Tales from the hermitage:
digitalscapes by starchy
High in a young alder, silhouetted by a big harvest moon sat the dull, blunt nosed shape, of a large porcupine. His spiny extended quills radiated in shimmering halos of moonlight, couldn’t help but impress. For me, the remarkable vision encapsulated the complete spirit of the wilderness. However, that was as far as my admiration could stretch, for his intrusion could have serious consequences.
digitalscapes by Bill Stark
Rocking gently in the morning mist, my dock began to settle into its own easy equilibrium. The slightest movement on it sent up a slapping chain reaction of tiny water spouts. That ran off up and down the logs, making the most delightful sound. Even Zibby’s light patter created miniature spouts that followed her every movement. Trying to curl up in my frost laden chair with hot coffee became an art, especially when struggling to keep exposed feet tucked warm inside the heavy woolen blanket. Once safely cocooned and settled, we both settled in for our mornings contemplation.
Lino Cut by Bill Stark
In long open shimmering leads, lazy cat paws stretched in soft rippling bands across the mirrored lake. It was like mother nature absentmindedly doodling, and concentrating her main weather patterns elsewhere. It was during theses easy summer days that I wallowed in the warm lake building the dock. The dock had become my dream platform, and apart from being cool and free of bugs, dreaming was my main purpose for building it. It certainly wasn’t because I was expecting company, however company did show up in the form of a young Black Bear.
Lino cut by starchy
Bean toothed winos shuffled by, as I stood bewildered in front of a bleak and tarnished hotel on Duncan street. I flipped the vets business card over rechecking the hand written address again and again. Hoping to see a different number every time, but this was the place. This had to be some kind of mistake, I reasoned to myself, else why would Jack Russell puppies be for sale in this terrible hell hole?
A wall of darkness enveloped me as I stepped through the hotels main doorway and into what I sensed was a massive ornate ballroom. Only through the hollow acoustics could I tell that the room was immense, for I could not see a thing. All I could do was stand there at the entrance feeling exposed in an alien world, until my eyes began to adjust. Lurid smoke infested catacombs began to greet me, with dark boozehounds huddled over ancient and tired beer drench tables, like pigs at a trough. The pallid chamber was completely devoid of joy. Long ago, happiness had been knifed in the back, and dragged out and dumped in the alley. Through a weak pink nebulous light, echoed the haunting rifts of Led Zeppelin's, Kashmir. The smell of retch and puke mingled with piss and beer, chocked me to the edge of vomit.
As I descended the final rungs from the loft, a pungent musk enveloped me. In the dim twilight, I was hesitant to step into the fray, until I heard Zibby’s frustrated whinny grunts. Her unmistakable display of frustration, meant that she had lost the nocturnal hunter she was after. I had automatically checked the squirrel and knew it was safe, as I descended into the crashing and banging below me.
digitalscapes by starchy
Under the rhinestone pilled sky, nestled in the dark deeply silhouetted pines, my cabin roof had become the perfect landing pad. The Hermitage, whether occupied or not, always hosted the night games, that took place on schedule at twilight. It had long before my time, become home base for a night of tag and play. I noticed when I moved my bedroll to the loft, that my thin cabin roof acted like a giant receiver. The intriguing and wonderful aspects of the forest night, opened up to me when I began sleeping beneath the hewed timbers of my magical cabin.
digitalscapes by starchy
Shaking nervously on the edge of miraculous, I searched hard for my lost dignity. Looking about the woods, I felt deeply relived that no one had witnessed my ridiculous behavior. Brushing myself off and feeling relatively composed, I tried hard to assess the situation. I was technically rich, but even I could see that it would take a lot of time, work and money to properly extract this wealth.
lino cut by starchy
Riding the strong prevailing winds the giant shore pines, resilient and elastic, swayed their massive heads inland. Under their wild and sweeping branches, the old canoe spun in rebirth, up and down in the dark tannin troughs. Zibby, never being in a boat before, took to it like an old seadog. She immediately gravitated to the bow and ever since, has become my faithful lookout. She seemed to be enjoying the water as much as I, and looked ever so funny with her Jack Russell ears flopping in the wind.
With undeveloped canoeing muscles, I decided not to challenge the wind today, and made my way back along the shore. Although sturdy and well built, it was old and leaked like a sieve, it badly needed a recovering of canvas. A job for skilled hands and away out of my league. Although, I decided then and there, to learn how. My whole world opened with this discovery and as the boat knifed up onto the sandy beach, it felt as if all the tumblers had landed on Cherries.
digitalscapes by starchy
Reflecting on sleepy eyes, firelight danced and played intricate patterns over the dew ladened tent. Soft crackling and exploding sparks were the last things I heard, until Zibby woke me in the cold pitch blackness. Piercing down somewhere into my happy dreamy subconscious, Zibby’s fear reached me. In that split millisecond between dream and reality, confusion reigned. This was where one learns to suppress fear, and reason, at all costs.
Photograph by starchy all rights reserved
Caught in shafts of sunlight, diamond beads of water arched off my glistening fly line. Helpless and compliant as a caboose on a train, the fly traveled back and forth in long lazy loops over the stream. With a quick flick of the wrist, I directed the fast floating line up and across the babbling creek. The lure landed softly and submerged in the fast current, just off the far bank. Instantly the snaking line began to straighten, about two meters above where I sensed a fish was lurking.
A disapproving kingfisher lectured me from high in his leafy pulpit, the sermon went on and on, in scolding tones of condemnation. Ignoring his tirade, I fell back in tune with my fly, that at this moment was floating enticingly under the nose of a plump rainbow trout.
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