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Cave Run Lake is, in a word, huge.
A giant watery snake, its 8000 acres wind for miles, past rugged shorelines, above them, nothing but the densely treed hills of Daniel Boone National Forest.
This wild and wandering place, wonderful to lose yourself within—
but it could really happen here.

Each bend unfolds to look
just as the last.

Each stand of willows, each sycamore, each sweetgum,
planted on a ruddy rock bank—
shows no mark to guide the way, for one paddling slowly along.


So, looking backward over my shoulder, as we broke from the edge and traced a course toward the opposite shoreline, I scanned for an object to remember upon our return—
a mark that would be an easy target, a blaze from across the water to guide us back to our camp.


And thought this large, floating refrigerator,
unsightly as it might be,
perfect for the job.
How could anyone miss that??

We paddled on,
and discovered another, and another…and another.
Each refrigerator, each water heater, each soccer ball—
having found its way to this great lake
from someone’s private dumping ground,
now floated at the edge,
bobbing in the wake of passing boats,
arranged beside rubber tire planters.



Because, once dumped,
it never really goes away—
it just goes somewhere else.

In our day on the water, we passed 7 floating refrigerators, 10 floating water heaters and 12 soccer balls.
Tires too numerous to mention bob within piles of bottles and other waste.

Missing a Mullein

Common Mullein, Verbascum thapsus

It is my habit to walk at night, after the day’s work, when the heat has passed and the sun leans toward the western sky, leaving the fields in coolness and still.
Along the lane between corn and soy, watching deer browse at the distant tree line, butterflies dance along the gravel path--this has become the routine.

But, last week I walked here early, as the sun was rising, the day bright and fresh.
To catch a few pictures before the clouds brought rain and strong winds to blow them away.

And I found it a different place, in the morning.
Tender blooms open wide, that, by evening, have passed--
never seen on all those other walks.

I must remember to break old habits.

Morning Roadside with Moth Mullein

Moth Mullein, Verbascum blattaria

(please click to enlarge)

I see Common Mullein often. Its wooly leaves and tall, spiky stem stand out easily along roadsides and vacant lots.
But, only in the morning, do the blossoms of Moth Mullein open broadly, revealing its place, too, in disturbed gravel shoulders lining the fields.
So named, because its petals resemble moth's wings, its stamens, their feathery antennae.

Read more about mullein here:
Common Mullein
Moth Mullein
.

Alone on the River (SWF)

Alone on the River




Great Blue Heron in tree

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Zebra Swallowtail

Cabbage White butterfly feeding at thistle

I caught just a glimpse of her,
skipping boldly through the field
on the long, striped wings I have waited for.

Coneflower in garden

But today, I cannot find her,
though at every other flower and stem,
wings lay open,
hungry mouths feed.

Skipper feeding at teasel

Little Wood-Satyr on goldenrod stem

I hope she will remember me,
the Paw-Paws planted,
just as she likes them,
in the shaded grove.

Three small trees.

Paw paws planted

Zebra Swallowtail, Eurytides marcellus

Just as Monarchs go with milkweed, so, too, do Zebra Swallowtails and the Paw-Paw tree.
As wooded areas are cleared, this native understory tree is often lost.
In April, hoping to attract Zebra Swallowtail butterflies, I planted 3 small trees.

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Differences

Cave Run Lake, Kentucky

They sped past us on the lake—a handful of boats, each filled to capacity with young men, engines full throttle, voices above the roar, laughing.
And, sharply turning Red Canoe to ride their wild wake face-first, we waited and watched, buffeted by waves as they drove on into the distance, as a group.
The open water, theirs to write upon—
in sweeping curves carved across its surface.

baby Map Turtle

Once past, we softly glided along still water, tracing the shoreline for hours as it dipped and jogged into hushed coves and quiet fingers, the other boats-- all but forgotten. And we lost ourselves in the curious faces of baby turtles, a bounty of dragons and damsels riding atop the gunwales.

Before we could discern the source, loud rumblings from engines struggling against unwilling water suddenly drove several large birds from the lake to the sky, and we rounded the corner to find the boats nearby again. This time, maneuvering wildly in a small area just ahead of us, back and forth across the narrow channel, bearing down upon the one who had not flown off with the rest, to safety.
Hoping to drive over it, devour it with their engines and swallow it beneath the churning water, the pursuit of this desperate, unfortunate bird had become their afternoon sport.
And, although every part of me wished to scream out against them, “Stop it!”--
I held my hand to my mouth in silence.
And we backed Red Canoe slowly away.

I am reminded daily, of our differences—
as I walk the narrow lane past the homes of my neighbors, who, on one side of the street are dismantling their wooded lot, one tree at a time to achieve perfect green,
while on the other, they are planting a forest.
Shared place means nothing more.
We share a space, but not a purpose.


The next morning in our campsite beside the lake, we woke again to the song of the Wood Thrush, this time just inches beyond our tent wall, resounding in the dampness left from a night of rain—a private dawn concert for two.


And as he sang beside us, a chorus so loud and clear, repeating each phrase again and again until we knew the pattern perfectly, in that place between sleep and wakefulness, I found myself singing his same song.

Eastern Box Turtle,
Terrapene carolina carolina

As I walked the camp roadway toward the bathhouse later that morning, past the constant commotion of radios already tuned to the rambling pre-race commentaries, I found a box turtle crossing the blacktop pad of an empty site, his shell bright with color, eyes watchful of me and my curious approach.
Then, before another could stumble upon us and wonder what I found so beautiful in this slow-moving form—his questioning neck raised, each small step so deliberate.
I tucked him beneath the dense brush in silence.
And backed slowly away.

Up to my Neck in Riches

Jewelweed,
Impatiens capensis

Crouching here, I can almost sense her watching,
still, from beyond the thick cover of grasses in this shallow arm of water, her babies scattered to every edge, buried in the dense, tangle of green.
A Wood Duck, so very shy of my approach that, even from yards away, she takes to the air—as she sounds the alarm, and disappears into the safety of the woods.

If I could wait, hidden, for her return,
she would be so lovely—
her crested head and white eye patch, the only marks setting her apart from the dark browns and deep greens of this little farm pond.




So, I creep a little closer,
settle a bit lower to the ground,
and bury myself in the translucent green stems of jewelweed drinking from around the rim. Tender leaves glistening with small beads of rain, their pendulous flowers of brilliant orange and red, hanging from just a thread.

(click photos to enlarge!)

Oh, now I’ve done it!
This nest of sleeping spiderlings, awoken—
they run in every direction, screaming,
“Save yourselves!”

Gold (SWF)

There are a few fields of gold,
scattered between the many of corn and soy,
that turn from their soft green hues,
warm and glowing.

And on that perfect day,
are cut, baled and stacked as straw,
the wheat already picked from the tip of each stem.


Many times I find I have missed the baling—
turn the corner to nothing more
than fading stubble where the golden stems had been.

But yesterday, I found them working.
It was, after all, that perfect day.

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