WOLFE’S NECK WOODS STATE PARK - FREEPORT, MAINE
Kathryn Loup is one of those excellent folks who rallied in the waning hours to send in a dispatch from Maine. She reports in for Field Assignment #5 - Parks, Monuments and Landmarks:

If you are in Freeport, ME and need a break from the (excellent) shopping there, take a short drive out of town to Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park. The park, situated on Casco Bay, spans over 200 acres with woods and coastline, hiking and cross-country skiing trails, and varied wildlife.
As a relative newcomer to the East Coast, I found the rockiness of the land and coastline a surprise. Wolfe’s Neck Park is a particularly beautiful setting, in winter and summer.

* * *
Kathryn Loup is a transplanted Midwesterner (Michigan mainly), now in Massachusetts. Everything there is so close, she’s trying to visit many different places in New England. You can find her on Tumblr at purekathryn.tumblr.com or more of her photos on Flickr at purekathryn.
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WOLFE’S NECK WOODS STATE PARK - FREEPORT, MAINE
Kathryn Loup is one of those excellent folks who rallied in the waning hours to send in a dispatch from Maine. She reports in for Field Assignment #5 - Parks, Monuments and Landmarks:

If you are in Freeport, ME and need a break from the (excellent) shopping there, take a short drive out of town to Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park. The park, situated on Casco Bay, spans over 200 acres with woods and coastline, hiking and cross-country skiing trails, and varied wildlife.
As a relative newcomer to the East Coast, I found the rockiness of the land and coastline a surprise. Wolfe’s Neck Park is a particularly beautiful setting, in winter and summer.

* * *
Kathryn Loup is a transplanted Midwesterner (Michigan mainly), now in Massachusetts. Everything there is so close, she’s trying to visit many different places in New England. You can find her on Tumblr at purekathryn.tumblr.com or more of her photos on Flickr at purekathryn.
Zoom Info
WOLFE’S NECK WOODS STATE PARK - FREEPORT, MAINE
Kathryn Loup is one of those excellent folks who rallied in the waning hours to send in a dispatch from Maine. She reports in for Field Assignment #5 - Parks, Monuments and Landmarks:

If you are in Freeport, ME and need a break from the (excellent) shopping there, take a short drive out of town to Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park. The park, situated on Casco Bay, spans over 200 acres with woods and coastline, hiking and cross-country skiing trails, and varied wildlife.
As a relative newcomer to the East Coast, I found the rockiness of the land and coastline a surprise. Wolfe’s Neck Park is a particularly beautiful setting, in winter and summer.

* * *
Kathryn Loup is a transplanted Midwesterner (Michigan mainly), now in Massachusetts. Everything there is so close, she’s trying to visit many different places in New England. You can find her on Tumblr at purekathryn.tumblr.com or more of her photos on Flickr at purekathryn.
Zoom Info

WOLFE’S NECK WOODS STATE PARK - FREEPORT, MAINE

Kathryn Loup is one of those excellent folks who rallied in the waning hours to send in a dispatch from Maine. She reports in for Field Assignment #5 - Parks, Monuments and Landmarks:

If you are in Freeport, ME and need a break from the (excellent) shopping there, take a short drive out of town to Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park. The park, situated on Casco Bay, spans over 200 acres with woods and coastline, hiking and cross-country skiing trails, and varied wildlife.

As a relative newcomer to the East Coast, I found the rockiness of the land and coastline a surprise. Wolfe’s Neck Park is a particularly beautiful setting, in winter and summer.

* * *

Kathryn Loup is a transplanted Midwesterner (Michigan mainly), now in Massachusetts. Everything there is so close, she’s trying to visit many different places in New England. You can find her on Tumblr at purekathryn.tumblr.com or more of her photos on Flickr at purekathryn.

SILVER SPRINGS, FLORIDA 

Timucuan Indians settled around Silver Springs in the early 1500s. They were soon invaded by the Spaniards and eventually succeeded by Seminole Indians. In turn, the Seminoles, led by Chief Osceola, then retreated to southern swamps when pressed by the US Government in 1835. By the 1850s, barges carried cotton, lumber and nonperishables up the river to the growing community of Ocala. 

Paddlewheel steamboats made their way up the Silver River to the main spring and in the 1880s railroad cars began bringing even 
more tourists. Silver Springs and the Silver River have been tourist attractions ever since. In addition, the spring’s crystalline water has provided the perfect underwater backdrop for many Hollywood films and television programs including six Tarzan films, Sea Hunt, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, and many others.

Silver Springs, will become a state park in October, following $4 million in renovation that includes the removal of exotic animals and amusement rides. Its famous glass-bottom boat tours, which started there in 1878, and the popular concert series will remain, but several exhibits and structures will be dismantled to convert the attraction into a more natural park. The park will remain open during the transition.

Sources: 1, 2, 3

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Jordan Smith is the guide to ephemeral America for The American Guide. He currently works for the University of Notre Dame during the day and scans at night. He lives in South Bend, Indiana and you can find him on Flickr, his blog, or one of several Tumblr sites.

SINKS CANYON STATE PARK - WYOMING

Sinks Canyon State Park sits at the base of the southern Wind River Mountains, just a short drive from Lander, Wyo.

In summer, its scenery and sheer rock faces attract mountain climbers, hikers, campers and wildlife watchers. In winter come the skiiers, snow-shoers and snowmobilers.

“It’s a glacial carved canyon. It’s been a corridor for ancient peoples, wildlife, wind, water and ice for thousands of years,” says Darrel Trembly, park superintendent since 1991.

“Every season has its own beauty.”

Its big draw is The Sinks, the place where the Middle Fork of the Popo Agie River disappears into an impressive cavern at the foot of the mountain. Geologists believe the river winds its way through narrow passages and small cracks in the Madison Limestone before re-emerging at The Rise a half-mile away. In dye tests, it takes two hours for water to make the short journey.

(Unless you want to sound like an out-of-stater, Popo Agie is pronounced puh-PO-shuh. It’s a Crow Indian word meaning “gurgling water.”)

The park recently lost its most revered resident, an acclimated Big Horn sheep with a penchant for head-butting parked cars. Read his obituary here.

Last summer, I took 10-year-old Sammy on a mother-son camping trip there. Sarah Trembly, temporary park employee and daughter to the superintendent, led us on a guided tour of Boulder Choke, a cave left the way nature built it. There are no walkways and no lights. The entrance is a pile of boulders barely wide enough for an adult to squeeze through.

The cave extends 1,400 to 1,500 feet – at least that’s the amount that has been mapped and explored. How far you can go depends on how far the water has receded.

Sammy asked Sarah if they’ve ever found anything cool in there — you know, like bones or evidence of a crime scene.

No, Sarah said. Overflow from the Middle Popo Agie wipes the cave clean every year.

It does, though, deposit trout that never find their way out again. Their offspring have adapted to the dark and are now colorless, though they still react to lights directed in the water. Sarah has seen the flashes of white swim away from her beams, though Sammy and I didn’t catch sight of one.

As we walked, crawled or shimmied through the passage, we heard water flowing in rooms either in front, beside or under us. 

Sammy has been to bigger caves in South Dakota. Jewel Cave, for example, impresses with its grated walkways and handrails, its electric lights, its stalagmites and stalactites rising and dropping from ceiling to floor.

But, for Sammy, it doesn’t hold a candle – or a headlamp — to Boulder Choke. There is something to be said about a 10-year-old crawling under low limestone ceilings, knees caked with cold mud. There is adventure in finding your own way around a quiet puddle by a narrow beam of light.

Tours of Boulder Choke must be arranged in advance at the Sinks Canyon Visitor’s Center, and are only available in summer after the water has washed through.

In the meantime, winter still envelopes the canyon. Nearly a foot of snow fell March 22-23, calling to the skiers, snowmobilers and picture-takers. Sinks Canyon’s views are worth a stop, whatever your season.

To read more about the park, go to www.trib.com. 

— Kristy Gray

* * *

The features staff of the Casper Star-Tribune — editor Kristy Gray, outdoors reporter Christine Peterson and reporter Benjamin Storrow — are State Guides to Wyoming. The Star-Tribune is Wyoming’s only statewide newspaper and you can follow the adventures of the features folks at tribfeatures.tumblr.com and find the Star-Tribune at www.trib.com.

PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
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PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
Zoom Info
PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE
Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 
Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters
* * *
Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.
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PACK MONADNOCK, NEW HAMPSHIRE

Stone, and a fault line furrowed in it. Dust laid down there, windborne, rainborne, mote by mote. Then a little lichen, a little moss. Soon enough, the highbush blueberry appears, the paper birch, the red spruce. And now the whole Wapack ridge purrs as the wind rises, and shadows raise fur where light had once cut edges. The granite domes of some New Hampshire hills are just now being colonized, sixteen thousand years after a glacier ran a cold hand backward over this cat’s arched spine and razed it clean. No deep roots on this mountain. No living thing comes to stay, up here or anywhere. (Thoreau, seeing these “Peterboro hills” from the south, said, “We look at a condition which we have not reached.”) Those that know the place best are only visitors: the ten thousand hawks that migrate past each fall—dangling from clouds, effortless, some South America-bound. They will not stop here, but are drawn to the invisible updrafts off the ridge. The people below, drawn to the scarcely more visible hawks, stand shoulder to shoulder on the peak of the mountain—visitors, too, asking the sky overhead to perform again its one great sleight of hand: Something-out-of-Nothing.  Only old Jack-be-nimble, the ever-restive, ever-quickening eye, sliding down distances, mounting by orders of magnitude, is wholly at home. Footloose and fancy-free on marionette strings, it needs no perch or nest or place to preen its wings, nor furrow for planting, nor soft beech wood on which to grave itself and grow. It need not ever reach its one far-off condition. Whatever the shape on which it lights, it gives an animate name. 

Images by Jon Creamer, Text by Henry Walters

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Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.

Henry Walters lives at the end of a long dirt road in southern New Hampshire. In the fall he spends around 600 hours on Pack Monadnock, watching and counting migratory birds. You can find his writing about these hours at www.hawkcount.org.