You Can't Have All the Things You Love

On our walk down Dean's Fork, our wandering horse friends come out to meet us, ignoring their shorted-out electric fencing. They have the run of the road, as the random piles of horsebockie attest.

Another pretty pair. The mare's a nice Appaloosa. Some people say they're not the sharpest knives in the drawer, but she seems both wise and kind.

What's lovelier than a young girl and a horse, talking?




If it weren't for the vet and food and shoeing and housing and fencing costs; if it weren't for the possibility of busted kid limbs and heads, heck, I'd have a couple of horses around. I love 'em. More than that, I love to love other people's horses. Having once been part-owner of a boat, I'd put hosses and boats in the same category. Sure, I'd love a ride on yours, thank you! And then when the engine (pastern, hoof, fence, barn) breaks down, you can be the one to fix it...


I could never understand why my dad wouldn't get me that horse I was dying to have. And now I do, oh how I do. It's one of those things that you can't grasp until you're in your parents' shoes, like wondering why your mom hated to see 14-year-old you take off alone on a 20-mile ride through the Virginia countryside on your ten-speed. What's the problem? you wondered. Why is she being so stern and worried? I'm FINE. Speedy! Alert! Immortal!

Dad, can I have a horse?

Farther on down the road, Jake found a stop sign, stolen from somewhere, lying in the ditch. All his switchboard lights lit up. He wanted it for his room.



Here they came down the road, carrying the dreadfully heavy sign. Click click click, aggh what a shot!

Liam's helping.
In the end we decided it was too heavy to carry the next mile. Whew. Not to mention that it's punishable by law to have a stop sign, even a found one, in your bedroom...

Back to the stream and the woods.


The Dean's Fork redtail circled, throwing spears down at us


and Cooper smiled in the sun.

Happy birthday, Shila, BFF, appreciator of all good things, fellow child trying to get in touch with her inner adult! What will the new year hold for you? Walks down Dean's Fork: a lock.

Chet's Angel

Thank you, everyone, for your support, for your shared stories, for testifying to the frightening importance of your dogs and cats and cockatiels in your lives. Clearly, we are on the same wavelength. I had a little white budgie named Edie years ago who I'd caught by hand as he fluttered along I-95 in Connecticut in late October. He was with me only three years, but he carved a little roost in my heart that's never been filled. When I was sick, Edie would fly all the way down the dark hallway to find me, and cuddle up under my chin. He was tiny, but so full of love. When Edie died, I bought a lovely chicory-blue budgie to replace him, and named him Bing. Bing was a little twit, given to biting the inside of my nostril just to hear me yelp, and he lived eight full years before he decided to do a little beak-fencing with Charlie the macaw. You win some, you lose some.

April's comment on "Chet's Fall" about her mom's not wanting to get a kitten after losing a beloved cat reminded me of my mom. We had one dachshund, and he was a doozie, a truly great dog, a solid, stolid character, built like a brick outhouse, not one of those spindly, roach-backed mini's which seem to be all you see these days. And when Volks passed on, Mom said never again. I wonder how it will be for me. I can't imagine living without Boston kisses, but then...I just don't know. His fall certainly made me think about it, though.

Himself looks like a puddle of ink on the freshly-washed, sunshiny fleece blanket after an all-day woods trek that culminated in hamburgers cooked over a wood fire. Baker heaven. He climbed inside many hollow trees and logs, looking for racketycoons and squirtles. Yes, he got half a burger.

Sights along the way to Chet's cliff:

The long, flyspecked face of a curious horse. Horses, their warm sweet breath, hot close hair, their sweaty scent, their kind eyes, always a comfort to me. They seem to like people. I wonder why that would be; like cattle, they don't have to be kind to us, but they are.

The incredible beauty that surrounds us. How is it that we get to drive down roads like these? Could a place be more beautiful than this township road in late October?

How I miss the fiery sugar maples. There are not enough of them to go around. I must visit this one now that it's bare, just to remember.



Chet listens for a squirtle in the leaves behind him. He's in fine form just a week after his accident. Heck, he was fine a minute afterward.

A languid tussock moth caterpillar polishes off a raspberry leaf.


As we prepare to leave, Chet's angel smiles softly.

Horse, Turtle, Spider, Beaver

We came upon these friendly horses, and luckily Chet Baker was weary enough at that point to have little desire to round them up for us. Lovely animals. From the decrepitude of their non-electric fencing, we realized that they are free to roam the entire road, and that the piles of horse bockie we'd been seeing were probably from them and not from some local equestrians using the road as an obstacle course.

How nice, free-roaming horses. The best pasture was right here, and they weren't going anywhere.
I find most of my box turtles by hearing them, oddly enough. A steady soft crunching resolves into a turtle, determined to find a few more earthworms before frost.

Its eyes were bright red, traditionally a sign of a male, but its overall impression was of a lady turtle. I debated long and hard over whether to disturb it by picking it up. But the Science Chimp's curiosity won out over respect for its dignity.I noticed that it had had some damage to the rear scutes on its shell, some years ago. They looked either like forest fire--a light burn on the rear part of the shell, which might have been exposed when the flames went over--or perhaps the chewings of a mouse while it was hibernating. Whatever it was had long healed over, leaving only some irregularity and discoloration.

I warned it, spoke gently to it, apologized, and lifted it into the air. Aha! the plastron, only barely scooped out. A female, as I'd suspected.


I can't really explain why this red-eyed turtle looked like a female, even before I saw its plastron. It just did. Darker, smaller, more delicate head; small size, even at this very advanced age (discernable by the completely smooth shell). I was so glad she'd live out her years along this impassable road. All turtles should be so lucky. I left her right where she was, and wished her a good hibernation.

The common mullein was ready for hibernation
with its warm woolens on

and so was the wolf spider, with next year's babies in a ball of eggs behind her


The old familiar beaver pond hove into view

and we found where the beavers had been using a black cherry tree for medicinal purposes. Shila says cherry bark is good for coughs. That sap has got to have powerful properties!

Jewellike hornets tussled on New York asters

a miniature moss landscape rose

and a tiny red maple kept its party dress on well past midnight

Chet Baker was ready to go home at last

but I had to stop to photograph a computer keyboard in the stream, made into a relic by silt and the distortion of wavelets...Fred Flintstone's Mac...

One of my favorite images from the trip. As is this one, crooked horizon and all:


I can't wait until the next hike.