The worst roads and most arduous paths lead to the most beautiful places.
As far north as one can go on land in the state of Wisconsin, in Indian Country (Red Cliff reservation), for a few days I...
Forgot what day of the week it was.
Watched a loon dive as the moon rose.
Wrote haiku on a sandy beach using a stick.
Pulled a blood-engorged tick off my left calf.
Watched a ladybug crawl down a sapling pine.
Sat on red rocks and looked out over blue water.
Visited an anarchist printer in the tiny town of Cornucopia.
Sat in the shade of a lichen-covered tree and listened to the wind.
Listened to tree trunks rub together, sounding like a squeaky door.
Tippy-toed along a precarious boardwalk of wooden pallets across a wide marsh.
Stripped down to my hat and sat in the sun on a heavily patched overturned boat.
Learned that Mazinaigan Waakaaigan--the Red Cliff library--subscribes to Utne Reader.
Sat on soft pine needles, smelled their scent, and later found a glob of pitch on one of my socks.
Went to a place called Point Detour after a white-haired Indian feller named Elvin told me about it.
Watched and listened as spumes of water exploded thunderlike from sea caves at the base of red cliffs whose windy precipices I traversed.
Drove in first gear down dead end roads until I could go no further, then parked and walked to the edge of the world, getting my boots muddy in the process.
What is it that draws me to red rocks, I wonder? Here's a drier red rock account of a ramble in southern Utah last year.
stlibrarian at yahoo.com