From The Sigurd F. Olson Website, http://www4.uwm.edu/letsci/research/sigurd_olson/contents.htm, comes this quote for November 29 to December 13:

Such vivid awareness is swiftly lost today, but if it can be held into adulthood it enriches and colors all we do. How often in the wild country of the north I have been aware of the spirits of the voyageurs, the shadowy forms that once roamed the rivers and lakes. Often at night it seemed I could hear ghostly songs coming across the water, the rhythmic dip of paddles and the swish of great canoes as they went by.

I’ve included this quote here as I firmly believe that anyone who picks up a paddle and takes to the canoe in the north country is following the path that the voyageurs first took. It is as if those of us so inclined to go canoe tripping are listening to the voyageur’s songs. Mind you the voyageurs were not on a pleasure cruise….it was all business….and the portages with heavy laden packs and long days of paddling were literally killers….far from what a typical modern day canoe trip involves with ultralight Kevlar canoe and lightweight tent, pack, and other gear (including freeze-dried food that once prepared can seem like it came right out of the fanciest restaurant). But the sense of adventure must have been similar….even the country traveled through by the voyageurs and their modern day counterparts remains the same for the most part….and for many today as yesterday, the song of the paddle is literally music to their ears.

An “oldie” taken w/my Panasonic Lumix:

Click on image to order note cards on Redbubble.

Buffleheads

Thanks to the steady hand and a very heavy coat, Grant captured a magnificent shot of the St Andrew’s Day fireworks coming from Edinburgh Castle. Click on the thumbnail to see a larger version.

Grant (C) All rights reserved

You can see more fireworks photos by Grant on his Flickr site.

Beth’s Recommendation: If you have never been to Edinburgh for a fireworks display you have another opportunity on New Year’s Eve, or Hogmanay as it’s called here in Scotland. You can view the fireworks from almost anywhere in Edinburgh but Calton Hill is a favourite of mine. Get there in time to choose a prime location for photo taking!

Before I start talking about being a lush…visit my guest post on Ashley’s site about Gluten and Gluten Free Baking/Cooking. Ok..now onto being a lush former lush

I have to say, that when people ask me ‘What’s the hardest thing to give up with your food?’ I usually respond with ‘Ice cream and tequila’. I love tequila. LOVE IT!

Therefore, my afternoon snack as inspired by tequila and the fact that I no longer drink alcohol for health reasons (it upsets my tummy). A shot glass filled with 1 TB of Cranmond Cinnamon Granola (gluten free) which is going to be avaliabe for purchase from Ashely’s bake sale (Wednesday), 1 TB of vegan chocolate chips and 1 TB of dried cranberries. The Cranmond Cinnamon Granola is gluten free, vegan, dairy free and has:

• Almond butter
• Maple syrup
• Vanilla
• Cinnamon
• Rice Krispies
• Dried cranberries
• Almonds

It’s so damn good…and dangerously addictive. It’s the PERFECT topping for cereal, oats, smoothies in a bowl, or yogurt. It’s not too sweet, but has a lovely holiday taste to it. Yummy.

I invented a new recipe which I think you all will love..but I don’t think my tummy can take it anymore…no more apples for this girl

Apple/Celery stuffed Sweet Potatoes

It was inspired by this recipe. I took the following and used for the insides.

You will need to roast a sweet potato for about 50-60 minutes at 400/200. Until you can scrap the insides out. Once it’s cooked. Take out of the oven to let it rest while make the inside stuffing. The stuffing to be added to the guts of the sweet potato.

• 1/4 of onion diced
• 1 stalk of celery diced
• 1 apple, peeled and diced
• 1/2 of a chili diced
• 2-3 cloves of garlic pressed
• 1 TB EVOO

Sautee for about 3-5 minutes over medium to high heat

• 1 apple, peeled, cored and diced
• 1/2 c. of water

Add apple and water of to the mixture until water reduces. About 6-8 minutes

• Scoop out the guts of the sweet potato and add to the mixture cooking of the stove.
• Spoon the mixture back into the hallowed out shells

Bake for another 10-15 minutes. You can add cheese if you’d like.

It was tasty. I only had about 1/2 of the sweet potato and the fiber from the apple and potato combined started to affect me. Dang it. I ended up having 1 c. of rice krispies, 1/2 c. of granola (all up tonight), 1 1/2 TB of chocolate chips, 1/3 c. of frozen blueberries and 1/2 c. of almond milk for a little post-dinner snack.

I watched A&E TV all night. Intervention and Hoarders was on. I can’t pass up real-life drama. I was happy to see while I was watching tv, painting my nails, and Twittering that Brandon had put up pictures of the hike. Enjoy!

What is your drink of choice?

~M

First, rat update: the traps remain unsnapped, and I do not hear any foot prints, I am sooo knocking on wood hoping the last of them were trapped.  So far, so good.
Heron update:
Wow, they are new at this. This young heron drops a lot of sticks, she has put this nest in a very wide “Y” of the branch. The building is going slowly, and the male stays away more than he is coming to bring branches.  This is how it looked early this morning.

It looks like a tangled mess.  AND — on Wednesday night they have said we will get a cold front with winds up to 50MPH!  Unless she sits there like “Horton Hears  A Who” on that nest, I am getting anxious it will all blow away.  As of now, all I see is her standing over it, looking for her mate who seems to ignore her more than help her.
I ran to the tax office to pay my property taxes and stopped by the marina to see what was exciting. Not a whole lot at all.  But here’s a few pictures.  

Now that I think about it, I saw a lot of  ‘white birds’  and no pigeons down by the one tiny pond across from the marina.  I drove by the buildings on the “island” and saw some of the same old same old ducks so I parked by the memorial eagle statue to look at the water. I did get rewarded by those carp or cat fish that suck air. 

They stand straight or lie on their backs and suck air.

The boats looked clean, air was fresh.

I say that as there was trash in the water and it looks dirty despite the blue reflected from the sky and the extra blue tint I added to the pictures.  Did not see any gators or other water birds like osprey.
I came back home   , the road was ‘less traveled’ at 11am.  I gave up my zoo membership this time around. So I drove home because I was going to pick up my new glasses at the mall. That 20/20 Superstore changed my RX so much, I will have to try them out a few days and see how the change works. So far, my left eye feels a bit cheated and might need a bit more power. I hate to think I have to go back to that damn store again to get the RX right!
On the way back home, there was a hawk sitting on a fence near the red light,
By the time I ran all over, when I got home it was almost time to fish. I gathered my goods and walked with Ringo to the lake. I discovered that my heron that fishes with me is not part of the duo building the nest. I think she is the original mother of one of them.  She was waiting for me. 

As was a beautiful pink and blue night with near full moon.  The moon seemed quite shy tonight and blushed a lot as the clouds passed by.

The water itself was reflective of the deepening shades of pink.
I caught two bream and the heron was well fed.
Left the lake as it grew dark and the mosquitoes came out.  No videos tonight,
just an artistic rendition of Ringo as we left the lake, now pray for rain, but no wind for Wednesday….

Saturday I had the pleasure of doing Ricky’s senior pictures. It was an extremely windy day. It felt like hurricane force winds at times! I was thankful I didn’t have a girl for my session as I think we would have had to postpone it due to the wind, and the problems it would have created with hairstyles! Ricky was a fun subject. He comes from a family of 13!! I have been friends with his folks for over 20 years, and his mom does not look like she has had that many children! He is very easy going, very personable and talkative. He also has mad texting skills! I don’t know how these teens text so quickly and without a keypad! I found some great spots in downtown Manchester NH a few weeks ago and this was my third time going to them. I think I am going to have to find some new spots the rest of the year! It was a fairly quick session about an hour or so, but it was very productive. Ricky was pretty natural in front of the camera, and that always makes my job easy. You can see a larger gallery here

Nairobi to Moshi by mini-bus

Semi-nomadic cattle herders encourage their meatless livelihoods across the parched Kenyan soil, oblivious to the the Mario Kart style wacky racing tournament that dominates the new tarmac road beside them. Our 18 seater racing wagon rockets down the strip, swerving frequently to the other side of the road to dodge pot holes and then sharply back to the left again to avoid the mother of all lorries. Less then an hours drive from Nairobi we come to an abrupt halt. A team of sweat gleaming labourers block the road ahead. Unperturbed, our speed demon driver edges the mini-bus over the lip of a steep embankment and then nose-dives us into a ditch. We bounce and judder in an unsavoury fashion to the dirt track below.

The rude vibrations and abrupt seat expulsions continue for the remaining seven hours of transit. I’m beginning to feel like a tinned peach, marinating in my own sweat and mosquito repellent. But within the hour I’ve retreated into some kind of monster hybrid; Buddhist detachment meets sleep deprivation induced coma! Through wobbly dust stained window I spy lone Masai cattle herders sheltering under gnarly acacia trees. Their lean bodies are wrapped in red sheets and their ear lobes are stretched into humongous flesh tunnels. Thorns are used for the initial piercings which are stretched with bundles of sticks, stones and empty film canisters. Occasionally I catch sight of a lone Masai hut, tiny camouflaged structures made from sticks pasted in cow dung. But the Sunshine is beginning to lose her grip on the blue, blue sky. Wearily, she rests her head on the horizon and reaches out to the dusty foliage with her long spindly fingers. Unable to grip, she slips silently away and we are plunged into sleepy blackness.

Moshi

Coiled around the dirt alleys of Baba Market like some fantastical albino snake, our entourage of fifteen white Kilimanjaro hopefuls instigates curiosity, weariness and relentless entrepreneurship among the locals. Exotic and lucrative, we are pursued through the winding dirt paths of the market, shamelessly charmed and then impaled with the darts of hard line sales pitches. Kilimanjaro sun hats, beaded bracelets and animal oil paintings galore! We seek refuge under the wicker roofed fruit and veg stands. Plum faced women in vibrant patterned clothes smile at us behind piles of sunshine yellow and Amazon green fruit. ‘Mambo!’ My Swahili is still foetal, but ‘pure’ I call back. They laugh wholeheartedly ‘poa’ they correct me, ‘poa!’ This is just the street language of course but our exchange translates to ‘what’s up’ and ‘it’s cool.’ Our guides are anxious to teach us the language and the majority of people we meet and converse with are pleased we’ve made the effort, encouraging us and teaching us new words. An older women perched on a wooden crate eyes us wearily but the children watch our procession in wide-eyed wonder, slapping us lightly as we walk past and shouting ‘jambo’, ‘hello!’ and then running away in high pitched squeals of laughter. We meander past whole pigs and birds strung from the roof, their sporadic blood droplets quenching the dusty floor below. Eventually we re-emerge from the roofed sections and find ourselves in a dusty square, carpeted with rugs and throws, the contents of whole shops laid bare in the open air.

Day 1: The Rainforest

I perch nervously on my bus seat in a haze of wondrous anticipation and gruesome fear. Clouds of dusty beige evaporate into rich, orange fields through my window pane as my fear begins to dissolve, leaving my mind fertile with adventure. Crowds of tiny coco faces form outside passing schools, eyes wide and eager, little hands waving franticly, their voices hollowing at the awesomeness of their spectacle. And onwards our bus rolls, up through muddy tracks and winding into fertile banana plantations minded by weather worn workers; who kick back behind grubby plastic tables in shabby cafe structures in the warm, rainy gloom. Merchants clamour forcefully around Machame gates, knocking purposefully on the bus windows with their goods. Many of them work as porters too when they can get the work, which involves bribing the lead guide for a position in the crew, paying entry to the park and then relentless hours of tiresome work and all for a pitiful amount.

We have to hang around the gates for an hour whilst our documents and park entry fees are put in order and I’m anxious to get going. It’s that fear of the great unknown, the imagined event or challenge is often so much worse then the actuality. I can’t picture myself at the summit but my mind is geared towards negativity. Expect the worst and then every outcome will exceed your expectations, that was my motto then. I envision mind-ripping headaches of epic proportions, volcanic eruptions of vomit, tears, pain, strife, an experience more preferable in memory then in actuality.

As we wait for our park visas to be processed, we sit apprehensively on the stone steps outside the park reception. The frantic shouts of the merchants outside the arched wooden gates has subsided into a lazy babble as they wait for the next bus of white cash cows to arrive. The morning air is fresh and cool following the recent rainfall. I hear a deep vocal rumble and then the scuffling of feet, the frantic thumping of frightened hearts and the soft whistle of a moving air as I follow my group up the earthy path, past the throng of pack laden porters and onto the mountainside.

Despite our courtesy head start, the porters have overtaken us within three minutes. Straining against heavy packs and often balancing huge baskets of food and equipment on their heads, their lean black bodies charge past us. Oh the shame! I feel so puny, pale and worthless. Like a delicate china doll, pampered and privileged whilst these inky oxen struggle and triumph on my behalf. With this soulful realisation, I know I can not fail.

The rainforest itself reminds me of a charming English wood, distorted through the eyes of an acid freak. Silver barked trees twist and tangle in knots of moss and bronze in the sky above, encasing us in their enchantment. Ropes of thick green moss hang mysteriously above our heads like great shaggy serpents and a menagerie of ochre, tan and copper leaves imprint little fairy footsteps upon the ground. With so much lush green foliage encasing the path, detail loses its identity among the frenzy of colours and shapes, re-discovering itself in a 3D Monet masterpiece.

To be continued……

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Available at Urban Outfitters, for $38

Austin is very unique in many ways–including its friendliness to cyclists. Because cycling culture is so prominent in Austin, it is important that we take tips from experts to ensure safety while riding in the city.

Chris Carmichael and Lance Armstong

Chris Carmichael, cycling coach to Lance Armstrong and head of Carmichael Training Systems, was in town to promote his latest book: The Time Crunched Cyclist.

Through his book, he asserts that athletes can become “fitter faster and more powerful on the bike in just six hours a week.”

As a coach for both the 1992 and 1996 U.S. Olympic cycling teams, he knows a thing or two about teaching people not only how to advance their cycling skills but the fundamentals. Here are his tips for recreational cyclists:

Look Up: when you just look down on the ground in front of you, you do not have as much control of your bike and you will be more prone to for a bumpy ride.

When you look down as far the road as you can, that smooths you down. If you only look one or two bike lenths ahead, you get squirrelly action.

Hills: Don’t overexert yourself in the beginning of your ride. Take a steady approach when riding on the hillside.

A lot of times when (cyclists) hit short hills, they just want to get it over, so they spring to the top. Save you legs for later on, for hills no. 4, 8, and 16. If you try punching up those early hills, your pedal cadence will drop, you won’t shift and you’ll drag up the hill. You’re dead in the water.

Changing Position/Speed: Once you are on the bike, there are going to be instances where you need to shift your body. Get comfortable with riding in different ways and speeds.

If you spend 99 percent of your time above the brakes, your body doesn’t adapt to the lower position. You have less control (at high speeds) when you ride the brakes. Give your body time to get used to it.

Be careful out there cyclists! Make sure that you try to follow these tips when you are on the road!

There were four films in the Path of the Paddle series by Bill Mason. These are all available online from NFB too. The four films (which are each about 30 minutes in length)  with their individual links from the NFB site are:

Solo Basic, http://www.nfb.ca/film/path_of_the_paddle_solo_basic/

Doubles Basic, http://www.nfb.ca/film/path_of_the_paddle_doubles_basic/

Solo Whitewater, http://www.nfb.ca/film/path_of_the_paddle_solo_whitewater/

Doubles Whitewater,  http://www.nfb.ca/film/path_of_the_paddle_doubles_whitewater/

These are also available on DVD. Among the sources for these and other Bill Mason films (including Waterwalker and The Song of the Paddle previously mentioned on this blog) on DVDs is through the website of the Mason family, http://www.redcanoes.ca/store/dvds.html. Path of the Paddle is offered as a compliation DVD including all four films. Might make a great gift for the canoeist on your Christmas list (hint, hint….just in case anybody was wondering what to buy yours truly). Also available is Becky Mason’s great DVD on Classic Solo Canoeing.

Not that I didn’t enjoy the extremely mild week-long thanksgiving vacation back to Vermont last week, but really where is the snow?  Usually late November in Vermont consists of gloomy, short days, followed by an even shorter and darker one.  However, this November temperatures have been in the 50’s and it’s actually been sunny!  But what does this mean for the ski resorts?  Nothing good.  On a day trip up to Stowe last week I was shocked when there was literally not a speck of snow on the trails.  It has been so warm that even snow making has been out of the question.  With the exception of Killington, most Vermont resorts including Smuggler’s Notch (my home mountain!) and Stowe had to push back the usual day-after-thanksgiving opening date.  Now Vermont definitely seems to be hurting but that’s not to say that we’re doing so great here in Colorado either.  I’d say we’re in need of a good storm in the mountains!  But I guess we shouldn’t get too worked up about this, snow will be here soon and after all it’s not quite December!

Check out Bill Mason’s Song of the Paddle, which is also available through the NFB in full-length form online,  http://www.nfb.ca/film/song_of_the_paddle/. This is a 40 minute documentary of Bill and the rest of the Mason clan while they go canoe tripping. 

Here from the same NFB website are comments on this film from NFB curator Albert Ohayon:

Mason had envisaged shooting three instructional films on canoeing and one on canoe-camping. The instructional series would eventually be expanded to four films (Path of the Paddle) and Mason would work with his wife and children to make Song of the Paddle to share their love of canoe-camping. The film won three Etrogs (the Canadian film awards precursor to the Genies) in the non-feature film category for direction, cinematography and sound editing. Mason would also release a book bearing the same title, which the press dubbed “a philosophical guide to outdoor living.”

Song of the Paddle is also available on DVD.

It’s a bright sunny morning. It’s early December and the temperature is already climbing into the low 60’s. This is Vermont, there is supposed to be snow on the ground by now, but the global warming crew is blaming the naysayers for their lack of personal prohibition. All the cans of hairspray and whipped crème finally took their toll on more than just their users, but now all of mankind also must suffer from their abundant use.

I pull on a muscle shirt and running shorts, and then my Avia’s. Instead of my daily run on a treadmill, I decide to go out for a run. The past month has been rainy off and on and slightly on the cool side. I am a fair weather runner outdoors, and an avid treadmill runner indoors. At 50, my body is still in fantastic shape and my wife is jealous of the attention it draws. She has let herself go and our relationship is strictly one of friendship and convenience. I have offered to help her obtain the killer body, even to the point of personal trainers and surgery, but she wants it now, no hard work. What a pity.

When we first met, she was a petite size 0 and barely 90 pounds soaking wet (and she was soaking wet). Now, after years of comfort, she is nigh on 3 times her “man catching weight” and has the attitude to go with it. Where does that attitude begin? It seems to never end.  Out of desperation, I say to her as I prepare to go, “Honey, I’ll make a deal with you. If you agree to work at it and take advantage of my offers of assistance and lose half of your current weight, I’ll spring for an all expenses paid 14 day cruise for you and the person of your choice. You don’t have to answer me now, but I will require an answer by tomorrow morning.” She looks at you thoughtfully, and nods her acknowledgement that she heard me.”

I head out for the local school track to warm up with a few laps before heading off into the woods for some cross country running. It’s about 10:30 am and the sun is gently warming my body as I arrive at the school. It seems that the physical education instructors have the same idea, for their classes are already out on the track. I make my way over to the instructor and question whether I would be able to utilize the track at all today.

He and I discuss the weather briefly and he tells me that he is fine with my using the track. I just have to wait until the class has finished with their 2 required laps and then it is all mine. I take this time to stretch on the sidelines and warm my muscles up. As I’m stretching, I glance at the class. I see the toll that today’s lifestyle has taken on the youth of today. The majority of the class can’t even walk around the track without being winded. I do notice that there are a few who are about to finish their 2^nd lap and are continuing to run. These are the athletes, the ones who, like me, enjoy a good workout.

I observe them carefully, 4 guys and 5 girls. All fit and trim, and clearly at ease running at their 5 mph pace. As the last of the class completes their requirements, and I am finished my stretching, I walk over to the instructor (Mr. John Caan), “the 9 left on the track, are they going to continue, or may I join them. John tells me they will run the entire time and that I am welcome to join them, if I can keep up. I tell him that I may be 50, but I can keep up with just about anyone at any age, young or old. He chuckles and replies that these are his senior track team. They are all-state and they are all just turning 18. They are committed to healthy, clean living and are at their peak in conditioning and training. He tells me to set the pace and see how they respond.

I get out on the track and start just behind them. The first lap is just a warm-up, but I’ve already matched their pace. I slow slightly to allow them to catch up by my second lap. I tell the eldest looking boy what Coach Caan said and he nods in agreement. I pick up my pace a little and they adjust their pace accordingly. I begin to feel the familiar burn and the air in my lungs is refreshing and cleansing. After 2 laps I again increase. They stay right with me and I feel their energy. It is a seething, invigorating energy. It begins to permeate my soul and reminds me why I enjoy this so much. I ask the young lady to my right if she would like to lead the pack. She agrees and sets the next pace even faster.

As I settle into the new rhythm, I find myself watching her rear end as we run. It is the perfect shape, built by miles of effort. I remember how the girls on my track team looked like this also. I also know that their dedication and determination comes at the sacrifice of a personal life. The daily training and diet and scholastic demands require an almost exclusive life style. The only real socializing they have is between classes and at lunch. As I return from my reverie, I realize that we are running at about a 13 mph pace. The 4 minute mile is 15 mph, and at this pace I really “fell the burn”. I guess I am in better shape than I originally thought.

The lead is taken over by the boy now and we begin to slow it down some. Even they can’t maintain this pace for very long. I welcome the slowdown and feel ready to begin the cross country portion. We walk a lap and then gather around the coach, who has already sent the rest of the class to the showers. I thank him for the opportunity and tell him I’m off to the woods for my cross country portion. He tells me that one of his runners is a CC champ and would I like some company. I agree, thinking that the young man would be an equal partner in my trek through the woods and that he would know the course better than I.

I am taken aback slightly when he tells Heather, the girl whose ass I was studying, to accompany me on the next leg of my journey. She happily agrees and Coach Caan tells her that he will take care of her class schedule for the rest of the afternoon. She needs the practice anyhow and that my accompaniment will ensure her safety from any intruders.

I introduce myself as Mr. Tim Jansen and she as Heather Hollis. We wave good bye to the coach and begin one more lap on the track and then head for the CC trail. Her ass is very fine and I can’t help but stare at it. We run about 3 miles into the forest behind the school and she slows to a jog. I jog abreast of her and ask her if she’s OK. Her reply is in the affirmative, and she smiles sweetly at me.

After 5 minutes of jogging, our muscles beginning to cool a little, she stops. I stop beside her and ask if she’s OK again. She says she is fine and looks me dead in the eye, “You wanna fuck?” You could have knocked me over with a feather. The look on my face must have tickled her because she laughed heartily at my expression. I can imagine it: mouth agape, eyes staring, but not seeing, and cheeks turning 10 shades of red. After I regained my composure, I asked her to slowly repeat herself. “You…wanna…fuck?”

I start to offer up the whole, I’m old enough to be you father, blah, blah, blah. She stops me mid-sentence and says, “Those boys on the team always want in my thong, but I tell them no. Now you come along and I see what great shape you’re in and I know you are a businessman in town. I’m 18, in high school, live at home, standing in the forest with a virile man, who can’t stop eyeballing my ass. I’m offering you a good, up close look at my ass and you are making excuses???”

“Well, if you put it like that, sure, I wanna fuck!” I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you be willing to go back to that stream a hundred yards back and bathe with me?”

“You mean like skinny dip in that cold-ass stream?”

“Sure. I’ll be sure to warm you up properly if you do so.”

Heather agrees and we walk back to the stream. I remove my shorts, shirt and jock strap. She is staring at my 7” and gasping at it’s girth. I step into the stream to wash off  the sweat and to cool down some. She begins to strip, first the tank top, sports bra, shorts, and then the tiniest thong I’ve ever not seen. Her entrance into the stream brings Goosebumps and then I envelope her in my arms. Her lips meet mine and we exchange tongues and spit for the next 5 minutes as the water washes over and around us. Her body responds to the embrace and I begin to feel the warmth between us. I feel her legs wrap around my waist as she entices me with her femininity. My erection is pressing at her opening, and her tongue is deep in my mouth.

I rise in the stream and lift her easily as I emerge from the water. Her body wrapped around mine and her mouth still engages with my mouth. I still smell the scent of body cologne she applied so craftily this morning. I lay her down in the forest on a bed of pine needles and maple leaves. The combination producing a soft forest bed for our impending coupling. Her lithe, athletic body glistening with the stream’s wetness, her parted legs showing me her own wetness, made visible by the lack of pubic hair. My immediate desire is to feast on her wetness, but my mind knows there is a better way. I lay beside her and begin to kiss the stream’s wetness away with my tongue and lips. As my mouth nears her breasts, her chest begins to rise quicker with the anticipation. Her nipples, already able to cut glass from the stream’s chilly waters, harden even more as my lips envelope them. First the left nipple and then the right. Her moans are low and guttural, her hands are in my hair.

My continuation to her belly produces more goose bumps, but not from the cold. The water has all but evaporated and now the sun’s rays are warming her as it splays down through their empty branches. My tongue and lips are causing their own warmth. My tongue finds her navel and I briefly give her a glimpse of the treatment she is in for. My hands find her knees and her inner thighs as I tease her navel. Then I begin to move toward my initial goal. Her wetness has soaked the bed below her, and her lips are swollen and slightly parted, inviting me to kiss them. My french kiss part her lips and explore her as deeply as my tongue is long. I am rewarded with a flow of her cum. She is tasty indeed, as I sense her love of fruits and vegetables. In my current position, she has full access to my shaft and I feel her lips envelope its head. The sensation is one that reminds me of my 3^rd date with my wife and how expertly she performed felatio.

This thought briefly reminds me of her age, but is quickly erased as I feel her engulf my full length. The girth alone is enough to choke the average woman’s mouth, but this lithe creature has not only managed to avoid the gag reflex, but has allowed my sword to tickle her throat deeper than I’ve ever been with any other girl. It takes all my mind’s strength to concentrate on her pussy and the pleasure it deserves.

As I return to pleasuring her properly, I notice the effect it has on her level of concentration. She has all but stopped movement on my shaft and is enthralled by the tongue play I am employing and the explosion of pleasure she is experiencing. I withdraw from her mouth and reposition so I am lying between her legs and commence to feasting on her pussy the way she deserves. My tongue and fingers exploring both vaginal and anal cavities searching for her pleasure spots and taking advantages of the effect they have on her. I bring her to orgasm over and over, her voice hoarse from the moaning and screaming. As the next orgasm shakes her very soul, she begs me to fuck her.

I immediately position myself between her legs, missionary style and plunge deeply into her in one stroke. Her exhalation and moaning tell me she wasn’t expecting it, but enjoyed it all the same. Her velvety smooth, soaking wet pussy is screaming for attention. I stroke in and out several times just to hear her guttural cries of satisfaction. Then I remove and flip her over on all fours. I place my left knee between her legs and place my right foot beside and slightly ahead of her right knee. As I plunge back inside her pussy, she feels my head knock against her womb. I’ve inserted my full girth into her pussy and bottomed out. Her feeling of fullness is rewarded with withdrawal to the head and a re-plunging to it’s fullest. As I stroke her from behind, my thumbs enter her anus and I begin to stretch it in preparation for the next grand penile entrance. She is crying out so loudly in pleasure that I think for sure someone will hear her and call the police. But she wisely chose this path and place for its remoteness. She wanted to fuck me and she led me to the perfect place.

Her ass is finally ready for me. I withdraw and place the head against her anus. She turns and looks at me with those eyes that seem to say, “Well, what’s taking you so long?” I push and the head pops inside. I allow some spit to fall on her ass and I work that on my cock providing the lubrication she will need. I slowly insert the full length as she moans with every inch. I am balls deep in her ass and she knows now what it is to truly be full. Her sense of fullness is even greater than when I was deep inside her vagina. My right hand reaches around and I tweak her clit as I begin to stroke in and out of that perfect, muscular, 18 year old ass. She wanted to fuck, and I am fucking her. I feel my own orgasm building as the tightness of her ass works on my cock. With every stroke, I feel it cumming closer to the surface. I feel her hand grasp my balls and at that moment, as I stroke in to the full length, I feel my eruption begin. Spurt after spurt enters her anal cavity as I fuck her ass. After the 5^th spurt she falls away and turns around. She takes my still throbbing member in her mouth and she takes the remainder inside her mouth. Her tongue and lips drain me of any remaining cum and she hungrily swallows every last drop. She licks her lips, invitingly and asks me if I have any more for her.

My own cock is still rock hard as I gaze on this raven beauty. She grabs her ankles and pulls them toward her ears and begs me to fuck her one more time. I roughly enter her teen pussy and grind down into her pelvis. I grunt and groan and stroke away at her like a primal Neanderthal. I see her firm tits bouncing with every stroke and I wish to god she were my girl. Once again, her tightness brings me to orgasm and once again I begin deep inside her. She allows me to inject every last drop into her pussy. She uses her pussy walls and muscles to milk me of the last drop. “Now maybe I’ll have your child.” She whispers. I tell her that I am sterile and children are not possible with me. “Good, then we must run track together more often.” She whispers.

We lie holding each other for several minutes and then return to the stream to wash off again. We  allow the sun and breeze to dry us off and we re-dress. We stretch some and return to our run. She shows me the shortcut so the coach thinks we’ve been running this whole time. He may suspect, but would never accuse us. As we leave the forest and return to the track, she goes her way and I go mine. I jog home and hit the shower.

As I emerge from the shower, I see my wife on the closed toilet, “I’ve given your proposal some thought. I’d like to take you up on it, but is there any limitation on who may go with me?” I reply, “No dear, you may take anyone of your choosing. Now, when would you like to start?”

“I’d like to start tomorrow, OK?”

“Sure, I’ll set it all up for you.”

“What would you like for dinner, honey? Trout, or salmon?”

“How ‘bout the trout, brown rice and Brussels sprouts.”

“OK. So, how was your run? It looks like it was invigorating.”

“It was very invigorating. I may try to engage in a little more outdoor running in the future. I might even try for some in the colder weather, it might change my routine enough to have a better workout. I know today’s run was the best I’ve had in many years. I can’t wait to have another outside run like that one.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it honey. I only hope I can one day enjoy exercise the way you do.”

“Me too!”

Need a gift for someone who loves the desert & great photography? Or something pretty for the home and office in ‘10? Here ya go

The Man’s 2010 Calendar

Just a suggestion for a cold winter night stuck inside….why not watch Waterwalker by Bill Mason.

Waterwalker was the last film Bill Mason made before his death, a portrait of the Lake Superior waters he most loved. It shows his journeys along Superior’s north shore and the rivers that flow into it. Bill Mason was perhaps Canada’s most accomplished documentary filmmaker, an artist, lover of wild places and wild rivers.  Bruce Cockburn composed the title song and about 32 minutes of instrumental music with Hugh Marsh.

On the NFB website, http://www.nfb.ca/film/waterwalker/, the full-length film is available for viewing. On the same site come these comments from Albert Ohayon, NFB curator:

In Waterwalker Mason was aiming for a visual poem on his love of nature and canoeing. The NFB was interested in a documentary for television but Mason was against this, deciding instead to shoot more footage and bring the film up to feature length for theatrical distribution. Some of the money had to come from a co-producing agency, IMAGO films, because many at the Film Board didn’t feel the film had enough potential. Even when shooting was finished, Mason had a great deal of trouble convincing his producers that his film had enough structure to make it interesting. Mason re-worked the film and wrote a new narration to complement what he had tried to capture visually. Bruce Cockburn was interested in the project and signed on to write and record the musical score. The result is a haunting work that blends seamlessly with the strong visuals. The film can best be described as an ode to the majesty of nature (Lake Superior in particular) and an affirmation of Mason’s strong religious beliefs. Mason canoes throughout Lake Superior and stops occasionally to paint a spectacular waterfall or other scene, all the while talking about spirituality in nature and humans. Unfortunately at the time of Waterwalker’s completion, the NFB was still only interested in selling the film to television. Consequently Mason resigned and bought the distribution rights himself. After premiering it at the 1984 Montreal World Film Festival, Mason rented a movie theatre in Ottawa and released the film commercially. It had an extended run in Ottawa and became a local hit (6 weeks). The film would eventually play commercially across the country. The film was also a huge success on the home video market and on television. It remains to this day (in my opinion) his greatest film and continues to be one of the NFB’s biggest sellers on DVD.

From the website The Cockbrurn Project, http://www.cockburnproject.net/songs&music/w.html, come these lyrics to the title song (circa 1985), as written by Bruce Cockburn:

Accept the gift of circumstance
No more careful stepping plans
Everything holds out its hand
Gonna hold you up and love you
Gonna hold you up and love you
Waterwalker

Water under, sky above
Creation as metaphor for love
Shed resistance like a worn out glove
Gonna hold you up and love you
Gonna hold you up and love you
Waterwalker

Got no power, got no fear
Anyone can do it can’t you hear
River crying loud and clear
Gonna hold you up and love you
Gonna hold you up and love you
Waterwalker

From “Fire In The Bones“, by James Raffan:

On a hunch that contemporary popular music might fit the bill, and urged on by Alan Whatmough, Sutherland got in touch with singer Bruce Cockburn, who liked the idea of working on a Bill Mason film, and eventually teamed up with musician Hugh Marsh to compose and record the musical score for Waterwalker. As an Ottawa boy, Cockburn had chummed around with one of Budge and Judy Crawley’s sons and had met Bill either through that connection or through a visit on Hockey Film Night at the Masons during a short stint as a youth leader at St. Paul’s Church in Ottawa. Cockburn later recalled that first meeting with some regret, saying:

“I think it was back when he was doing the wolf movie Cry Of The Wild. It was way back. I was introduced to him, and I sort of thought he was a crackpot. I didn’t pay much attention, you know, because I had my own attitude at the time. Later, when I saw the movie, I regretted that I’d been hasty with him because the movie was absolutely beautiful. Here’s a guy who doesn’t just make a movie about wolves, he goes off and lives with them. And gets intimate with them. And its not your basic Animal Kingdom or Walt Disney nature movie. It doesn’t pull punches. There’s heart in it. You feel his love of his subject throught the film, which is something you may find in dramatic films but not very often in documentaries. The film was full of passion.”

Trust on Bill’s part for this musical decision made by Wilber allowed him to enter into the creative process- at least in so far as it was possible for a strong-willed creator like him to do so- with Cockburn and Marsh, even though music was one of the few aspects of film making about which Bill Knew next to nothing. Cockburn and Marsh set up in a little studio in Toronto, designed for recording advertising jingles, and began improvising to the Waterwalker visuals. Bill watched in awe. Intuitively he knew the feel he was hoping to give his audience and, musically, given the subject of wilderness, he knew that emotion could be achieved, and had been achieved in earlier films (and in his slide show) with simple voyageur songs and basic guitar chords. Sutherland knew that Waterwalker needed more than this and laboured to convey the point to Bill. Cockburn remembers Bill having a very clear idea about what he wanted, but failing almost every time in efforts to describe how this might be achieved. Cockburn described the collaborative process:

“He was very particular, even though he didn’t know anything about music at all. He would communicate clearly what he felt about things, and he was not shy about doing that. But he could be persuaded too. I found him very enjoyable to work with. I’ve worked with other film makers at different times; some of them are plain pig-headed. Mason did have to go through the process of weeding and refining and so we worked on the music for a long time. But invariably when we’d play a musical idea, he’d get excited, even though most of the ideas we came up with were generally beyond his comprehension and outside his understanding of music… There was one area where he didn’t agree with what we wanted to do musically, and I remember having to persuade him on one occasion that this was a good way to go. And I seem to remember there being something that he didn’t really like. But we worked it out. I mean, generally, there was some discussion over how much music should be in it, and he wanted lots of music, and it was generally felt – I felt, and Wilber maybe felt too- at a certain point it starts to seem absurd to have so much music in a movie. There was some concern that if you had to have that much music to carry the movie, then there was something wrong with the movie. But in the end I don’t think that was a problem.”

The final mix-down of the Waterwalker soundtrack, done in Dolby stereo to play in big theatres, was completed in the spring of 1985. That summer, while Wilber was arranging the promotion and launch of the film for late October, Mason joined Alan Whatmough, Cockburn, Wally Schaber and two other canoeists on the Hood River, the third north of the 60th parallel he had paddled in his life, generating stories that would later be told in Wild Waters, a book about Canadian rivers to which Bill had contributed, and in his second how-to canoe book, entitled Song Of The Paddle. One story from that trip, never told by Bill, that conveys Bill’s child-like exuberance for life in spite of all the hassles with Waterwalker, was remembered by Bruce Cockburn in thinking back on the Barren Lands trip. Soon after they landed to begin the trip, Mason galloped up the steep side of an esker, a long sandy hill laid down by a river flowing beneath a receding glacier. Standing on top of the esker, in command of an endless view across the rolling tundra of the Hood River valley, Bill tipped back his head and let out a long, mournful howl, to be greeted only by the whispers of arctic silence. The shoulders dropped, and crestfallen with disappointment at not raising a chorus of arctic wolves, he kicked stiff-legged down the esker, hands pocketed.

Waterwalker is also available on DVD. This incredible film which I first saw in a theatre in Toronto still passes the test of time….as do so many of Bill’s films. Check out other Bill Mason films online as well.

Reports this morning stated that Toronto has yet to receive one single snowflake in November….the longest on record since 1937….there are still a few hours left in this month but the weather forecast doesn’t appear to include snow for Toronto (possibly wet flurries north of the city….but none for Toronto itself)….but before anybody starts to jump up and down about a green winter (or even a green Christmas), remember that the last time Toronto experienced such a “light” snow cover in November (in the 1990s) that there was enough snowfall in January for a full winter….enough to have the army called out because of the citywide emergency that much snow caused (although quite a few question the wisdom of then Mayor Mel Lastman for that reaction….especially when a month later the city was paying to truck in snow for a winter festival)….just a point to ponder….anybody want to discuss global warming?????