A Run

Morning greets me with otherworldly sliver of pink oil paint streak, fairly crackling as the pops of high tension powerlines over the eastern horizon. Late November may be too late for indian summer, yet no frost covers my window this morning. At McNaughton Park a quilt of oak leaves carpets single track, legs taking twenty minutes of climbing, descending into creek bottom before looseness comes. Rounding into the totem pole clearing, he's standing at the trailhead to the beach-- coyote, fur thick for coming cold, in no hurry he trots down the slope where I run only minutes later. No sign he was there. Vanished.

Before Rope Hill, two men with dogs. I pass, but not without some growls. Rope hill doesn't bury me; Foundation Loop helps thing flow, learning again to negotiate these hills. They can grind you down if you disrespect their wiles. Total time: 1:45. It's a start. Stretching every 30 minutes seems to have helped the foot; time will tell more. For today, a run.

Soundtrack: "Good Times"- Charlie Robison

Mackinaw River Blog

I've started a parallel blog (no myspace, no standard website, keepin it simple) to this one tentatively entitled, "River's Bend: A Mackinaw River Resource Spot." My goal is to set up some sort of forum for my own writing and various historical projects centered around the river. Ultimately, I would love to expand and include other folks' work of any and all sorts as they pertain to the Mackinaw. I don't know exactly which direction this will head, if any, but here goes.

Please contact me if you have any ideas or would like contribute in any way.

Go here: http://www.mackinawriver.blogspot.com

Election 2006

Take that old grey mare and shoot it
ain't nothin to you but a lame idea

Seen enough of those to know where they'll lead me
following hoofprints i'm finding a foundry

I didn't know where i was going
and i still don't know where i'll go today

Seems like all the folks with time to do the talking
they will always be the ones with the least to say

Tsunami, "Old Grey Mare"

Not Caring

Friday morning found me running in Forest Park. It had been raining steadily the past couple of days, but I didn't care.

Everything was saturated. Gray, swirling dark gray, but still beauty in the overcast morning while the world worked and I ran the hills. I did an hour and one half, the foot hurting at one hour in, but I didn't care.

Most of the leaves were off the trees from the wind and the rain, but the maples were there-toasted, muted against what shadowy strands of sky the canopy allows. Most branches were barren, but I didn't care.

On Pimetoui I ran past a park ranger working in the chilly rain clearing saplings and brush from the hill prairie with his chainsaw. I stopped. We talked about the forests, about how the powers that be eschew fire and how shortsighted they are to do so, and how that shortsightedness shapes these woods into something they've never been; we talked about the delicate hill prairie, so rare now it is. My run put on hold for several minutes, but I didn't care.

My pace actually quickened on the precipitous downhill toward the road, stepping lightly over the few roots I could actually see through the leaf cover. Back to the parking lot, mud caked soles, sweat, the foot throbbing with every step. I looked a mess; I'm sure of it, but I didn't care.