard to a winter delight. The sparkling lights in the tree I believe, Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve. My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep, Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep. In perfect contentment, or so it would seem, So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream. The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near, But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear. Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow. My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear, And I crept to the door just to see who was near. Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night, A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight. A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old, Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold. Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled, Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child. "What are you doing?" I asked without fear, "Come in this moment, it's freezing out here! Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve, You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!" For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift, Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts.. To the window that danced with a warm fire's light Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right, I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night." "It's my duty to stand at the front of the line, That separates you from the darkest of times. No one had to ask or beg or implore me, I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me. My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December," Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers." My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ', And now it is my turn and so, here I am. I've not seen my own son in more than a while, But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile. Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag, The red, white, and blue... an American flag. I can live through the cold and the being alone, Away from my family, my house and my home. I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet, I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat. I can carry the weight of killing another, Or lay down my life with my sister and brother.. Who stand at the front against any and all, To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall." "So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright, Your family is waiting and I'll be all right." "But isn't there something I can do, at the least, "Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast? It seems all too little for all that you've done, For being away from your wife and your son." Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret, "Just tell us you love us, and never forget. To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone, To stand your own watch, no matter how long. For when we come home, either standing or dead, To know you remember we fought and we bled. Is payment enough, and with that we will trust, That we mattered to you as you mattered to us." PLEASE, Would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S.service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us. LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN 30t h Naval Construc tion Regiment OIC, Logistics Cell One Al Taqqadum , Iraq. |
| "Wilderness areas are first of all a series of sanctuaries for the primitive arts of wilderness travel, especially canoeing and packing." Aldo Leopold |
| Toughen up, grit your teeth, tolerate the mosquitoes, the rain, the wind. Yes, the trail is a little rough, steep and muddy. But that inner strength and drive will get you across. We accept and relish these challenges in the BW, but our current environment seems so fragile, weak and sensitive that the slightest breeze from the wrong direction seems capable of destroying it. Lets not sit down on the trail and give up, pouting to go home while there are still portages to cross, lakes to paddle and storms to weather. |
| "Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares drop off like autumn leaves." |
| ...Character is doing what's right, when nobody's looking." --Congressman J.C.Watts |
| "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." George Carlin |
| "God let Peter walk on water. To the rest of us He gave knees." |
| A Different Christmas Poem by Sherwin A Different Christmas Poem The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light, I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight. My wife was asleep, her head on my chest, My daughter beside me, angelic in rest. Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white, Transforming the yard to a winter delight. The sparkling lights in the tree I believe, Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve. My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep, Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep. In perfect contentment, or so it would seem, So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream. The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near, But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear. Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow. My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear, And I crept to the door just to see who was near. Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night, A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight. A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old, Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold. Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled, Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child. "What are you doing?" I asked without fear, "Come in this moment, it's freezing out here! Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve, You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!" For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift, Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts.. To the window that danced with a warm fire's light Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right, "I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night." "It's my duty to stand at the front of the line, That separates you from the darkest of times. No one had to ask or beg or implore me, I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me. My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December," Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers." My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ', And now it is my turn and so, here I am. I've not seen my own son in more than a while, But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile. Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag, The red, white, and blue.. an American flag. I can live through the cold and the being alone, Away from my family, my house and my home. I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet, I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat. I can carry the weight of killing another, Or lay down my life with my sister and brother.. Who stand at the front against any and all, To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall." "So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright, Your family is waiting and I'll be all right." "But isn't there something I can do, at the least, "Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast? It seems all too little for all that you've done, For being away from your wife and your son." Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret, "Just tell us you love us, and never forget. To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone, To stand your own watch, no matter how long. For when we come home, either standing or dead, To know you remember we fought and we bled. Is payment enough, and with that we will trust, That we mattered to you as you mattered to us." -- |
| Dec 7....... "I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve." Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto. He supposedly made this quote shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. This is an unsubstantiated quote from the Japanese Admiral who orchestrated the attack. |
| "Walk too fast you leave your feet behind." |
| Something happens to a man when he sits before a fire. Strange stirrings take place within him, and a light comes into his eyes which was not there before. An open flame suddenly changes his environment to one of adventure and romance. Even an indoor fireplace has this effect, though its owner is protected by four walls and the assurance that, should the fire go out, his thermostat will keep him warm. No matter where an open fire happens to be, in a city apartment, a primitive cabin, or deep in the wilderness, it weaves its spell. Before men ever dreamed of shelter, campfires were their homes. Here they gathered and made their first plans for communal living, for tribal hunts and raids. Here for centuries they dreamed vague dreams and became slowly aware of the first faint glimmerings and nebulous urges that eventually were to widen the gulf between them and the primitive darkness from which they sprang. Although the gulf is wide, even now we see the future in leaping flames, making plans in their enchantment which in the brash light of day seem foolhardy. Before them, modern conquests are broached and unwritten pledges made which vary little from those of the past. Around a fire men feel that the whole world is their campsite and all men partners of the trail. Once a man has known the warmth and companionship there, once he has tasted the thrill of stories of the chase with the firelight in his eyes, he has made contact with the past, recaptured some of the lost wonder of his early years and some of the sense of mystery of his forebears. He has reforged a link in his memory which was broken when men abandoned the life of the nomad and moved from the forests, plains, and mountains to the security of villages. Having bridged the gap, he swiftly discovers something he had lost, a sense of belonging to the earth and to his kind. When that happens, he reaches back beyond his own life experience to a time when existence was simple. So deeply ingrained is his feeling, and all it connotes, that even the building of a fire has ritualistic significance. Whether he admits it or not, every act of preparation is vital and satisfying to civilized man. Although the fire may not be needed for warmth or protection or even the preparation of food, it is still a primal and psychological necessity. On any wilderness expedition it always serves as a climax to the adventures of the day, is as important to a complete experience as the final curtain to a play. It gives everyone an opportunity to participate in an act hallowed by the devotion of forgotten generations. The choice of the proper spot to build a fire is important. No place is picked lightly, for there are many factors involved. From the time man first carried a living brand from some lightning-struck stub and then discovered how to generate a flame with a whirling spindle and tinder, he was set apart. He has not forgotten, and even today everyone is anxious to help the fire-builder get started. All join in the search for kindling, for resinous bits of wood and bark. How proudly each brings in his offering, what genuine satisfaction is shared when the flames take hold! As the fire burns, see how it is tended and groomed and fondled, how little chips are added as they fall away from the larger sticks, how every man polices the fringe before him and treats the blaze as the living thing that it is. Anyone who has traveled in the wilds knows how much he looks forward to the time of day when he can lay down his burden and make camp. He pictures the ideal place and all that he must find there: water, a good wood supply, protection from wind and weather. As shadows begin to lengthen, the matter of a campsite takes precedence over everything else, as it has for ages past whenever men have been on the move. The camp with its fire has always been the goal, a place worth striving toward and, once attained, worth defending against all comers. G.M. Trevelyan once said: “We are literally children of the earth, and removed from her our spirits wither or run to various forms of insanity. Unless we can refresh ourselves at least by intermittent contact with nature, we grow awry.” What he was thinking of was the need of a race of men in which ancient needs and urges are still very much alive, a a race caught in the intricate and baffling milieu of a civilization that no longer provides the old satisfactions or sources of contentment. Thoreau implied exactly the same when he said: “In wilderness is the salvation of mankind.” The campfire would have typified a necessary means of contact to them both. In years of roaming the wilds, my campfires seem like glowing beads in a long chain of experience. Some of the beads glow more than the others, and when I blow on them ever so softly, they burst into flame. When that happens, I recapture the scenes themselves, pick them out of the almost forgotten limbo of the past and make them live. One of these glowing beads was a little camp on the bare shelf of rock beside the Isabella River. The moon was full that night and the tent was in the light of it. Because the river ran north and south at that point, the moon shone down the length of a long, silvery pool, turning the rapids at its base into a million dancing pinpoints. A whippoorwill was calling and the valley of the Isabella was full of its haunting music, a music that seemed to blend into the gurgle of the rapids, the splash of rising trout, and the sleepy calling of a white-throated sparrow disturbed by the crackling flames. The tall spruces at the end of the pool were black against the sky, and every leaf was tinged with silver. A trout rose again and again, and widening circles moved over the pool, erasing the smooth luminescence of its surface. The campfire was part of the magic and witchery of that scene. For primitive man the night might have been tinged with superstition and perhaps with fear. We only wondered at its beauty. One summer I made an expedition into the Maligne River country in the Quetico. We were camped on a slender spit of rock overlooking the wild, island-studded reaches of Lac la Croix. A dead pine had fallen and shattered itself on the very tip of the point, and there with chunks of the resinous wood we built our fire. We sat on a little shelf of rock under the pines where we could watch the firelight change the branches and their tracery to coppery gold. For hours we watched them and the reflection on the water, but when a loon called from the open lake and then swam like a ghost into the circle of light, the scene was touched with magic. Another time, I was camped at the mouth of the Range River where it empties into Low Lake. The bluebills had come and gone, and a snowstorm was raging overhead. Our tent was in the shelter of a ledge that protected us from the gale. It smelled of balsam, and our sleeping-bags were dry and warm. The little campfire out in front not only meant warmth and protection from the cold, but somehow made us part of the storm. Through it we could watch the swirling snow, hear it hiss as it struck the water, see the branches of the trees and the ground becoming whiter and whiter. Once, above its whispering and the roar of the wind, we heard the sound of wings, a last belated flock hurtling down the river. There have been countless campfires, each one different, but some so blended into their backgrounds that it is hard for them to emerge. But I have found that when I catch even a glimmer of their almost forgotten light in the eyes of some friend who has shared them with me, they begin to flame once more. Those old fires have strange and wonderful powers. Even their memories make life the adventure it was meant to be. Sigurd F. Olson The Singing Wilderness |
| JOYS OF AN OPEN CAMPFIRE by Rebecca Barry Famous nature writers and poets write meaty, philosophical and romantic stuff about campfires all the time. They write of flames, warmth, coals and embers and their words conjure up images of enchantment, sentiment and magic. In their poems, flickering flame-tongues reach skyward with religious significance. Writers describe how campfires draw people close together, stimulate them to spin tales, dream dreams and feel a special companionship and sharing in the out-of doors. One writer says every wilderness campfire is a glowing bead on a long chain of experience. But none of these astute wordsmiths ever tells the truth about what really happens around a campfire. It’s hard to think about the sacredness of campfires when you find a firepit full of someone else’s burned up trash, melted aluminum foil, rusty cans and remains of a half-burned 14” log, 13 feet long propped up on a fire grate. Just try starting a fire with soggy, wet paper matches, or wooden matches when the little white tips scrape off when you try to strike them on a rough, wet rock. Or when there isn’t enough paper, tinder or birch bark available. Writers and poets never tell their readers about flicking butane lighters twenty-seven times in a row with no luck and ending up with a raw thumb. Never do they mention having to stumble around in the dark woods only to find a few measly pieces of half-rotted, punky wood that takes forty-five minutes to catch fire and even when it does catch hold, produces puny flames, billowing plumes of smoke and no heat whatsoever. Blowing on glowing embers and singeing your eyebrows, accidently stirring up a face full of ash dust and inadvertently inhaling acrid smoke is not the subject of much high- class outdoor prose. Around a campfire I always seem to experience the joy of sitting on damp, hard ground, getting up to discover a big gob of melted pine pitch stuck to the seat of my britches. It’s either that or sitting on a skinny, round, barkless log and ending up falling backwards on to the ground, melting the bottoms of my sneakers and charring the woolen socks in the campfire. Then there is the common experience of having a very hot front, feeling your face blistering while your back is icy-cold, necessitating having to keep turning around like meat on a spit. Nasty little demons live in firepits. They hang around and wait for people to do something stupid and delight in tormenting dedicated campfire-watchers. When the wind blows ever so slightly, these little buggers are responsible for the sparks that zing out of the fire without warning and burn little black pinholes in your expensive Gore-tex jacket. No matter which side of the fire you sit, the fire demons make sure you are always directly in line with the smoke. They are responsible for causing coughing fits, burning eyes and throats, and making people get up and walk away for fresh air. Real nature writers never mention the fire demons or the fluttering hordes of kamikaze moths that materialize out of the darkness, zoom headfirst into the flames and vaporize in a puff of dust before your very eyes. It really makes you stop and think about the fragility of life when they do that. It can be a real conversation-stopper around a night-time campfire. There are other airborne, armor piercing bugs which take fiendish delight in swarming around campfires—like mosquitos large enough to have landing lights or carry off newborn babies. They have the effect of stimulating conversation of the wrong kind. Other forest creatures draw close, just outside the ring of firelight, with their eyes glowing, snuffling, crunching and rustling in the bushes and making just enough noise to scare even the bravest camper into a nearby tree until daylight comes. Last summer my canoe-camping companions and I established the custom of taking a handful of cold ashes away from each firepit and adding them to new ones along our journey from lake to lake. This simple act symbolizes the continuity of experiences we have shared on our wilderness treks, both on the water and around night-time campfires. The bonds we have developed with one another, the long-term friendships, the laughter, the memories of past trips and hundreds of campfires shared have almost a spiritual quality for us-wet matches, smoke in our eyes and bugs included. |
| "The life I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place my touch will be felt." Frederick Buechner |
