Posts from the ‘Oregon Photos’ Category
If you’ve been wondering where Paul’s been, he’s been working on his new yard.
That’s right. I’ve been turning up dirt and staring down weeds. No photo sessions, or traveling around.
Do I enjoy it? Why yes, I actually do. I have a lot of projects that need to be completed in the near future. Just taking it a day at a time. Is it overwhelming? Not really. It can be when I’m reminded of everything that needs to be done, then it’s like, “Yeah, I know, I’ve ran that through my head about a thousand times.”
I’ve named this section of my garden, “Scrub Jay Way.” I’ve had quite a few scrub jays showing up, pouncing on tasty morsels found within my lawn. Instantly, just like that, the name came about. Psychologically speaking, I’m sure it derived from a past reference, one buried within the depths of my brain, and suddenly brought to the bright surface, “Blue Jay Way” from The Beatles. A magical mystery kind of ordeal.
Drifting. Things getting scattered. Unfolding, procrastination on the horizon. Glorious in its bathing reluctance.
Should have, could have, but didn’t. Nah, I was caught off guard. The plan was to paint both my bathroom and spare bedroom. None of it happened. I’m throwing the blame on my dad, totally his fault. His text, sent earlier before our journey up and throughout a few wild untamed streams, simply lured me away.
Guilty as charged.
Beyond the giant trout, those bastards freeing themselves from ends of otherwise stout leader, it was a good day.
They were all of insignificant size, but it didn’t really matter. Nothing more than a few hours of bliss, reeling in acrobatic cutthroat trout, enjoying those peculiar sounds where riffles and current combed over shallow uneven cobblestone beds. Choice of fly was none other than that of an Adams. Pure surface action, with every ounce of me engaged. Irritations melted away, drifted away, like those white pudgy columns patrolling the skies overhead. Each throw of line put the Adams on a different voyage, riding high on surface while moving shadows beneath kept a curious eye. Everything in their world, passing morsel or otherwise seemed always under strict surveillance. And then there was the familiar break, where surface split, and the Adams going bye-bye.
It’s depressing, hearing that Beau’s been lacking the ability for even the simplest of rise from trout in the Salem Ditch. It’s like he’s going soft, showing his son that it’s okay, totally acceptable to allow some hungry cutthroat trout not even five feet in front of him to get the very best of him. Way to roll, man. Do you need some soft hackles? Perhaps red tags? Maybe run home and let the cat out?
Why the long face?
Amanda and I had no problem on the Ditch. Sure, we dodged a few overbearing patches of gray, but we never had an issue with overbearing cutthroat or lingering rainbows.
April’s manic aggressive skies riot helter skelter over a rather timid Willamette Valley. They remind me of a hyperactive child who’s discovered a faucet somewhere in the heavens. Within seconds it’s yanked to full blast, resulting in a violent burst of showers, cascading upon the submissive earth below. Moments later the faucets turned politely off, things return to order, and bird song declares its return.
These have been added to the Spring Fling Photo Gallery.
Alert with accuracy, busy in a world of vibrant colors, the hummers at DeepWood Estate work in a frantic frenzy of nectar filled evenings, browsing through a variety of flowers, diving through towering oaks, chasing robins and stout flickers from their holding grounds. They’re a driving force to be reckoned with.