These Guys

Our last show at the Intervale featured a very loud Jazz Guys to wake up the lazy afternoon crowd (as well as the late-summer sleepy grasshoppers settled in the grasses around the barn).
The Jazz Guys are something not entirely jazz. In fact, they aren't jazz at all. They are more like a displaced Brit-pop-alt-inde band "journeying" through the Green Mountains. And being a "compilation" of two brothers, childhood friends and Johnson State grads, makes them decidedly non-Brit-pop-all-together. In these predominantly downjam band lands of Vermont, this group offers a refreshing heightened upward moving beat, that begins at the achilles tendon and works it's way up and out through every orifice of the head. They were damn loud. And with all their tight-knit boyish punk reverb, they drove out the last group of nesting swallows from the barn's rafters above. Not only should you be willing to go many miles to pay to see this Burlington band (and shimmy your butt off), but you might also consider them for hire if ever you need to clear your attic of bats! And then I imagine them with a bass; with that who knows what kind of creatures could be stirred out of their musical corners....

Debonair/ Without Words

Not much adventure writing to post these days. How about some musings instead?

Without Words

Why this desire to form a language of what is?

Always giving life to words that might rather be unsaid?

Why this need to express, to verbally transmit, to define; to create the metaphors that words allow?

How tainting is this act of always making symbols?

What of the risk of mundane projections and ugly distortions?

What if we let the words rest?

Oh, but how we welcome agile tongues to caress and embrace the visceral experience.

And how else to validate knowledge when we stop making words?

Is it not words telling us we are alive and that love is greater than the mere language we have to convey it?

And what of the fear that love could die by words unspoken?

Seaworthy

The fourth of July had skies of both lightening and fireworks.










By the way, we did finish our kayak stand (except for the padding). And see how Lake Champlain is still very high!







And finally, out to "sea"
(without my pfd?).

A Solstice Jig

Well, life surely does have it's many facets and adventure sports only takes up a small portion of mine. I haven't made it to the Atlantic yet, and the wind is not strong enough to windsurf and I just barely got my kayak on the water! So perhaps I should give a little plug to the great things happening in my own back yard-- The Intervale Center.

I volunteer in my community by supporting local organic agriculture and by organizing a summer music series called "Thursdays at the Intervale. Check it out at Intervale Center. We had our first event of the summer last week with the Irish band, The Redeemers.
Attention all haggard parents; I will let you in on little secret: very small children will dance for hours to Irish music.

Liz Soper, from National Audubon Society was our guest speaker. We had a silent auction to raise funds for the Intervale Farm Programs as well as to help farms recover from losses due to all the rain and flooding this spring. Donations included things such as chocolate, coffee, rare plant species and beautiful original watercolors and prints by local artist Bonnie Acker. American Flatbread was on board too, serving up delicious flatbread baked fresh in the mobile, hand-built hearth. The clay to make the hearth was collected from a river in Waitsfield, Vermont.

Peony Pad

Some creatures spend their entire lives as passengers on other living things. But aren't we all parasites of one kind or another? Spider finds everything it needs to survive on this luscious peony blossom: nectar, water, air... and microscopic larvae for dessert from time to time. Oh, but to find that one vehicle that provides it all...

When the Rain Never Stops

The lake water is so high we ran out of shoreline to build our kayak stand. How do you build in two feet of water? You don't. You move everything back toward the bank. The rain has been relentless for weeks, for months! But finally, we had a 4-hour break from it on Sunday and could start clearing and stake out an area for our stand. Mallet's Bay can be exquisitely pretty when viewed from my cockpit on the water, with views of the 'dacks to the west and Green Mountains to the east, but not so pretty standing on the shore in muddy boots, a hat and long pants on a cold rainy day in June, speculating on the weather and feeling a lot like those abandoned dinghies slumped over on the docks and waiting for summer to begin.

Cold Spirits of Paddlefests Past

It took ALL F'in' DAY to get out of town. Every turn a delay. From a stormpipe burst traffic backup, to being trapped by a stalled car in the City Market parking lot. And a cold shadow visited me that morning. Unforgiving.

Peopleless and raining, Radka rescuing hotdogs with both hands. Me rolling hot tea in my mouth, calling her "kayak" as she waded through discounted clothes, dripping mustard. Shivering.

A foggy drizzle Sunday drive home. Will CK understand how nasty cold drove disinterest in the whole affair? No demos or workshops? Are you crazy? Will she believe the shadow chased us out of Old Forge, only to take refuge in a lonesome float plane on Long Lake? Oh, but by then we were well-fed and warm. We dismissed the spirit's last whispers and looked forward to when cold beer would taste good again.