A melancholy grey day is good every once in a while - somber and sober revelations can be beautiful and sitting with a Steinbeck, birdwatching in the pacific forest is particularly humbling for me. Maybe I’ve got the old world reverence of my father, and it just takes a different outlet in me.
Today a battalion of sport hunters rose early to shoot geese and ducks in our neck of the woods - driving ominously down our labyrinthian complex of abandoned roads and firing shots of every caliber on every side of our camp. A forest ranger came down our road in a green truck and stopped at our property line, staring at the RV before pulling noisily away. They probably think we’re poaching. At any rate the ranger’s presence stopped the hunters’ shooting for a while and we can hope they won’t return in such numbers in the wee hours.