Dewdrops at Dawn and Beer in the Bay

I woke up Saturday morning with the dawn sunlight blazing in through my bedroom windows, Rosie Lee walking over my shoulders and Tricksie Treat yodeling for breakfast. I would have loved to sleep in a little longer but with their combined efforts the cats had ensured that I was fully awake so I looked out of the window, noticing immediately that the fields looked like a fairy tale land, laden heavily with millions of little dew drops. After everyone had bolted a quick breakfast I left the cats to nap while I drove to a pretty and relatively unknown park area. I keep these places under my hat as it's lovely to go and find nature without hoards of hikers and groups noisily making their way along the trails. Some places should remain peaceful.

 A light mist was draped over the empty road as I drove into the sun. It seemed that not a soul was around and upon arriving at the park I was delighted to find I was the only vehicle there. Two baby rabbits grazed along the edge of fence, eying me with interest as I passed by slowly, their grass packed mouths munching furiously and noses twitching.

 Every grass, flower, stem and seed head was draped with jewels, large crystals spheres glittering and sparkling as I walked along the grass trail. Rainbow colors flashed as I looked about me, dazzled by the brilliance of the dewy water droplets. The grass underfoot was sodden too and I was initially glad of my heavy hiking boots, until I realized that they were no longer waterproof. I had discovered a tear on the sole of one boot, which had likely protected my foot from injury but now that foot was soaked through. The path was flooded in many places, the swampy water on each side of the path determined to meet in the middle.
The air was alive with insects. Golden dragonflies swept overhead while crickets jumped to the side as I walked forward. Birds were heralding the morning sun, chorusing with others as they flittered from branch to branch. A small group of deers were drinking from the pond, three young fawns keeping close to their mothers and the bullfrogs were a symphony of twanging elastic bands, thrumming and croaking from between the reeds, the only signs of movement were the ripples expanding on the water as they jumped into hiding places among the bull rushes.

 Spider webs glinted like silver threads, spun between delicate stems, tips of leaves and flower petals. They were invisible at first until I moved so the sun shone through them and then they were illuminated, their strands twinkling like delicate crystal necklaces. 

It wasn't even 7:30am yet the heat was already stifling, the air thick with humidity. I had a sheen of perspiration on my arms and legs, and although the mosquitoes were ignoring my limbs, thanks to my botanical wipes, they were attacking my back and shoulders through my t-shirt. One landed on my wrist. It was huge and actually hurt as it bit me. That was its last action. As I completed the lap around the field I walked quicker to get back to the car, anxious to escape these biting tyrants. It's becoming an epidemic with these insects, they're becoming more invasive with each year and I swear they're also getting larger. I took one last photo of my favorite chicory flower before jumping into the sanctuary of my car and the AC.
 On Sunday Emily and I drove up to Baltimore to pick up Rob and meet with his friend Dennis at a nearby dock where he kept a small boat. Dennis was waiting for us, anxious to get going, his engine already idling. We handed coolers across and jumped in. It was a smallish seating area but plenty roomy for four people and small enough that Dennis could sail the boat single-handedly if he chose. He was having a problem engaging gears so decided to raise the sails. Rob had helped on previous voyages and so now took a rope to pull up one sail while Dennis hauled on the other. The wind kept changing direct and the air was filled with commands of "Tack now!", "Keep tacking!" and "Prepare to tack!" It sounded like we were going into battle.

We zigzagged our way across the water towards the mouth of the bay, where we would then see Hart-Miller Island, our destination. It opened for public access in 2016 for the first time since 1981 and is now a wildlife area and bird sanctuary, accessible only by water. Rob had told us to bring a spare change of clothes in case we couldn't get close to the island and needed to swim a short distance. I'd also brought watertight bags for Emily and I to stow our cameras and phones, although I hadn't worked out how I was going to hold on to that while doggy paddling to shore. I'm not a good swimmer, but I'd deal with that problem once we dropped anchor.
But I was also wondering how long it would take to get there as we first veered to the left, straightened up, and then swung to the right. And then I noticed we were actually going around in a circle and just as I voiced my keen observation we grounded. And we couldn't move, we were stuck. Time for a beer! We cracked open a lovely fruity whipped Volume 4, a frothy concoction of peaches and cream.

Dennis was furious, needlessly blaming himself for our predicament, and radioed for a tow. I was rather disappointed that I didn't get to hear him yell, "Mayday! Mayday!" but I had to concur that maybe it would have been an overkill in our situation. Yet it was a situation we minded not one jot. We sat and enjoyed the cool sea breeze blowing across the boat, there was no humidity, and best of all no mosquitoes. I loved this photo of Emily clutching her beer, while behind her the tiller is unmanned. Obviously, perched on our sand bar this wasn't an issue, but it looked good!

Emily suggested we climb out of the boat and pull it back to the dock but our rescue was on its way. Within 40 minutes and 2 beers our help arrived and we were slowly dragged back to the berth.

The boys tied up the boat and once again we opened the coolers. Dennis' dock neighbor turned up in his little boat and then climbed on board with us to share our picnic. It was only when we saw flashes of lightning and heard thunder rumbling that we thought we should pack up for the day. Even though we hadn't made our destination we'd still had fun with superb company and a promise that we'd have another attempt at reaching the island once Dennis had repaired his boat.
We said goodbye then decided to drive around and explore the area. There wasn't really much but it was a quiet neighborhood and one I wouldn't mind living in, cute little houses on dead end roads, many of which backed onto the water. We'd noticed that the bay had been very peaceful, no jet skis, speed boats or anything with loud engines. It was a place I'd like to come back to.

Down the end of one road we discovered an old flying strip. This was Essex Skypark. We initially thought it was abandoned, the main buildings were looking a little worse for wear and a couple of old planes that had been parked up for years, grass growing up around the wheels, were certainly not taking to the skies any time soon. But after researching online, I was impressed to find that it was a little thriving concern, housing antique planes and also amateur experimental machines, the runway also being used for flying model aircraft.

They formed a flying club in 2015, proudly boasting that numbers are increasing, and while we were there a car arrived, its occupants entering a hangar. We drove away and started the journey homewards. The only thing marring my weekend were the welts now beginning to swell and itch on my back from those abhorrently odious mosquitoes. I would be scratching for at least a week now...

Celebrating Steam and the Green

We've been having more of our fair share of storms lately, floods a plenty with lashing winds and most upsetting for me, a sunflower casualty, a broken stem that I'd tried to splint with two paint stirring sticks from Walmart, but failed. It was too damaged to survive. But Saturday dawned with the sun shining brightly, temperatures quickly soaring to dry out roads and fields. I wore my heavy hiking boots to combat any mud puddles, grabbed the Sony camera and drove to Berryville for their 52md Pageant of Steam. I was hoping to catch up with some of the folks from Steam School and sure enough soon after I arrived I heard Robin calling my name and I greeted friendly faces.
I had been looking forward to inspecting the traction engines. Throughout my life when I'd seen them, I had been overwhelmed and impressed with their huge size and the noises they emitted, but today I saw them in a new perspective. Thanks to the Somerset Steam School I now looked at them and understood how they worked, mostly. I found an excellent old book online, 'The Traction Engine, Its Use and Abuse' by James H. Maggard from 1900. It's available on Amazon but part of it can be seen as a PDF here. It's a manual from when these engines were made and spoken in layman's terms, so easy to take in. I was excited to see these huge beasts again and studied their working parts, even taking a guilty pleasure when I spotted that a water gauge was low. I mentioned it in conversation with the owner who assured me all was well. I did feel a little proud that he spoke to me as though I understood everything he was saying. Unfortunately though, I did not.

I love these county showgrounds at Berryville, with large buildings housing plenty of flea market vendors and copses of tall trees offering plenty of opportunity to seek shelter in the shade. But I took no notice of that, the noon parade was about to start and I wanted to watch the vehicles as they passed me standing in the hot dust, engines chugging and throbbing, well tuned without missing a beat, proud owners sitting erect on their prized possessions, happy to pose for a photo and smiling broadly at spectators.

This machine stopped me in my tracks, I'd never seen anything like it. As the monster approached me, it looked huge and dark as it thundered towards me, my eyes blinded by the sunlight. I couldn't make out the driver's face but I heard the engine slow down and guessed he was allowing me to grab a fast photo before he flattened me. I had absolutely no idea what this looming behemoth had been made for, I just stood in awe as it trundled past, the ground shaking in its wake. I asked a guy standing next to me, his face was also alight with total admiration of this hulk, but he did manage to inform me that it was a tree cutter. It drove over the length of a tree, hacking off its limbs and then the rear blades would chop off the roots. What a beast!

I strolled around the tractor enclosure, admiring the Farmalls and Cases, there were some beauties here. But my eyes kept searching ahead for a beautifully restored Minneapolis Moline, but alas, one was not to be found today, although I did spot one standing silent on some grass, not yet fully restored, but still worthy of an admiring inspection. I love the gold orange of these tractors and had fallen in love with my first one down at the Massanutten Tractor Show in Woodstock, VA 7 years ago. The heavy pounding of huge steel wheels grinding into the dirt caught my attention, and I dashed back out of the enclosure to where the traction engines were lining up for the parade.

Buddy Hale with Robin and Gil Roberts from Somerset Steam School.

The air was thick with the wonderful aroma of wood smoke as fire grates burned their fuel to propel these magnificent slow rolling kings. It's funny how I whine about the fumes when stuck in traffic on the way to work, yet here I was sucking them up as greedily as the peach ice cream I'd devoured earlier. I was standing in the middle of the junction as the engines maneuvered into position to start parading in front of the bleachers when someone yelled out, their words which I'd missed, were evidently understood by the drivers as immediately the air was filled with a screeching symphony of shrill whistles, accompanied by columns and clouds of black plumes erupting skyward from smokestacks. I was too close to the engines to get good photos of the smoke but grinned as I looked about me, watching unsuspecting spectators suddenly stop in their tracks to slam their hands over their ears. Everyone was laughing, it was a great moment.

Mr Buddy Hale sat and admired his gorgeous Port Huron as it trundled slowly by, a resplendent steam superstar since it graced the June/July cover of 'Engineers and Engines' magazine.

And then the tractors started forward as the traction engines began the parade route. The director of the show, Kenny Pruitt, constantly made me chuckle. He had full control of all traffic and whenever his finger pointed at a vehicle it stopped immediately and didn't start to inch forward until given the all clear. This gentleman was evidently used to getting respect. He's a pro on the shingle mill and threshing machines too. He either stood in the middle of the vehicles or ruled over them from a canvas chair parked on the side. Nobody dared sidle past him until he beckoned them to do so.

I loved this Case. It only took its owner two years to restore it after finding it in a barn.

This year's steam show was celebrating 'The Year of the Deere' because it's the 100th anniversary of John Deere. I was trying to ignore this fact as I'm not a John Deere fan, I'm a red girl, not a green girl. But I had to stop in my tracks when a John Deere tractor approached, looking like it had just rolled off the set of a 1950's Sci-fi movie. Sleek and svelte, in pristine condition, I just ignored the colors and adored the lines. I'd never seen one of these before, a 1958 fully dressed 620 Orchard Tractor. It was immaculately divine and I wanted one.

After standing for so long in the bright sunshine I needed some shade and headed for the tents to forage among the flea market stalls. I came close to purchasing a blue vintage metal garden chair but decided against it since I was still taking photos and didn't want to drag it around, but if it was still available when I was done I'd go back for it.

Some of the traction engines were resting under the tree canopies, surrounded by deep puddles of oozing mud. I know it oozed because I temporarily forgot about it while stepping back for a photo, my boots squelching and sucking as I slipped, nearly losing my balance.

I was drawn to the hit and miss machines, their rhythm calling my name. They were stuttering and sputtering, glugging with an occasional belch thrown in, pop popping and vibrating as though jigging a jig. The Little South Penn above gave a very satisfying thwack that I had to just stand and listen to for a few minutes. I have no idea what I could use one of these machines for but I'd love one in the back yard, just to sit and watch while it did its thing. Another one, a Fairbank Morse farm engine had such an entertaining beat that I found myself tapping my foot and had to stop myself from jigging from one foot to another as I watched the wheels spin round. I wondered if I had inadvertently hopped a couple of times as when I turned around I spotted two men looking in my direction. Oh well...

After I'd finished watching every machine, I walked back onto the dusty track again, and immediately felt my face burning. I'd overdone the sun again with no protection and now yearned for some cold aloe lotion to dab on my cheeks. The thought became mind consuming, so that after a while I could think of nothing else and reluctantly made my way back to the car, my poor face already reddening. As I drove away, the heavy rumbling of steam engines and the chatter of the crowds faded away, the world of steam left behind until another day, and it was only after I'd driven a few miles down the road  that I realized I'd forgotten the damn chair.