December 2023

December 31, 2023

Today is the last day of 2023.

This morning, I slept in until six o’clock, brewed some coffee, taking some time to stretch while my brain thawed from my long sleep. Today, we walked in the afternoon, so the morning was free and I planned to take it slow.

In my office, I unrolled my yoga mat onto the wooden floor and put on some music while doing yoga for about forty minutes. My body, stiff from the long walks, needed to be twisted and stretched back into place.

We started our six-mile walk a little before noon, still saying “good morning” to passersby out of habit. The lake was beautiful, and we commented on how different it looked in the afternoon. Of course, I think sunrises and sunsets give the lake a little more contrast and color. The walk went fine, but we were cold, tired, and hungry.

After our walk in Wilson, we stopped at La Rancherita for an amazing lunch. We also made a quick stop at a sporting goods store to pick up a few items: gaiters to help combat the cold, a small folding chair for fishing and sitting in the deer blind, and a new archery target.

When we arrived home, I gathered my archery equipment, pulling out six new arrows from storage and screwing in new field point tips. I’ve always shot the Spartan Black Eagle carbon fiber arrows with excellent results using my Matthews V3 compound bow. My old target was a beat up, and I wanted to try out the new one I purchased.

Archery practice sessions include rock or country music playing on a portable speaker, a target, bow, arrows, and rangefinder. This afternoon, I shot at twenty, thirty, and forty yards, using my Axcel Accustat II three-pinned sight. I’m always amazed at the accuracy of modern bows. If you give the bow a consistent platform, have a steady hold, and can release the string with a surprise break, you can easily place three of four arrows in a three or four-inch bullseye at forty yards.

I really enjoy archery practice. It makes me focus on my body, breath, bow, and target in a way that melds everything together. The practice is meditative, and I always feel hyper-focused after practice. I also believe there is something special about skills that humans have been performing for millennia, and archery is one of those activities that connects us with our primitive past.

After practice, I went inside the house and my wife asked if I could take Axel, our hyperactive dog, outside for a bit. She was trying to study, and he was trying to help her. Axel and I headed out of the gate and into the front yard. I let him run, marveling at how fast he covered the distance between the house and barn. After a few laps, we walked into the pine grove. I planned was to let him run through the woods, but after a few hundred yards, I spotted several deer at the feeding area near my blind.

Distracted by a squirrel, Axel never saw the deer, but I kept watching the herd as they ran out of the tree line and across the open field. I continued down the pine grove, stopping at an open area, and the number of deer I saw surprised me. I counted twelve, but miss several that had run out of view. Axel and I cut through the grove and I put him in the backyard, throwing balls and sticks for him and Koda. After they were panting heavily, I switched the dogs out and ran Kilo and Bodhi around until they were tired.

The faint sound of fireworks cracked in the air. It was the last light, and I took one more walk through the woods before night fell. Approaching the field once more, I saw several deer, more than I’d ever seen at one time. They heard me and ran across the field. I ducked into my blind, remaining quiet, and within three minutes, the deer were running back toward me as the report of fireworks sounded from different directions. Then, just as the deer were getting close, they turned back around and headed back into the field, appearing confused. They were probably leery of the fireworks because they were finishing the last day of deer season. Lucky for them, these were not gunshots, but they had no way of knowing this. At midnight, deer season would end and they would be safe from hunters for another year.

The fireworks sounded, but were relatively quiet. Last month, someone in the area set up three gigantic explosions that rocked our house, even though we’re surrounded by trees and nestled in the woods. Tonight, however, the action was light, since the local population density was extremely low. In 2020, the population of my town was 321 people. Welcome to the country.

Decemeber 30, 2023

Today was my wife’s birthday, and she requested an early start on our morning walk so we could watch the sunrise at Lake Wilson. We had a great four-mile walk and saw an exceptional sunrise before heading to breakfast at the Wilson Cracker Barrel.

The meal at Cracker Barrel was a feast, and our server was wonderful. After picking up that it was my wife’s birthday, she brought out a crew to sing happy birthday with a piece of chocolate cake and bowl of vanilla ice cream in hand. This is probably the easiest and most brilliant way to win over my wife. Before leaving town, we stopped by at the Harris-Teeter grocery story to pick up some IPAs. We selected Noda’s Radio Haze IPA and a new one, for me, Carolina Pines IPA.

When we arrived home, we took a walk through the woods, checking the feeding areas for signs that wildlife. We were still adequately bundled up from our morning walk, despite the cloudy day and temperatures in the low forties.

We walked to a large rock on the north side of the property where I had recently spotted coyote poop. Since my last visit to this location, the coyote had returned, making regular toilet visits. Only thick matted hair from the coyote remained, as the rain had washed away the poop. I thought I saw something white and rigid in the hair, so I grabbed a stick and poked around. To my surprise, there was an enormous claw of something that the coyote had eaten. At first, I thought it might have been the talon of a raptor, as there are many hawks and osprey in the area, but my wife pointed out some characteristics of the claw and we decided we were looking at a cat's claw, possibly from a bobcat, but most likely from a domestic kitty in the “neighborhood”.

We poked around more and found several teeth that looked like molars from a plant chewing animal. They looked to be from a deer, possibly a fawn the coyote ate. It was a sobering reminder we were in the wild where large animals were eating large animals. This was a good reason to carry a firearm while out on the property.

When we returned to the house from our walk, my wife suggested I take a little time to go fishing while she worked on some projects around the house. We both go back to work and school next week, so we’ve been getting prepared. It was cloudy and cold, but that only enticed me to get on the water, even if for a short time. I “reluctantly” agreed to fish for a couple of hours.

The lake was freezing; the clouds were dark, and the rough winds made the water choppy. While the first part of the pier is solid, the middle and last sections float on the water and where turbulently moving up and down and side to side. I carefully walked to the end, tied down my gear, and fished. The entire experience was a battle against the elements. But while the enormous clouds, gray skies, angry winds, cold temperatures, and rough waters made the entire ordeal challenging, it was super satisfying. Two hours of fishing netted me five fish and ten frozen fingers.

Dinner was a blast. We grilled ribeyes for the adults and burgers for the kids (our four dogs), since they were part of the celebration. Our oldest, and wisest, dog, Kilo, shares a birthday with my wife, so we bought burger patties and grilled them unseasoned to add to the dog’s meals. There was hot food, cold beer, memorable tunes, birthday gifts, and sleepy dogs to make the night perfect.

Happy Birthday to my very best human friend, and my very best dog friend.

December 29, 2023

This morning, I woke up feeling groggy. It was well before five in the morning and I took the dogs outside to the backyard. The moon was bright, and I strained to hear the owls, but there was only silence. Staring into the tall trees where the owl hoots usually sound, I saw a shooting star whisk by. My body shivered as I watched the vapor from my breath bellow out like smoke, slowly fading into nothingness.

A few hours later, my wife and I walked to the pine grove to watch the sunrise. It was colorful, and the skies were clear and bright. After the colors faded, I checked the feeders in the area, which showed signs of deer by the small divots in the corn piles and pellets in the area. A little past the corn, my wife had placed small frozen fishes she discarded while cleaning out the freezer. All but two were gone. We laughed as we remembered a fox we caught on a trail camera in the same area who was taking several eggs we set out. The fox would appear, snatch up an egg in its mouth and run off into the woods. A few minutes later, he’d be back for more.

After breakfast, we drove into Raleigh to visit the North Carolina Museum of History. The museum was much larger than the science museum we recently visited. The exhibits were well done and had a ton of information and artifacts from the first humans living in the area to more modern Native American tribes. From there, the exhibits showed North Carolina’s colonization, the Revolutionary War, the horrors of slavery, the Civil War, the Industrial Revolution, the Great War, and more. It was a lot of information to take in on one trip, but I am happy we went.

Last week, I left the science museum feeling positive and light, but the history museum left me feeling a little uneasy. I arrived eager to see artifacts and to learn about the story of the peoples who inhabited the North Carolina region over the years. While the museum met this goal, it also revealed an ugly side of human behavior. History shows how we lived and the choices we made as a species, and truth be told, the history of this area was full of turmoil, hard times, political unrest, and the abhorrent treatment of people, from wiping out the indigenous cultures, to slavery, to post-slavery racism and violence, child labor; wars. The list went on and on.

There’s a saying that what is out of sight is out of mind, but a history museum has a way of putting storylines and timelines right up in your face. It gives a clearer perspective of how you got to where you are, and perhaps most important, the steps we still need to take as a society. Many mistakes, mindsets, and problems remain uncorrected. The visit reminded me of the Walt Whitman poem, made famous by the movie Dead Poets Society, when Robin Williams’ character quoted the following Whitman passage:

“O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.” In the movie, the question was then asked, “What will your verse be?”

We all have personal goals and quests we want to undertake, but visiting a history museum is a powerful reminder of our obligations to society. The verses of equality and justice still need to be written. Will we write these with our lives? Will we wait for some future generation to do the work? While it’s true that we, as individuals, did not create the problems, they are issues that can only human can solve. I believe being gifted a chance to be alive should oblige us, not only do great things for ourselves, but to do great things for humankind.

There’s always a comforting feeling of leaving the city to head back to the country. After the museum, we grabbed some coffee to go, made a few stops in Knightdale, which included lunch at Saltgrass steakhouse, and then arrived home, ready for some quiet space. I took a long walk in the woods.

The woods were cold, but the sunlight reached the forest floor through the bare trees and warmed me, as I sat squatted inside the tree line at a wildlife trail that opens into an empty field. Recently in the evening, a small herd frequented this exact area. There I sat still, listening for deer moving through the forest. Quiet and tense, I sensed the deer were nearby. The sound of a small twig snapping told me they were moving toward the area, but suddenly everything went silent. I waited, working hard not to make even the slightest noise. A few minutes passed by and nothing happened. Suddenly, about fifteen feet away from me, but still hidden behind cover, I heard a doe bark, alarming the herd to my presence. She likely caught my scent in the shifting winds. The deer ran off to the north, where they often cross the creek into a neighboring property.

The property north of mine has several hound dogs, and I’ve learned when the deer moved past the creek into that area, the hounds always bark. Their barks are faint and echo, but I use them to track the deers movements. This evening, when the deer fled north toward the creek, I never heard the hounds sound, so I knew they must have run west, staying on my property. I moved slowly, being as quiet as possible, to move through the dried fallen leaves and brush. Because the leaves were crunchy, I had to move at a snail’s pace, slowly shifting my weight from foot to foot to mitigate the noise made by my steps.

When I had moved about four hundred yards to the west, I heard the doe bark again and the deer were gone. I never saw them. Having had enough fun, I backtracked eastward toward the field, turning south to head back to my house. There, I grabbed a snack and hot coffee, moving to my home office to write an important letter. It was the night before my wife’s birthday, so I took some time to pen a heartfelt message. I folded it carefully, and placed it on the dining room table, where I knew she would find it when she woke up the next morning. The day had ended.

December 28, 2023

The alarm went off at four-thirty, and I got out of bed, struggling to open my eyes. The owls were out again this morning, hooting softly in the quiet dark. I drank my customary morning latte and began my day.

Lake Wilson was quiet this morning. Yesterday, it rained, leaving several large puddles on the walking path around the lake, probably thwarting some people from walking today. Our legs were feeling fresh since we took a day off exercise, and we opted to run part of the course. After completing the six miles, I felt hungry, but we had one stop to make in Wilson.

Winter is here and many of the food sources eaten by wild animals are becoming scarce. We stopped by Tractor Supply where I purchase five pounds of wild bird food and one hundred and twenty pounds of deer corn. After, we left Wilson, heading to a small restaurant in Middlesex, where they serve the most delicious and unhealthy southern style breakfast.

On my last trip to the Wiggs Family Restaurant, I notice an item on the menu called “sidemeat” (one word). I always enjoy learning local customs, and I was curious to learn about sidemeat, vowing to order some the next time I was at the restaurant. So, this morning, I ordered two eggs, over-medium, with the fried pork tenderloins, country potatoes, biscuits, and an order of sidemeat.

We promptly discovered that what Wiggs referred to as sidemeat was actually called "fatback" in the south. Fatback is made from thick cuts of pure pork fat cured with enough salt to surprise Lot, and then deep fried in oil. Of course, I tried a bite and between the tepid oil oozing out on my chin and the harsh flavor reminiscent of salt rock used to deice sidewalks, I struggled to swallow my first, and last, bite of sidemeat. I looked in horror as my wife took her second bite.

Not all was lost, however, as in a moment of pure genius, I took the rest of the sidemeat home, concluding that to catch southern catfish, you needed a southern style bait. Snickering, I made a goal to catch a fish, using the fatback as bait.

We ordered a new dining room table which arrived via FedEx, so we unpacked the large box, assembled the table, and gathered all the trash. I loaded several trash bags full of styrofoam and a large amount of cardboard into my Toyota Highlander and made my way to the trash service center. Forgetting my phone, I did something I hadn’t done in several decades. I turned on the FM radio and found a good station, which was playing John Cougar Mellencamp’s song, Small Town. I was actually listening to the radio, something I had not done since cassette players came out in cars.

I wrote for about an hour while I hydrated, recovering from the morning exercise and excessive salt intake that breakfast “brung”. After, I changed clothes and headed to the reservoir to fish, with my rods, tackle, earthworms, and sidemeat in hand. When I arrived, I skewered a piece of fatback on a large circle hook, and threw it out about forty yards, affixing the pole to my Yeti fishing bucket with elastic tie down cords, which held the bucket to a large pole on the pier. I learned to tie down everything when, last year, a large catfish hit my rig, promptly pulling the entire bucket off the pier and into the water. Luckily, I was able to gather most of my equipment and harvest the fish.

The fishing was slow and the temperature cold. When the sun popped out from beneath the clouds, I would turn my ball cap backwards and let the sun hit my entire face. The radiating heat was enough to warm me, just before the sun disappeared back under the clouds, in which case, I turned my cap to the front to help block the wind. I caught three smallmouth bass, and regrettably, no fish bit on the fatback. I will try again tomorrow.

When I arrived home, I grabbed two forty-pound bags of deer corn from my SUV. My wife went with me into the pine grove, taking some fish from the freezer to put out for the raccoons. I dumped one bag of deer corn in several small piles by my deer blind before heading back to the house to grab a second bag. My wife was cold and opted to stay at the house while I grabbed another bag of corn, carrying it over my shoulder, hiking through the woods to the creek. It was a great workout. I placed corn in several spots: by a deer feeder, by the creek, and by a tree stand I have set up near the area. Cold, tired, and breathing heavy from hauling the heavy bags of feed, I turned toward home, making my way through the dusky light.

When I arrived back near the pine grove, I looked out into an empty field and saw three deer watching me. I snapped a quick video to show my wife and headed into the house for the evening.

December 27, 2023

I woke up, struggling to open my eyes to see my watch. It was four thirty-seven in the morning. I had set the alarm for five, so I lied there quietly, thinking about what I had to do for work. Employee evaluations were due for my managers. I needed to review some reports, and there were emails from last week’s time off to catch up on. I took a deep breath and listened; hearing the light pitter-patter of rain hitting the window. Today, it would rain all day long.

It was a planned day off from exercise, and the weather made me happy we would not walking this morning. It was a good day to rest physically, even if I was working all day in my home office.

During lunch break, I slipped on a raincoat and boots, heading into the woods for a short walk. Work was quiet, and I was making good progress on my evaluations, but I was ready for a quick break. It was still raining, and the creek was full, making gurgling sounds as the water rushed past. On my way to the creek, I saw a herd of deer moving through the woods, and now there were fresh tracks near the creek bed.

I admired the trees as I walked. Trees always look prettier in the rain, their wet bark deepens in color, increasing its contrast and texture. I looked at all the different trees with their bark. Some bark was thick and chunky, some was thin with horizontal patterns, and others had spots in brown and green hues like painted horses. There were also several types of fungi growing on various trees, some white, some green, and others in bright fluorescent orange. The forest smelled earthy and woodsy, with hints of pine cones, decaying leaves, and wet dirt. The mixtures of scents smelled comforting.

After work, I spent some time journaling, which for me is a contemplative exercise where I can slow my thinking to the speed of writing, something I call Write Speed. It’s slower than the speed of thought and allows time to think before I pen my ideas in my journal.

Emerson's essay, Self-Reliance, inspired today's contemplation, which focused on non-conformity. Emerson’s ideas coalesced with my recent contemplations about how social media and digital information shape our understanding of reality, creating a paradigm which limits our potential by conforming us to the status quo. In my journal, I wrote about how social media is an example, a groomer, and a mechanism of conformity, noting conformity was the death of individuality. Outside of conformity is where one can discover their highest aspirations.

Each evening, I go outside for something I call “last light”. If there is anything negative about living in the woods, it is that when daylight is gone and darkness moves in, it is time to go inside for the night. Because it is the last opportunity to see nature for the day, I always try to go out for the last light.

This evening, the sun had already set below the horizon, and the light was luminous but soft. A thick fog was forming in my front yard over the pasture, past the barn. I walked southward toward the pasture, turning east into the pine grove. When I reached the trail inside the pine grove, I turned back north to head into the woods. The entire trail inside the pine grove was full of tiny white mushrooms. They were bright against the dark pine needles, looking like tiny flowers.

I made my way back to the creek, which was completely enveloped in a thick fog. It looked spooky, but in a way that made me want to stop and stare at the area, completely entranced. I stood there for a while, but it was getting dark quickly, so I turned back toward the house, taking a back trail as a shortcut. The fog had penetrated the forest and the entire walk back looked like I was walking in a dream. I thought I heard something in the woods, past my limited line of visibility. I smelled a strong musky scent, like that of a wet animal, but I never saw what it was.

I made my way through the forest, finally arriving at my deer blind near an empty crop field. White clouds of mist filled the field and as I walked out of the tree line toward the open area, I could see the silhouettes of deer walking in a single file line about one hundred yards away, looking like ghosts floating, appearing and disappearing as the wind blew.

The sun fell, darkness arose, and like a fog slowly taking over the forest, an empty feeling of melancholy flooded over me. It was time to go inside.

December 26, 2023

This morning, we left the house at a quarter past six in order to arrive at Lake Wilson while it was still dark. The decision proved to be a good one because although the sunrise was not spectacular, when we arrived, the moon was hovering above the horizon, bright, behind eerie clouds, casting a perfect reflection on the glassy lake. The moon’s reflection in the water reminded me of the Zen teachings I received from my teacher, which made me smile. It was one of the most beautiful moonscapes I’ve seen, and from the moment I stepped out of the SUV, I knew it was going to be a great day.

We started our walk in the dark, as the moonlight was bright enough for us to see the path around the lake. We walked three laps, and each time we looped back to a location, it looked completely different from the rising sun and shifting light. Songbirds started chirping at the earliest light, and later, waterfowl awakened as ducks paddled by and geese, seemingly indecisive, flew in a large flock from location to location on the lake. When the sun was finally up, dozens of squirrels became active, freezing their movement on low branches as we walked past. We’d been walking a lot during the holidays, and this morning we felt fatigued. Still, we finished the six-mile course and headed home to recharge with coffee and breakfast.

After some food, I took some time to read, working my way through a book called Misbelief, authored by Dan Ariely. Ariely is an interesting professor, here in North Carolina, teaching at Duke University. He has half a beard, a reminder of a serious accident he suffered that left half of his face burned, unable to grow hair. Everyone should read the book that covers the interesting topic of what causes people to believe in conspiracy theories and why people misbelieve accurate information.

We left the house a little before noon for a yoga practice at the YMCA. The class was small, but a tough workout. After, we were tired and ready for a day off exercise. That was Wednesday’s plan, to do nothing, except sit at my desk and catch up on work.

I contemplated taking a nap, but after catching my second wind, I grabbed my keys, slipped on my boots, and drove to the reservoir, stopping by the trash service center on my way. Here in the country, we don’t have trash service that comes to your house. This worried me when I first moved here, but it turns out they have a system I love. Included in your annual property taxes, you receive a placard to get into a trash service center, which amounts to a small circular drive with separate dumpsters for general trash, glass, recyclables, oils, cardboard, or small appliances. You just drive up, unload, and you’re done. You can go six days a week and make a hundred visits a day if you wanted. The nearest location is less than a mile from the main road that leads to my house, so I find it to be a very convenient system.

Fishing was slow; very slow. But truth be told, I don’t fish just to catch fish. I also try to catch a quiet, empty, natural place to be alone with my thoughts. Time on the water always brings satisfaction. I go fish and come back refreshed, no matter how the fishing went. On this trip, I caught one small bass and one plastic bag. I was happy to remove the trash bag I somehow hooked on the bottom of the lake. Oh, and on my way back to my SUV, I found a quarter, which pretty much makes me a professional fisher…or garbage collector.

It was the end of a long string of exercise, and I was tired. After dinner, my wife took a hot bath, I showered, and we were both in bed by eight thirty. Tomorrow, we rest.

December 25, 2023

Merry Christmas.

This Christmas morning began with a four-mile walk around Lake Wilson with two of our dogs, Axel and Koda. Axel, a smart, restless Malinois, was eager to get out of the house. He needs daily exercise to calm his hectic brain, so it was a good morning to get him out and moving. Koda, a shepherd-retriever mix, has recovered well from a spinal cord injury he suffered this year, but still is not at one-hundred percent. Long walks help him work his leg muscles, and the repetitive movements help form stronger connections in his brain. It excited both dogs to be out of the house and at the lake. The temperature was more moderate, and it was easier to move in lighter clothing.

When we returned home, we ate a delicious breakfast: homemade pork tamales, and eggs, over-medium, with heated, smoked salsa. After eating, I took some time to read and write, turning my thoughts to the new year. I am a big believer in purposefully and deliberately implementing change in my life, and one of my personal mantras is that, “Improvement requires change”.

After making some initial plans for the new year, I took some organic table scraps comprised of lettuce, carrot and avocado skins, and tomato and onion scraps to the earthworms I farm for fishing bait. The worms are currently in once of the sheds to keep them out of cold and in the dark, just the environment they need to brave the winter. It also allows us to vermicompost our food scraps and produce worm castings used to fertilize the garden and our growing number of house plants.

In the afternoon, I went fishing at the reservoir. Fishing, this time of year, is slow, but it is always nice to get out on the water. I find it relaxing and it can either give me a quiet place for deep thinking, or it can become a place to rest my mind, by allowing me to not think at all. It just depends on what I need at that moment.

I caught a smallmouth bass and, to my surprise, three channel catfish. The catfish have been elusive for the past two months, so it was nice to see them fat and healthy. Channel cats are more beautiful that the blue or flathead catfish common in this area. I suppose, however, they all taste the same. I usually catch catfish by using small bluegills for cut bait. And, I catch the small bluegills using a small hook and live worm. Today all three catfish bit on the worm. This made for fun fishing, as catfish pull strongly and fight hard, especially when you’re using a light rod and tackle.

Christmas at the house was quiet, just the way we like it. It was nice having time off work and for my wife to have a small, much needed reprieve from medical school. I have to work the day after tomorrow, but then I get a few more days off for New Year’s, so the fun isn’t quite over yet. Now, it’s time for some much needed rest.

December 24, 2023

The morning began with an early six-mile walk around Lake Wilson. It was a cold winter's day, and the wind had picked up during the night. Icy winds made my face feel numb, as if I had just left the dentist's office after a procedure. The walk was easier than expected, but I was still sore after a tough yoga practice, which made my hamstrings painful to the touch. As always, the views and waterfowl were impressive.

It was Christmas Eve, and we wanted to do something memorable, so I concocted a plan around mile five of our walk. My wife always raved about eating breakfast at Waffle House, and I always swore to her I would never go, so it surprised her when I suggested we make my first visit, ever, to Waffle House for breakfast on Christmas Eve. Her face lit up, and she quickened her pace, eagerly leading us closer to breakfast. Fifty-one years old, and I had never been to a Waffle House, and, well, it was okay. We ordered a ton of food, which was really cheap. We had a great time, and I even posed for a picture while sipping coffee-flavored water from a genuine Waffle House coffee cup, logo and all.

After arriving home, I finished Laura Dassow Wall’s book, Henry David Thoreau - A Life. The book was probably my favorite biography to date, and I thought it gave some much needed perspective to Thoreau’s stay at Walden Pond. I appreciated the historical background about what educational institutions were like during Thoreau’s time at Harvard, the literary history of the Transcendentalists, how Americans were engaged in slavery and, for many, the fight against it, and other important aspects of society that brought relevance of where we are as a country today.

In the afternoon, I cleaned my fishing gear, which was caught outside in a recent rain, drying it off, and reorganizing the Yeti bucket I used to house my gear. I drove to the local reservoir, fishing it for a couple of hours, having the lake mostly to myself. The fishing was slow, but I caught two smallmouth bass, which put up a decent fight. It was a splendid afternoon to be on the lake, but I had plans for the evening, so I left after only a few hours.

When I arrived home, we turned on the Traeger grill and smoked a mess of cut tomatoes, onions, and jalapeño and serrano peppers for about three hours. We used the smoked veggies to make a smoked salsa by blending everything together and adding cilantro, salt, and pepper. I also smoked two nicely marbled ribeye steaks for about three hours before cooking them off for about ten minutes in high heat. We sliced the steaks for tacos made with the ribeye, smoked salsa, corn tortillas, sliced avocado and lime. Dinner was a hit.

After dinner, I spent some time outside by the fire pit, sitting and watching the stars. It was Christmas Eve, and, so far, the holiday was going pretty damned well.

December 23, 2023

We slept in this morning, waking up at six thirty; the sky was already dimly lit. I downed a cup of coffee while changing clothes, rushing out the door in order to make it to the reservoir before the sun peeked above the horizon.

I arrived at Buckhorn Reservoir around seven o’clock, parking near the inlet by the dam. From there, I trekked around the bend, trudging through eight inches of water with each step. Although the light of the sunrise was not soft or colorful, and the wildlife was sparse, I found the morning to be energizing, marking the start of a new day full of promise. I’d been off work, and I felt the stress melting away with each vacation day.

I stood in the water about fifty yards from the bank, and on a whim, I loosened my grip on my camera, turned off the power, and let it hang off of my side by the strap. I remained still, deliberately taking some time to take a few deep breaths and be present. The light was bright now, and the water glistening, the ripples slowing like the thoughts in my head. I instinctively knew that what I needed more than new photographs was a moment to just be with nature; to be alone with myself. I remembered a famous line that writer Margaret Fuller told Henry David Thoreau, “Nature is not yours, until you are more fully hers.” Each day, I think about this, wondering how I can more fully give myself to nature, so that I can better receive her gifts.

The rest of the day was filled with pre-holiday preparations. We ate a delicious breakfast at home, drove into Wilson, where we attended a challenging yoga practice and then went shopping for enough groceries to cover all the holiday meals. In the afternoon, I sat down to read a few hours, covering essays by Sir Francis Bacon and David Hume, and commentary on Plato’s Allegory Of The Cave.

In the evening, I walked through the woods for about an hour, where I saw the deer feeding in the forest, moving southwest from the creek. The deer seemed alert, but relaxed. I wondered if they sensed the new year was approaching. On January first, the 2023 deer season will end, and the herd will be safe to rut and look for food in the winter, ready to birth new fawns in spring.

As I returned home, I heard the cries of a hawk above me and spotted two red-tailed hawks flying above and then nesting in a tall, bare tree. As dusk fell, the air was crisp and clean, and I thanked the forest for another day filled with wonder and awe. The day had ended; the night was about to begin, and I felt alive.

December 22, 2023

It was twenty-eight degrees outside, and I was standing on the deck, shivering in the dark, waiting for the dogs to come back inside the house. With the porch lights turned off, I heard an owl hoot. The low reverberating call was like the one I heard a few days ago, when I first discovered an owl lived nearby. But this time, the call seemed to come in distinct tones, one higher and one lower than the other. I listened to the sound intently, finally hearing the two pitches happen simultaneously. There were two owls in the trees above, and I was listening to their early morning conversation.

By the first light of dawn, I was already at Lake Wilson, starting my four-mile walk. It was cold, but seemed a little more manageable than the previous days, likely because there was little to no wind. The air was still and the lake calm, glassed like the surface of a mirror. The sunrise was especially colorful this morning, and since I was at the lake earlier than usual, I found an area that reflected the colors nicely, accentuated by the silhouette of the blackened tree line.

After our walk, I arrived back home and jumped in the shower. My wife was driving me into Raleigh for a surprise. The drive to the city went by quickly, and we arrived at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences. Excellent; this woman knows me well.

We found parking near the museum, using an app on my iPhone to pay for the downtown parking fee. It was cold, but the day was sunny, perfect for a holiday excursion. The museum was fascinating and I highly recommend it to anyone visiting the area. The exhibits covered a diverse range of topics, including the history of the North Carolina’s geology, including the local dinosaurs. There were live species of fish, snakes, salamanders, and insects. We watched the feeding of gar and saw a room full of butterflies fluttering all around.

There were also various skeletons of large organisms, such as dinosaurs, a giant sloth, and a whale. These topics were interesting, but my favorite part of the museum was its presentation of the local flora and fauna. There, they exhibited several native plants and animals.

After the museum, we found a nice place to eat lunch. The restaurant building was beautiful, although the food left much to be desired. We visited a small coffee shop to grab some caffeine before driving out of the city, and the shop was busy with a single employee left to do everything. The drinks took a while to prepare, but they were delicious and made with quality espresso.

Later in the evening, I sat in front of the fire on my back deck, contemplating my experiences of visiting the city. Although I grew up in a rural place, I’ve spent most of my time living in large cities like Dallas, Houston, Portland, and Tokyo. I considered myself a “city boy”, but my time here in the woods of a small rural community has completely transformed my living preferences.

Cities have many offerings like employment opportunities and affordable housing. This attracts more people, which leads to more businesses, more jobs, more demand; more supply; more, more, more. But cities also bring an artificiality to society, as side effects that occur naturally when you place a large quantity of people in close proximity. There is more trash, more concrete, less nature, more crime, more noise; more stress.

There is no right or wrong here. The country life is not better than the city life or vice versa. But they are different, and as long as it’s financially possible, I will never live in a city again. While at the museum, I saw people of all ages mesmerized by the wildlife and woods exhibited. Grown adults listened intently to a recorded deer bark used to alarm other deer of danger. They studied the beaver closely, looked in awe at the snakes, foxes, and fish. It really made me happy to see others so interested, but this exhibit was probably the closest they’d been to woods and wildlife.

Seeing this made me feel fortunate, because ninety percent of the nature exhibits showcased plants and living organisms that I have interacted with over the past year and a half. I’ve chased away the species of snakes exhibited, touched the fish showcased when I pulled them from the reservoir, releasing them back into the water with my bare hands. The deer, beavers, otters, foxes, bobcats, gulls, herons, coyotes, snakes, salamanders, and more: these are things I have physically coexisted with in the wilderness. Visiting the museum made me realize I live inside a giant exhibit of nature in her wildest form, and for this, I am grateful.

December 21, 2023

This morning was the first day of winter. After a cup of hot coffee, I grabbed my camera bag and rushed out the door, heading straight to Buckhorn Reservoir. Five minutes later, I arrived, parking alongside the inlet on the east side of the reservoir, near the dam.

After a recent downpour, the lake filled up and completely submerged the three or four hundred yards of semi-paved road that lead out into the inlet in a foot of water. Luckily, I had on my waterproof boots and could walk around the inlet, posting myself about a hundred yards into the lake, away from the shore. From a distance, it probably looked like I was walking on water. Even to myself, the optical illusion created by walking on the bright liquid made it look like I was walking on silvered mercury.

Once I rounded the inlet, my jaw dropped at the sight before me. A thick fog, created by the cold air and warm water, blanketed the entire side of the lake. The sun was rising quickly above the horizon, creating a diffused golden light that made the mist glow. There were ducks and gulls moving in and out of the mist, making the scene both serene and eerie. I had never seen the reservoir under these conditions, and I marveled at the entire experience.

While taking pictures, my camera battery died, so I changed it slowly, being careful not to drop my spare battery case into the water. Just as I pulled out the used battery and was about to slip a new one into my camera, a large blue heron approached, soaring at the ideal height and angle. It glided through the thick fog, perfectly backlit by the golden light; it was the most magnificent flight I’d seen of a blue heron and the most picturesque. By the time I seated the new battery, the scene was over. Missing shots like these can be tough, but I witnessed something splendid I’d never seen before, an experience I can chalk up to another amazing day in a life well lived.

Later in the afternoon, I stopped by the county library in Wilson to do some research while my wife was next door at the YMCA, in a pilates class. After gathering some materials, I did a little writing and edited some of the morning’s photographs. After, we returned to the furniture outlet store we visited yesterday, but we did not find a suitable dining room table. Since we were in Wilson, we stopped by our favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch before heading home. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose; and sometimes an amazing lunch makes the trip worth it.

It was still early afternoon, and the temperatures were at the warmest point of the day, so I spent some time outdoors using an axe to split logs I cut a few days prior, before heading back into the woods to gather more firewood for the evening. Cutting wood with a handsaw and axe is a pretty good workout and always gets the heart pumping and blood flowing. Working on the property takes a lot of work and physical energy, a free workout program my wife and I lovingly refer to as Farm Fit.

Once I had a satisfactory amount of wood, which is always more than I need, I started a fire in the Solo Stove on the deck, put on some slow country music, and grabbed a cold IPA. Tonight’s delicacy was Wicked Weed’s Hazy IPA; delicious. The beer reminded me of a milkshake hazy IPA I loved in Austin from a brewery that had since closed.

There I sat on my back porch, warming myself by the fire, as the sun approached the horizon. I felt relaxed and happy looking into the forest when my dogs suddenly barked, charging the east fence by the pine grove. Through the bare trees, I saw an old buck walking by about forty yards from where I sat. A few seconds later, five to six more deer hopped through the grove, their white tails flashing as they disappeared into the dimming light.

What could be better than this? Sitting on your deck in the woods, feeding freshly chopped wood into the fire pit, sipping cold beer, listening to George Strait, while watching wild deer glide through the forest. Life is good.

December 20, 2023

The four-mile walk at Lake Wilson finished quickly. This morning, it was even colder than yesterday, so we wasted no time in trekking the two large loops around the lake. On our second lap, across the long bridge on the south side of the lake, a large blue heron sat perched on the wooden handrail. Herons are usually shy, so it was odd that while we were quickly approaching the gigantic bird, it just sat there, unfazed. We kept moving closer, thirty feet, twenty feet; and when we were only ten feet away, the beast finally took flight, gliding off the bridge and landing gracefully in the frigid water.

After our walk, we drove into downtown Wilson (downtown sounds inflated) to a small thrift store. We were searching for a dining room table, and this dealer was known for having an extensive selection. After finding parking, we entered the store, and received the overly long spiel that ended with an advisement that the shop’s furniture section was closed today. I looked around the open portion of the large thrift shop, which held every item you, your parents, and grandparents had ever owned and wanted to discard. I clanked around on a few typewriters, but they were all broken.

We left the store in our normal state of hunger, somewhere between slightly famished and nearly starved to death, and drove around the corner to a small eatery, Bill’s Grill, that I wanted to try. My wife ate lunch at their LaGrange location while on medical rotations in that city and gave raving reviews. We ordered cheeseburgers and fries; the food was phenomenal, and I vowed to return to try their ribeye sandwich. The server called me a Yankee for ordering a coffee at lunchtime. We all laughed, although I’m not sure I got the joke. Poor lady thought I was from the U.S., not knowing I came from Texas.

Later, before the light of day vanished, I walked out into the forest for about an hour. A few days ago, I noticed a large pine in the grove that a windstorm had felled, so I went to inspect it. It was an enormous tree, probably around eighty feet high. The top third had sheered off in the wind, crashing about thirty feet away and the rest of the tree fell over neatly, leaning against other pines. The tree had been dead for a while, but the recent storm was the tree’s coup de grâce. Although I lamented the loss of a large pine that lined a walkway I cleared through the grove, I made plans to harvest the tree for firewood. Such is life in the forest. Old trees grow stronger, and new ones grow in the empty pockets of sunlight created when a sick or dead tree falls.

Arriving at the north side of the property, I crossed the creek, looking for deer and beavers tracks, finding none, although one tree had obvious signs of recent scrapings made by a beaver’s teeth. I also visited a large rock that sits in the middle of the old woodland forest. Last year, I discovered it when looking for small rocks to border a fire bit I built. The boulder is massive, easily nine or ten feet high and as big around as a large tractor. It is impressive.

Late at night, I took the dogs out one last time before locking down the house and going to bed. I stepped outside for a couple of minutes; it was cold. Shivering, I could see my breath filling the air with large billowing clouds of vapor. It was quiet, cloudy, and dark. After a few minutes, one of my dogs lurched towards the fence, barking loudly and looking up towards the tall trees about one hundred feet from the fence. I saw nothing, but when the dog went quiet, I heard it: “Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo.” It was the unmistakable call of an owl, the first I had heard near my home. I called my wife out to hear. The owl sounded several times, and I waited to hear it again and again, soaking in the call, memorizing it so that I would not forget it. Owls are a most special creature, and I felt lucky to hear one tonight, on this last autumn evening.

December 19, 2023

It was about twenty minutes before sunrise and were already trying to warm ourselves while walking around Lake Wilson. The temperatures had dropped the night before, and we dressed for the occasion, wearing several thick layers of warm clothing.

With the recent downpour, the lake levels were the highest I had ever seen. We marveled at how full the lake was, and even found a dead gar that had washed past the walkway, probably sometime when the lake levels overran the bank. The dam was roaring and the rushing water made thick white foam that bubbled and gurgled. The wind was biting.

As we rounded the first corner, I spotted a beaver swimming. It was shy, as most beavers are, and when it heard us rushing the lake line to see it, it dove underwater. It surprised me to see the beaver surface so quickly, so we raced along the bank, trying to catch a better view. My wife screamed in excitement and the beaver dove, splashing its thick tail violently against the water. My wife and I joked, as we usually do, that she always scares off the wildlife I’m trying to photograph. We also wondered why a beaver was in the lake, the second time we’ve seen one, when there were no flowing streams. We joked that Lake Wilson was a place where beavers retired, living the posh life at the fancy lake. No more dam building for these retirees.

After walking a mile, we arrived at the Lake Wilson bridge, and the sun had risen above the tree line, creating a shimmering gold streak of light that led from the sun to us, warming our numb faces. There’s nothing quite like feeling the sun’s warmth on a freezing morning. While harsh in summer, the sun’s heat feels more benevolent on wintry days like this morning.

We walked two laps and drove home, happy and hungry. Starving. During the drive home, we stopped at a red light behind a newer model Toyota RAV 4. I commented how large the small SUV looked compared to the older models, and my wife quipped that “you still couldn’t fit a pony in it.”

We laughed, reminiscing about some of the outrageous things we’d seen since we’d met. Years ago in Austin, we were driving down a major freeway called Mopac, and in front of us was an old, small Toyota RAV 4 with its rear seats folded down. When we got closer to the vehicle, we saw there was a full grown Shetland pony in the back of the car! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and could only imagine what would have happened if, for any reason, the pony had lost its shit and started kicking around the car. They say that Austin is weird. Rumors confirmed.

For the rest of the ride, we named off weird things we had witnessed together. When we arrived home, I took a hot shower to thaw myself and got dressed just in time for work. The day had officially begun.

December 18, 2023

Every morning begins with an espresso, which is to say that each day in my home starts off right. After coffee, we made an early morning run to the Piggly Wiggly in Bailey to get a few items for dinner, and some new half and half for coffee. Yesterday, I felt sick to my stomach for the whole day, later discovering the half and half I used was bad. The cream had grown moldy, and although I didn’t taste it, I sure felt it for the rest of the day.

The ride to and from The Pig was beautiful. After almost twenty hours of non-stop rain, the skies had opened and cleared; the colors were clean and bright. We arrived home, put away the groceries, and headed out, together, to the woods. I always let my wife walk in front of me down the single file trails. I go into the woods every day by myself, and I know the pleasure of seeing the open forest in front as you walk. Everything is alive and new, and every direction holds the promise of some prize yet unseen. I figure I don’t need to ruin her view by having to stare at the back of my thick noggin.

As expected, the water levels were impressive. The entire creek bed was overfilled and flowing with an incredible amount of water. We stilled to listen to the bubbling and gurgling of several spouts of the stream. How many could we hear, five, six? They all sounded different, attuned to one another like a large liquid chime. We made our way westward along the creek’s bank, and just before the bend that guides the trail back toward the south, I looked down and saw a small lizard. It was lifeless, soaked, brown, and upside down, its light-colored underbelly looked bright against the surrounding wet leaves. I called my wife over to see it. The lizard slowly moved one of its legs, and my wife, with no hesitation, swiped it up in her bare hands, holding it close to her, telling me the lizard was cold and needed to be warmed.

She always surprises me. She hates stink bugs, water bugs; come to think of it, if it has the word bug in it, then it will make her shrill. Walking through the forest in summer is always a treat as it’s practically guaranteed that you’ll walk face first into a spider’s web, which, according to one popular meme, is the best way to learn karate. But a few months ago, my wife befriended a small seven-legged jumping spider, allowing it to crawl on her hand. She used to look for it every time she sat outside on the porch furniture. And now, here she was warming a lizard, working to save its life.

She carried the lizard all the way to the main trailhead, and set it gently atop of my deer blind, where the sun’s rays were already warming the area. The lizard sat lifeless. Then, little by little, it moved its hands and head, looking at us, blinking slowly. The flooded creek had likely washed the lizard out of its home and the frigid morning temperatures were probably enough to suck out the poor little guy’s body heat. However, an angel rescued this reptile. Join the club, lizard.

In the evening, we had an impromptu visitor when a neighbor who lives off the main road pulled into our property. She was there to gift us a small dishwashing cloth she crocheted for all the people living in the area. I remembered her from last year, when, while I was jogging down the road, she stopped her car and interrogated me until she was satisfied I lived in the area and was deserving of the gift she made. This evening, while I was greeting her, my wife came out wearing a Duke University sweatshirt which threw my neighbor into a funny spin about how they were UNC fans, the sworn rivals of Duke. She also related a story about her son, now a firefighter, when he was a young boy. We laughed, thanked her, and then she sped away to the next farmhouse.

That night, my wife and I ate on the back porch in front of the fire, eating homemade blue corn tamales she filled with slow cooked pork in a sauce she concocted by boiling and reducing four different types of chiles. We feasted as the temperature quickly dropped and the stars slowly brightened.

There we sat, engaged in deep conversation, solving all our world’s problems while, looking up, I counted constellations.

December 17, 2023

The rain started as soon as the sun came up, and after the sun set below the horizon, the rain was still pouring down. When I lived in Texas, I saw impressive thunderstorms, but the amount of water that falls from the North Carolina skies is ridiculous. While electrical storms are rare in this area, the rain comes steady and long.

The dogs, and people, felt lazy today. I’ve noticed that dogs know that when the weather is wet, then the best thing to do is hunker down and rest. They slept the whole day. I spent the morning and most of the afternoon reading, writing, and editing photographs I took last week.

In the evening, we drove into Wilson and did a yoga class at the Wilson YMCA. After a morning of being seated at my desk, it felt nice to stretch, twist, and make my body move. I find yoga an invigorating practice, and as I age, I feel like maintaining flexibility is the key to staying injury free if you’re living an active life, as the woods demand. I was first introduced to yoga over a decade ago while living in Idaho. The small town I lived in had an impressive teacher with an accessible studio near to the house. Later, in Texas, I started yoga to help balance the harsh twisting and turning that took place in jiu-jitsu practices.

Since we were in Wilson, my wife introduced me to a small Mexican market she recently found, which is much closer than the one we go to in Wendell. We purchased a few items for an upcoming meal, blue corn tamales made with slow roasted pork, and I grabbed a coconut paleta, which I ate on the way home, watching the rain hit the windshield. The sun was setting, and the light was already fading from the sky.

As soon as we arrived home, I slipped on my boots and ran out the door, eager to see the creek on the property, knowing that it would be flooded with all the rain. The water was still pouring from the sky as I made my way hurriedly down the most direct trail to the creek. I was losing light fast, but I didn’t want to miss the spectacle, which did not disappoint. The two parallel streams were completely overflowing into one gigantic creek that filled most of the empty area where I normally traverse the area. The wind was blowing, and the rain pelted down on me, soaking my pants all the way through. I took it all in, shot a couple of quick photos, and made my way back to the house. It was all but dark, and I jogged the entire way home, just making it out of the forest before it went black.

I dried off. Wifey was already fixing plates with fried fish fillets cut up and placed in corn tortillas with freshly sliced avocado, homemade ranch dressing, a green habanero salsa, lettuce, and freshly squeezed lime juice. I opened a Modelo Negra, and we sat to eat, as I told her about the creek. We decided we would go see it together at first light.

December 16, 2023

I love weekends. After a long week of stressful work, it’s a wonderful experience to have a few days off without deadlines, emails, or other people’s problems in my cognitive space. This morning we awoke early, as we always do. These days, we consider waking up at six in the morning as “sleeping in”. My wife did some research and found a new breakfast place in a small city called Middlesex in the next county. We made the drive and discovered one of the best home-style, country breakfasts we’ve ever tasted at a restaurant named Wiggs Family Restaurant.

I had two eggs, over-medium with battered pork tenderloins, hash browns, and fluffy biscuits as large as my hand. After eating, we drove to the Wilson County Library, where I returned a book with commentary on Henry David Thoreau’s Walden and another of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essays. I checked out The Oxford Book of Essays, featuring essays by the most popular writers from the 1500s to the 1940s. I also checked out the Great Dialogues of Plato, and a commentary on Plato’s book, The Republic. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for rain all day, so I plan on getting in lots of reading.

Next, we stopped at Lake Wilson, where we walked two laps around the lake, totaling just over four miles. The first lap was cold, but it was a gorgeous morning. After the first lap, we stripped off some of our layers since the temperature had risen by several degrees. The lake looked wintry and sparse, but never disappoints.

While in Wilson, we went to Lowe’s, buying some lightbulbs. The store was full of workers at small tables scattered throughout the store, which I assume were trying to sign customers up for something. I skillfully dodged them. While in town, we also stopped at Marshalls to pick up dog toys because we’re respectable human beings. I forgot it was so close to the holidays, so the shops were packed with people, some cheery; some not so much. The line at Marshalls had about fifty people, but moved surprisingly fast.

Because the walk and shopping made us hungry, we stopped for lunch at our new favorite Mexican restaurant, La Rancherita. As always, everything we ordered was on point. I ate some tacos made with pork carnitas that sported some type of pickled onion marinated in achiote. The flavor matched perfectly with the tender pork, salsita, and corn tortillas.

With full bellies and tired legs, we were happy to arrive back home in our small town. There’s just something comforting about turning onto the dirt road that leads to our home. We unloaded the SUV and took a brief break, playing with the dogs, each wanting the new toy that another dog sported.

After, we went out into the woods with hatchet, axe, and wood saw in hand, to cut firewood from fallen trees in the pine grove. During the last windstorm, a large pine that had died long ago started to fall but became entangled in the branches of nearby pines. After a little heave-hoing, we shook the large tree free, which we attacked after it fell to the forest floor. Later, we lit the Solo Stove and relaxed on the deck, watching the fire, toasting marshmallows, my wife sipping water while I sipped suds, enjoying the end of a beautiful and productive day.

Evening came quick. I showered and did some writing at the dining room table. Happy and tired, we were in bed by eight o’clock. Work hard, play hard, get adequate rest, rinse; repeat.

December 15, 2023

This evening, I walked into the woods, slowing as I approached an area where I have recently seen deer. The leaves have all fallen, and the forest looks sparse. Although there are many conifers in the area, they’re all very tall, leaving only straight bare trunks beside the barren deciduous trees. As a result, you can see deep into the forest.

When I arrived within fifty feet of the deer blind, I saw six deer feeding, still inside the tree line that bordered my property. I snapped a few photos, using the manual focus mode to find the deer through all the tree trunks. After a few photos, the deer moved northeast through a game trail just east of the tree line. After cutting through a crop field, they stopped and faced me, posing one last time before heading back into the woods. Just as they stepped into the woods, a loud shot range out, probably a high-powered rifle.

When you live in the country, it’s not uncommon to hear gunshots on the regular. These shots, however, were close, and I couldn’t help but wonder if someone was shooting at the deer as they moved north towards the creek. A second shot rang out, echoing across the open field. My initial reaction was to worry that I had spooked the herd off my property, where they were safe, to another property where someone was hunting.

I immediately took pressure off of the forest by turning around and heading straight home, as it was likely that the herd would circle back onto my property. I am not against hunting, having hunted all of my life, but things felt different today, and I was curious to know why. The subject is probably too nuanced and complicated for a journal entry, but several interesting, and often conflicting, topics surfaced.

I am not against hunting, and I respect other’s right to do so. I grew up hunting regularly, sometimes daily, and I understand the thrill and skill of stalking and harvesting the meat of wild game. Conservation is also necessary. The deer in this area can wreak havoc on crops. One local farmer told me a small herd of deer could destroy acres of crops in a short time, and he could calculate how much that cost him monetarily. Apart from a farmer, he was also a deer hunter.

Deer populations can grow out of control. With crop fields providing enough food to support deer populations that the woodlands would not, the number of deer per square mile can grow too large, leaving deer susceptible to contagious illnesses like Chronic Wasting Disease.

Then, there is the ugly truth that most people shy away from examining. No matter how negatively you view the hunting and harvesting of wild animals, the meat most people eat, purchased at a grocery store or butcher shop, belonged to animals that were raised in atrociously inhumane conditions. So, it’s really hard to make any argument against killing a deer and eating venison when we’re all a part of a much more sinister enterprise.

Still, there is something that didn’t sit well with me today. These deer aren’t “mine”, but they do roam the land that I own. I appreciate their presence in my daily life and invest money in feed and try to provide a safe place for them to be wild and free. After a year of photographing them, I know several of them by sight. There’s the young buck with asymmetrical antlers, the older buck with antlers that match perfectly, the doe with a coat in poor health, and Lady, a doe who had a single fawn my first year here, and twins this year. I feel like I know these deer. They are not pets, but they are a part of my environment, and thus a part of me.

I remember the excitement of hunting season and getting all my gear prepared and driving to a deer lease, setting up a stand near a feeder that had trained the deer to frequent the area. When the woods are a place you visit, it feels like you’re in a wild environment where seeing a deer is lucky or rare. But when you live in the wild, when the wild is a part of your everyday life, you realize the deer are always here, just going about their routine; it is often the hunter who is the intruder, the foreign object in the forest’s eye.

If I wanted, I could shoot a deer every day. They are not going to just walk up to you, but I see them daily, well within rifle and sometimes bow range. I am reminded of Henry David Thoreau’s remarks that deer hunting, even during his time, had lost its wildness and that it was “like walking to your fence and shooting your neighbor’s horse.”

I often see people excited to kill a wild animal. Their heart beats fast, adrenaline flows, and the excitement of it all takes their breath away. I suppose some people need an activity, such as hunting, to experience this important facet of our human character, but for me, hunting no longer brings these emotions.

I can easily shoot an animal without emotion, because of my past work experience, being part of a trained tactical team that operated daily in what we called “hyper-violent” environments. Want to hunt? Try nabbing violent predators out of their homes, workplaces, or at the intersection of a city street. They often have guns, everything to lose, and will not hesitate to shoot you. Hunting is not a sport; it is a life and death interaction; the ultimate reduction of risk and reward into survival of the most prepared and most lucky, with absolutely no guarantee of staying safe or alive, even when you’ve done everything right.

A deer poses no threat to the hunter. When the hunter walks into the forest, they have no expectations of not walking out. Because of this, I see all the excitement as a lie that the hunter has engaged rawly with the wild and prevailed. I find a type of cognitive dissonance with loving nature, supporting conservation, understanding hunting, and having developed a distaste for harming what cannot defend itself. Of course, nature is much wiser than me. The deer don’t understand any of this dynamic on a cognitive level, yet behaviorally, evolution has prepared them for the harshness their environment holds, including human beings. This is the beauty, genius, and severity of nature.

December 14, 2023

Before the sun rose, in dusk’s dim light, I walked the banks of the Buckhorn Reservoir, camera in hand. Still too dark to take pictures, I stood still in the cold, trying not to alert the waterfowl that were well within range of shooting. There were gulls, plovers, and crows circling the area while ducks paddled slowly across the glassy lake, and one stoic blue heron stood frozen, facing the direction where the bright light would soon be.

The sun was approaching the horizon, or more correctly, the earth was spinning down and towards the sun, and the light was still too low for any high-speed shots. I took a few test photos of the heron, cranking up my ISO, but it was still too dark to produce salvageable photos. As I was adjusting my camera’s settings, an enormous bird approached overhead. From afar, it looked like a crow or hawk, but something made me fire off a few shots. When I looked through the viewfinder, it shocked me to learn the raptor was a Haliaeetus leucocephalus, also known as a freaking bald eagle! It was the first I’d seen in North Carolina. I was so excited; I called my wife to tell her. The sun wasn’t even up and it was already a spectacular day.

The gulls have been flying on the south side of the lake, too far to capture in pictures, but this morning, they moved to the northeast side of the inlet where I was positioned. Although this morning’s sunrise produced minimal hues of orange and magenta, the light was golden, offering excellent opportunities for the backlit photographs of the heron and gulls.

After work, before the sun was completely gone, my wife and I carried a gift she bought me to the deck. It was a large Solo Stove. While we have a fire pit in our backyard, it is away from the house and in the dark. The Solo Stove will allow me to sit in front of a fire while still on my deck, close to the house, in the light; close to the refrigerator, which is stocked with beverages suitable for fire gazing.

In late January, she will leave for one month, completing a medical rotation in cardiology. Since the time we met many years ago, we have not been apart for an entire week, much less a month. It is not something we are excited about. As preparation, she gifted me the Solo Stove, knowing how much I like to sit outside and watch a wood fire. I find it calming. There is something relaxing about it that, when with people, seems to spark, pun intended, conversation, and when alone, seems to quiet the distortion going on between my ears. For me, the fire pit is a place of warmth, familiarity, cohesion, and hope. It just may become my Wilson (think Tom Hanks in Cast Away).

As I sat outside watching the flames dance, hearing the popping of pine logs, and enjoying the smokeless adventure, I thought about a Japanese concept called Ichigo-Ichie. This is the acceptance and recognition that moments happen one time and then they are gone. It signifies that in your entire lifetime, an opportunity comes only once. This means each moment is precious and full of potential. This morning, on a whim, I left the house earlier than usual, something I could have passed up. Yet, this decision resulted in me arriving early at the reservoir, giving me time to walk out onto the inlet and position myself perfectly in time and space to witness a bald eagle flying overhead.

This special moment was the product of being in the right place at the right time, but it all precipitated off a whimsical decision to do something differently. As I go through life, there are moments that are more meaningful than others. In his essay The Over-Soul, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “There is a difference between one moment and another hour of life in their authority and subsequent effect. Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences.” Some moments carry more weight, and we would do well to ask ourselves the question and act upon the answer. Can we make more moments more meaningful?

We all experience special moments as we go through life, and I think it’s easy to see them as serendipitous. And while I’m not claiming that everything happens for a specific reason in some spiritualistic way, every event has a precipitating cause. When we put this principle into action, we find the more effort and time we place into a certain practice or skill, then those special moments arrive with more regularity. In this sense, self-discipline and effort lead to opportunities which lead to achievement. The key, I’m learning, is to know that small decisions make the big things in life possible. It is the smallest doors that open into the largest rooms.

December 13, 2023

Last night, the thermostat went out, and after replacing the batteries, it still would not control the heater, leaving us with a chilly night indoors. A company came out this morning from Wilson and found the issue. A tiny wire inside the unit was touching against a hot tube, slowly melting the coating on the wire, exposing a small glint of metal. That sliver of exposed metal was enough to cause an electrical short, blowing a fuse, causing our thermostat to rely on the tired backup batteries, which promptly went out. The technician was kind and quick, and thirty minutes and sixty-three dollars later, we had heat.

At lunch break, I placed a feeding block I recently purchased out on the trail near my deer blind. The block is made of compressed corn, seeds, and protein; it smells of apples.

My wife works late on Wednesdays, which left me with the tremendous responsibility of feeding myself, proof that men can survive short periods, usually measured in hours, without their spouse making dinner. Emerson would be proud of my self-reliance. After work, I drove into Nash county to the Piggly Wiggly and picked up one avocado, one roma tomato, and one perfectly marbled, bone-in ribeye. The Traeger grill made quick work of the steak and heated some corn tortillas, which, along with a makeshift salsa using the tomato, avocado, chile habanero, cilantro, and lime, became a plate full of tacos that would have made Lalo Salamanca smile. If you know, you know. There may have been a Noda Radio Haze IPA involved; some critics claim they saw two cans in the vicinity.

After dinner, I thought it would be a terrific idea to check the trails, so I grabbed a flashlight, coat, and slipped on my boots, heading out the door. The woods were dark. Walking through the woods at night was interesting. There were noises, things that went bump in the night, or at least that scurried through the woods, or that made sounds like cats in heat. There was an unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability, only being able to see what was in the narrow beam of my light. Everything outside of this tight view was black; unknown. It reminded me of how pinpoint our awareness is, only observing what is in front of our minds, everything else hidden quietly and neatly in the dark; prisoners bound tightly in Plato’s precarious cave.

December 12, 2023

This morning, wearing my new gloves for the first time, I walked to the north end of the property that gently slopes into a creek bed that houses two parallel streams flowing west to east. The creek is an offshoot of the Contentnea Creek, a major tributary of the Neuse River, flowing ninety-one miles, connecting the Buckhorn and Wiggins Mill Reservoirs. Near the creek, two large boulders sit on the bank, providing a place to perch above the creek from about fifteen feet above the ground. I sat there, in the cold, hoping to see wildlife that frequents the area, such as deer, wild turkeys, and beavers.

The area was quiet with no signs of movement, so I inspected the rock for the mosses and ferns that usually carpet it. To my surprise, there was a gigantic pile of coyote excrement right in the middle of the slab I was standing on. It was fresh, and full of thick hairs that make up the coyote’s course winter coat. I realized while I was on the rock preying on wildlife, maybe there was wildlife behind me, up the hill, preying on me. Luckily, wild coyotes seldom approach humans and hunt solo, or sometimes in pairs.

Last year, I caught my first video of a local coyote on one of my trail cameras and I sent it to the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission to inquire whether the large animal was a coyote or a rare wolf that can be found in the area. The animal in the video was much larger than the coyotes I saw in Texas, and the muzzle was thicker, like that of a wolf. The agency assured me the animal was a coyote and explained that the coyotes in this part of the country have a little wolf DNA and that they would be larger than Texas coyotes. I guess everything isn’t bigger in Texas.

I moved on from the area, walking westward along the creek bank. The morning was quiet, except for the repeated cries of a single hawk. I looked up into the tall trees near the creek, where I heard the sound unable to spot the large raptor. In one tree, I saw what looked like a large bird nest near the top and focused my gaze on it and waited. After a couple of minutes, a large red-shouldered hawk emerged, flying up into the sky and away from me. I noted the nest’s location.

When I arrived back home, I walked out into the pasture, admiring its new wardrobe. The frigid temperatures had frosted the entire area, making it look white with glistening ice crystals glinting in the morning sunlight. Near the barn, I found some wild dandelions that had flowered during the recent warm weather that were covered in frost. I snapped some photos of them, marveling at the find. How long would one have to wait to see this again? To have an unexpected warm snap of weather right before a frost? This was a lucky find.

It was time to come inside the house and prepare for the workday. I felt grateful for getting out in nature, even if it was cold. Ah yes, and gloves. Gloves are a wonderful thing.

December 11, 2023

This morning began with a walk through the woods. It was cold, and the woods were quiet; they seemed empty. They reminded me of a line from one of Henry David Thoreau’s journals that reads, “How quiet everything is this time of year, as if it were waiting for winter.” The forest won’t have to wait long; winter arrives in ten days.

Rounding a bend in the trail, I saw seven deer near a feeder placed centrally on the property. The deer spotted me when I was about 200 feet away, and they trotted off toward the west. I always struggle to walk quietly on the fallen leaves, being careful not to step on small twigs that can snap, betraying your presence. The deer, however, seem so quiet when they run. Seven large animals moving gracefully through the trees with barely a sound. They are the owls of the land. 

The deer did not sound their usual alarm before they ran. It happened this way two days ago, too. Maybe they see me as less of a threat. I’m sure my scent covers the trails and feeding areas. These deer, however, are wild in every sense of the word.

This afternoon, I saw something funny. My boss called with a major fire and I was busy trying to research an answer to his question, quickly digging through emails and opening attachments. During this exact time, I was called into two impromptu online meetings. And, while all this was going on, all four dogs, two outside and two inside, started barking loudly, one tearing at and caught inside of the blinds.

I raised the office shades, expecting to see a vehicle approaching, but, to my surprise, there were six or seven deer in the pasture in front of my house. The pasture houses a small barn and a twelve pine trees, and the deer were playing, running in circles around the trees and barn, looking like dogs zooming. I watched the extravaganza for a minute or two before pulling down the shades and resuming my work. Work was stressful today, but sometimes, I take care of the deer, and sometimes they take care of me.

December 10, 2023

Today’s forecast was full of rain, so naturally, I went to the reservoir to fish. I felt like a wealthy vacationer, having the entire lake to myself. Standing under a thunderstorm while holding a long rod in the air; what could go wrong? For the first hour of fishing, I listened to an audiobook on Thoreau, and stopped it once the weather worsened. A heavy downpour ran me out of the area, but not before catching seven bass and a sunfish. We all made it home just fine, although one smallmouth bass gave me a scare. When I released the beast back into the water, it lay floating motionless. Sometimes, a fishing hook can hit the brain of a fish and kill it instantly, something responsible fishers mitigate by using the proper sized hooks. I had hooked this fish on the lip, but there it floated lifelessly. I decided I could use the fish’s corpse for cut bait, and when I bent down to pick it up, it suddenly flopped once in the water and shot off like a rocket.

I arrived home completely soaked, changed into some dry clothes and made a cup of hot coffee. Once warmed, I took a walk through the woods with my fearless, and brainless, hound, Bodhi. He had a great time running through the woods, especially when he found some excrement from a wild animal, which he naturally thought it would be a great idea to roll in. I’m not sure why dogs do this, maybe to cover their scent when hunting? Once we arrived back at the house and were in the front yard, a flock of geese flew overhead at low altitude, honking loudly, flying in a perfect V formation. Bodhi took chase and crossed the entire pasture in a matter of seconds, probably the highlight of his day.

After a shower and some lunch, I loaded up Kilo and the wife into the car and drove back out to the reservoir so Kilo could stretch her legs. We all walked up and around the inlet, admiring how clean the area looked after we picked up the trash on Saturday. Kilo fetched a smooth stick out of the cold water a few times, and then headed home, taking a detour to an area around the lake we had not yet explored.

This evening, at last light, I walked into the woods to inspect some fruits and vegetables my wife set out for the animals. There were five deer eating, so I opted to not bother them. We ate fish tacos, and I had two cold beers, hazy IPAs; an ending to another spectacular weekend.

December 9, 2023

This morning, I took Axel, a beautiful malinois that is the baby of the pack, to Lake Wilson for a walk. The weather was unusually warm; perfect for being outdoors. We walked around the small lake, noting several birds, smells, trees, and bushes; Axel did all the marking.

After the walk, we found a new coffee shop in town and picked up some brew and shared pumpkin and apples muffins, before heading to the county library to drop three few books. It was a splendid morning.

In the afternoon, I took Koda, my Shepherd-Retriever mix, to the inlet at Buckhorn Reservoir. While Koda could run about and get into the water, we were there on a special mission. We took about an hour with a large construction-sized trash bag and picked up all the trash in the area. A few days prior, I noticed how much trash had accumulated, and I vowed to clean up the area over the weekend. There were bottles, cans, fishing line, diapers, condoms, and general trash people had discarded, marking up the landscape. An elderly couple in a small ranger kindly stopped by and offered to take our trash bag.

This evening, I went to a small sporting goods store in town and bought some gloves and a deer feeding block. Last night, my wife and I discovered an excellent Mexican restaurant in Wilson, and true to our spontaneous form, we dined there a second night in a row. Their carne asada plate is some of the best I’ve had outside, and inside, of Mexico. When we arrived home, I took a quick walk down the trails and saw four deer feeding.

December 8, 2023

I watched the sun rise over the Buckhorn reservoir dam this morning; the sky colored with orange and pink, reflecting off the still morning water. A blue heron that frequents the area was on time for his photoshoot. There are usually several types of waterfowl in this small inlet that borders the dam, but this week, most of the birds have been on the south side of the reservoir, about half a mile away, still visible with the naked eye. Fifty or sixty gulls soared in circles, flying, fighting, playing; diving.

On my way back to my vehicle, I crossed paths with a man with binoculars around his neck, a camera with a telephoto lens in one hand, and a large tripod in the other. Ah, a kindred spirit. We chatted briefly, identifying the birds present that morning, and that I was a photographer and he was a “birder”.

This evening, I saw two deer in the pasture by a barn in front of my house move towards the pine grove, so I grabbed my camera and took a back trail that connected to the grove, hoping to head them off. As I approached an intersecting trail that points south, I came up on a second herd feeding on deer corn near my ground blind. A doe barked, and they took off, moving north, deeper into the forest.

I headed south to see if I could find the deer that had been in the pasture. Yesterday evening, I was walking quietly down this same path in the pine grove, a trail I do not frequent, and when I was about three hundred yards in, I looked up and saw a doe standing, staring at me about fifteen feet away. This evening, as I arrived near the same location, I looked through the trees towards a clearing and three large-eyed does were watching me from about 100 yards away. I took a few pictures, made an about face, and walked back to my house, trying to convince the deer I was not a threat.

December 7, 2023

This morning’s reading was an essay written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, published in his second series, titled Nature. One of my favorite lines was:

“The fall of the snowflakes in a still air, preserving to each crystal its perfect form; the blowing of sleet over a wide sheet of water, and over plains; the waving ryefield; the mimic waving of acres of houstonia, whose innumerable florets whiten and ripple before the eye; the reflections of trees and flowers in glassy lakes; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which converts all trees to wind-harps; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in the flames, or of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in the sittingroom, — these are the music and pictures of the most ancient religion.”

The temperature was 29 degrees, and the car’s windows required a little help from an ice scraper. Once the sky lit, I left for a nearby reservoir with my camera, a telephoto lens, extra batteries, and a neutral-density filter. Five minutes later, I arrived at the frostier than normal landscape, the fields and grasses all sparkling in diamond dust, ready to enjoy a cold but colorful sunrise.

On foot, I rounded a bend and spotted a blue heron that posed before taking flight, traversing the sky from east to west. A diving osprey broke the mirrored surface of the water, spraying white foam and mist. Within thirty minutes, I lost the feeling and dexterity in my hands as I sloppily nudged the buttons and dials on my camera. Even pulling my keys from my pocket took concentration, as I attempted to stabilize my hands’ uncontrollable shivering and inability to make my fingers move.

When I arrived home, I popped a pod in the Keurig, an HEB coffee named Austin, fancily imported from the great country of Texas, and one minute and forty seconds later, I was holding a hot cup of brew, taking short and shallow sips, while my hands thawed. This weekend, I told myself, I’m going to buy a pair of gloves.

December 6, 2023

Today, the temperatures dropped, making for a brisk morning walk. After returning, I wrote a short blog post on the Walden Film put out by the Walden Woods Project, headed by Eagles vocalist Don Henley. This 22 minute documentary has been a small beacon for my journey into the woods.

This evening, I went to the woods, hauling a 50-pound bag of deer corn. I usually take feed into the woods using a cart with large knobby tires, but I opted to carry it myself, resulting in an impromptu workout. Last week, I put out a bag of corn, which usually lasts for about a week, but I noticed the deer had devoured most of the corn in a single day. The local farmers recently harvested their crop fields, likely disrupting the deer’s food supply.

I’ll head to the feed store this weekend to stock up on more corn and protein pellets so the deer have food while they adjust to the post-crop season. Living in the woods, I feel more like a caretaker than a landowner, and that’s the way I like it.

December 5, 2023

Last night, I finished writing an article titled The Fallen Leaves. The piece compares the loss of human life to the leaves on a tree. Prior to publishing the article, I realized I had to capture a photograph of the leaf-covered forest floor.

Today, during my lunch break, I grabbed my camera, slipped on my boots, and headed out the door and into the woods. The first section of the easternmost trailhead consists mainly of coniferous trees, whose dry needles blanket the forest floor. However, I wanted to capture a photograph of more leafy subjects, so I walked toward the north end of the property where the forest was more deciduous.

As I walked down the trail covered by pine needles, I looked down to check my camera settings, making sure I used a small aperture to bring more of the frame into focus. As I reached the north edge of the pine grove, I looked up. There were five deer bedded about 20 feet in front of me. We spotted each other simultaneously, although I’m not sure which of us was more startled. A doe barked out the alarm. The deer snapped to their feet and took off, racing through the forest, sounding like wild horses, crushing the dried leaves and snapping small branches as they ran.

Witnessing a herd of deer in the forest is truly remarkable. I commonly encounter them in open spaces like crop fields or cleared areas with low brush, but to see them running through the woods is a sight to behold, their shadowy forms moving in and out of the bared vertical tree trunks, ears and tails flashing white, before disappearing into a silent forest.

I discovered a sunlit spot and captured images of dew-covered leaves. In the twenty minutes between the time I left my front porch and returned, I remembered how happy I was living out in the wild. Today’s experience reminded me of my favorite Thoreau quote from his essay Walking: “Give me a wildness whose glance no civilization can endure — as if we lived on the marrow of koodoos devoured raw.”

December 4, 2023

Today, I feel grateful for the healthcare we have available in our country. In reading Henry David Thoreau - A Life, by Laura Dassow Walls, I just finished the section where Henry’s close brother, John, nicked himself while stropping a razor. He bandaged the minor cut, but at that time, the brothers were shoveling manure for money. We didn’t know then that manure can carry the tetanus bacteria. By the time John called a doctor, lockjaw had set in. His last hours came quickly, but probably not quick enough, as he suffered an excruciating death.

Thoreau’s friend and mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, contracted tuberculosis, something that Emerson’s father battled. Tuberculosis would go on the claim the lives of Emerson, his two brothers, and wife. A son of his also died at a young age around the time John Thoreau lost his life. In 1862, Henry David Thoreau would die of tuberculosis at the young age of forty-four. These were tough times.

Healthcare is an important topic in my home. My work often involves healthcare providers, and my wife is currently doing her medical rotations for her PA graduate program. While many, and admittedly not all, Americans have access to healthcare, it is also the case that we neglect taking care of ourselves. Nutrition, exercise, and rest often elude even the most disciplined. Emerson, Thoreau, and many other American writers of the period bring so much enrichment to my life. I feel a deep obligation to not squander the extra years modern medicine affords us.

December 3, 2023

Today, I walked. Partially in the forest with my dogs, and partially along the main road. The weather was warm; balmy. By the end of the walk, we had traversed five miles of hospitable terrain.

I spent the lazy afternoon studying two essays from the eminent American writer Ralph Waldo Emerson. Both pieces, Self-Reliance and Nature, were pivotal works during Emerson’s time, and I think it would surprise the modern reader to see how well they’ve aged. Unfortunately, society has not yet remedied the societal, or individual, problems Emerson attempted to address, and they have only worsened with time.

Still, I enjoy reading Emerson. While Thoreau’s content is more relatable to me personally, reading his prose can sometimes feel like chewing, dry-mouthed, on brown rice or raw kale. Emerson’s prose, while polished and full of both depth and breadth, seems more palatable. While I’ve read both Emerson and Thoreau since high school, it is only as an adult that I have learned to understand and appreciate the wisdom they embodied and how their calls to action ring true.

December 2, 2023

The morning was oddly warm and wet, as the humidity made a surprise encore, temporarily interrupting fall. I slept in until 7, and when I awoke, I peeked through a raised slat in my white bedroom blinds, checking the weather outside. Condensation coated the panes, completely obscuring my vision.

I arrived at the local reservoir a few hours later to do some Saturday morning fishing. Using earthworms I farmed for bait, I hooked several white crappie. Pomoxis annularis is a beautiful species of fish, sometimes referred to as perch. Their silvery bodies, marbled patterns, wide dark eyes, and spiny opercular bones make the fish some of the prettiest in the panfish family. Perchance they are also the tastiest.

The water was beautiful, with wispy patches of fog floating just above the mirrored surface. Trees opposite the pier still sported red tops, some of the last autumn colors left in the area. The southerly wind blew warm, but when it subsided, the undisturbed air felt cold. Ospreys, herons, and gulls circled about; a lone duck fished close to a nearby pier. It was a perfect morning.

December 1, 2023

It was 32 degrees and clear when I awoke. I had a cup of coffee (okay, maybe a couple of cups) this morning while I read from an old trusty book, published in 1959, by the renowned Zen master, Daisetz T. Suzuki. In his book, Zen and Japanese Culture, there are several chapters in which I have immersed myself since I first came across the work over 30 years ago. I have focused my studies on the chapters about Zen, Confucianism, the samurai, swordsmanship, haiku, and the art of tea. There is, however, a small section at the end titled, “Love of Nature”, which occupied this morning’s reading. In the fourth part of the section, it surprised me to come across several familiar terms, connecting my love for this book with some of my current reading: Concord, Massachusetts, Transcendentalism, Emerson; Thoreau. Is the world small, or is the path toward Truth just narrow?

A few hours later, the sun rose in a fiery display. I grabbed my camera to capture the red and orange colors, hues and shades I no longer see on the bare branches of the deciduous trees in the forest. This morning, however, the shadowy branches, backlit by the magnificent colors of the sunrise, made the woodland look like a fresh autumn morning. I walked to the trailhead on the east side of the property, sauntering toward the pine grove bordered by an empty crop field. The unmistakable flashing of a deer’s white tail seized my eyes, bouncing through the field, arriving at the tree line on the opposite end. There, three deer stood frozen, gazing at me. I snapped a few photos and bid them farewell. Mornings in the woods never disappoint.