Cell Phone Photography

Now that I carry a cell phone around with me (mostly so that Sue and I can reach each other while we are off on our bikes) I have begun to wonder if the built-in camera can be at all useful. So I have started taking a few snapshots. As one might expect the images are low resolution (640x480) and become even lower in quality because of jpg compression. If I do any image adjustments at all in xnview (my image-editing software) they become very, very compact. Still, I like some of the results. Click on the snapshots above to see them in their full 640x480 splendor.

The trick to getting fairly good shots seems to be threefold: (1) Keep the camera lens clean. (2) Compose the photo carefully. (3) Hold the cell phone still! Most snapshots turn out badly, but then that is also the case with most photos I take with our camera. Experimentation with cell phone photos at least gives me an incentive to carry my phone around and keep it turn on more often.

Roof Repair

Last week I was blowing leaves and twigs off the cabin roof when I noticed a decidedly spongy spot in the plywood decking. This was no surprise. In steady rains the cabin has leaked in that general area (fortunately in the entry to the great room) for much of the past decade. On numerous occasions I had climbed around on the roof, inspecting everything imaginable and searching for the mysterious source of the leak. I could never find it.

So the good news was that the source of the leak could now be pinned down to above and slightly upslope of the spongy decking. I made a trip to town for a couple of packs of shingles and this week I set about the repair. For starters I had to remove all the shingles above the rotten section until I worked my way out to sound wood on all sides. This is trickier than removing an old roof prior to a general reshingling because one must be vigilant not to poke holes in the surrounding shingles. In the best case I would have had to patch only a small section of plywood--perhaps 3 feet by 3 feet--but as it happened, I ended up with about 8 feet by 8 feet ripped away as shown in the picture below.

Of course, this didn't line up perfectly with the support beams beneath, nor was the exposed area perfectly square. And not much to my surprise, a couple of the support beams themselves were past saving. After a couple of afternoons of work, I had created a pretty respectable hole in my roof.

Following another trip to town for a roll of 30 lb felt, I began creating a grid of new beams for the patch. Then I pieced in plywood decking (which was free because I had salvaged it from last winter's siding repairs on the Jonesboro house). I discovered it was a tricky job to slide in roofing felt so that the retained shingles properly overlaid the felt. Then it was just a matter of nailing on the new shingles--a job that inevitably involves a good bit of sanding of one's kneecaps and knuckles on the coarse surface of the shingles.

So now I have a nicely patched roof. The original cause of all the trouble was a single roofing nail that had gradually worked its way loose and incrementally poked a well-concealed hole in the shingles above it. I know that I've eliminated that particular source of leakage, but I won't find out whether the new patch is successful at shedding water until we get a long, soaking rainstorm. But I do know that even if one starts a roof repair in the midst of one of the longest droughts in years--and the forecast shows no rain in the days to come--you can be guaranteed at least some precipitation as soon as you cut a big hole in your roof. For two mornings Sue and I made use of every bucket and pan in the house to capture what we could of unpredicted fall drizzles.

Sue's Biking Breakthrough

This has been a big year for Sue as a road cyclist. She used to prefer to ride her mountain bike on the back roads, listening to a book on CD to pass the time. But, of course, listening to a book slows one down, and it is inherently too distracting to be a safe activity for road cyclists. As she has moved toward road biking, she has set aside the earbuds and discovered the joys of time trialing. Her record speed for our 31.2 mile ride has increased from 13.8 MPH, to 14.8, and finally to 15.1! As her need for speed has grown, she has abandoned her wind-catching skorts, now wearing full roadie regalia earned by our David's Trail charity ride. She has managed to grind her way up Cemetery Hill without stopping to catch her breath. (We just measured that the gradients of Cemetery Hill. In its steepest section it rises at a 16% slope and is about 10% overall!) Sue has learned that it does no harm to keep pushing after one starts to get out of breath. And she has started standing on her peddles for longer and longer sections of the local climbs. In fact, she has entered the Big Leagues--or at least the big leagues of Mountain Home--by joining me on a few of the rides with the local enthusiasts.

Last month Sue and I put out an email call for other Mountain Home cyclists to join us on a ride on October 21st from the Highway 341 bridge, over the top of Matney Mountain, to the top of Push Mountain, and back--about 27 miles in all. Sadly none of the gang had the guts to join us, but we went anyway. It was perfect October biking weather--calm, sunny, and cool. The leaves were at the peak of their autumn colors, so that there was always something visually appealing in the woods of the Ozark National Forest. For both of us the two-mile climb to the top of Matney Mountain felt surprisingly easy. Matney starts out steep, then settles into an almost flat section near the halfway point, and finally kicks up to its steepest gradient just before the top. Fortunately, we both know the mountain well and can easily calibrate our efforts in reaching the top.

The road at the top of Matney Mountain winds up and down along a ridge for several miles, providing several spectacular views of the national forest stretched out far below. Then there is a short descent before Push Mountain Road meanders through several scenic valleys to reach the base of Push Mountain. While Matney Mountain is clearly visible as a distinct mountain--or "knob" in the local dialect--Push Mountain hides its presence. But once you are on its slopes, you know it! It climbs steadily, unrelentingly, through at least a dozen sharp switch-backs during the entire two-mile ascent. That makes the climb a leg-sapping grind for its full length. While one's efforts are not rewarded by any scenic vistas at the top, the terrifying descent does provide a pretty good adrenaline rush. I'm no descender so I tend to hit my brakes hard, grit my teeth, and squeeze my knees against my top tube in an attempt to avoid a crash-inducing shimmy.

I was pleased to reach the top of Push Mountain once again without collapsing in cardiac arrest, but for Sue it was a real triumph! In past excursions she had left me to battle the mountain alone while she peddled loops on the flatland below until I got down safely again. This year she made the climb herself--no whimpering, no stops to catch her breath--in fact she didn't even look especially tired!

The Big Dam Bridge 100 -- 2010

For my birthday in September Sue and I drove to Little Rock to participate in the Big Dam Bridge 100 bicycle ride. Sue opted for the 50-mile course, and managed an admirable 17 mile-and-hour average speed for the ride. I took on the 100-mile ride and also averaged about 17 MPH, but that is especially unimpressive since I averaged 18.8 last year. My only defense is that this year I avoided drafting for most of the ride. When drafting, one coasts along in a protected envelope created by the rider (or riders) up front. At higher speeds drafting is estimated to lighten the workload by as much as 30%. At the same time one's chances of getting caught up in a crash probably increase by 30%. (Every cyclist has seen the crashes at the TDF where a lead rider goes down and takes out fifteen or twenty riders behind him like a line of falling dominoes.)

For about half of this year's ride I was playing tag with a recumbent cyclist. Sometimes I passed him; sometimes he passed me. One thing I noticed is that when a guy on a "bent" gets in the sweet spot for drafting, he hardly has to peddle at all. And, as he said to me, nobody can get an edge by trying to hook onto his train. Since he was drafting every chance he got, he was always able to maintain the speed of the fastest nearby rider. That said, the poor fellow suffered mightily on the few hills we had, but he more than made up for it on the descents. One time I was going over 30 MPH and he passed me, looking like a graceful greyhound sprinting for a rabbit. Eventually, he pulled away from me for good, and I ground on alone.

A 100-mile bike ride is a suffer-fest. This year I got my first fleeting cramp at about the 50 mile mark. From mile 80 to the end, I had to master the art of spinning just-so! A delicate procedure of turning the peddles, standing, and sitting--all with the idea of staving off each new cramp before it can settle into a rock-hard vise grip.

I was pleased to cross the finish line at all.

A Bird in the Web Is a Bird in the Hand

It's migratory season for hummingbirds which means that about twice as many of the critters as normal are flitting about our feeders. They tend to be fairly possessive and uncooperative--often with one bird trying to stake out a solitary claim to a particular feeder. This leads to lots of little "dogfights" with lots of swooping, chittering, and ruffled feathers.

This morning one poor hummingbird darted right into a large spider web draped over one of our living room windows and was trapped, splayed out with wings quivering and extended like a tiny crucified Christ. I happened to see this almost as it occurred and dashed to the hummer's rescue before it could become prey either to our salivating feline, Dot, or to the gigantic spider hiding timorously in its silken lair.

The bird-in-hand was remarkably difficult to cleanse of the sticky strands of web and it was some time before I was able to get it back in a condition to fly. It did indeed zoom off, seemingly unharmed, but I had to wonder if its tiny feet had been fully freed of the sticky web. Would it be able to perch on some safe twig or would its feet remain bound to its abdomen so that it must fly on until eventually falling from the sky. Or if it could land, would the remnants of stickum attach it so firmly to a branch that it could never lift off again?

Pets

Years ago, when I first dug the small pond behind the cabin, I stocked it with a few goldfish. They have thrived--reproducing and living out their little lives in peace and idleness, interrupted only by scattered moments of apparent bliss when I think to toss them some stale bread crumbs.

And almost from the very beginning the pond has also been home to a single, decorative water snake. I do not feed the snake bread crumbs. I do not feed the snake anything at all.

The snake feeds itself.

Know Your Enemy

"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on."

Ulysses S. Grant (1822 - 1885)

Each year at about this time I begin my summer-long battle with ticks. They come in all sizes--from the almost microscopic larval ticks (that I have often confused with the equally obnoxious chiggers) to the thick grey slugs (about the size of a typical button) that drop from the hides of the pitifully-infested deer. I am generally a peaceable person, but I confess that I am continually striving to discover the best way to kill--or at least repel--ticks. And I am continually baffled in my endeavors.

This week, however, I have at least made a bit of progress at understanding the enemy. I finally decided to look closely at the battleground. I thought that if I could just see where ticks like to set their ambushes, I might be able to avoid them. As it happens, they do tend to be just where they are usually said to be--in grassy areas. But they don't like short grass and they don't seem to like thick blades of grass. The vast majority of the ticks I have observed so far have been at the very tops of the tiny, cylindrical seed stalks. They typically hang head-down with fore-polyps extended as widely as possible to each side of the seed-head, as in the picture above.

There is a certain evil intelligence in their behavior. If they were on the wide side of a blade of grass, their polyps wouldn't extend far enough to enable them to snag a ride on any unfortunate passer-by. And their anatomy doesn't enable them to cling to the narrow edge of a blade of grass--at least not with both fore-polyps extended for action.

I have seen a few ticks on stalks of lespedeza, but I may be guilty of having maligned that plant by considering it the primary haven for ticks and chiggers. It seems that lespedeza is a relatively innocent bystander, conscripted by those ticks that are unable to find suitable stalks of grass in their immediate environs.

Ron and Liz's Chickens

As a longtime vegetarian, I have occasionally felt a little twinge of conscience when I made an omelet. The hens that produced the eggs for my meal were probably living wretched lives. Since moving to Hand Cove, however, I have grown acquainted with quite a number of people who raise their own chickens. Indeed, in 1986 a chicken suddenly appeared on our doorstep (really camper step) and lived with us during our weekend visits to the lake. Some years after that we had a peacock stay with us for months. My brief experiences with poultry convinced me that I really didn't want any as pets. But our friends Ron and Liz really do view their chickens almost as pets. They actually raise them to sell the eggs locally, but Liz tells me that when a hen quits producing, Ron simply refuses to eat it--even though neither Ron nor Liz are vegetarians.

Anyway, we have started buying our eggs from these two friends--at least in part because their chickens seems to have rather spacious and comfortable digs, as seen above.

Waterfall Hunting

Last weekend twelve inches of snow fell in Fayetteville as spring formally arrived. Here in Hand Cove we had twenty-four hours of cold rain instead. By Monday morning the skies were bright blue, the day promised to be warm, and the run-off was continuously trickling down the hillsides to fill the cascading brooks. It was a perfect day for waterfall hunting.
Sue and I packed a lunch, put on hiking clothes, tossed my rescue gear into the car, and drove around the lake to the Leatherwood Wilderness Area in the Ozark National Forest.

Waterfall hunting is a rare adventure in the late winter and early spring. To get the best run-off and hence the best waterfalls, nature needs to be dormant with roots no longer sucking up moisture so eagerly. To get the best views, the old leaves should have fallen and the new leaves should not yet have fully emerged. It should be too cold for ticks and too early for poison ivy. It needs to have rained plentifully, but ideally the skies should be sunny. . . . Fortunately, all of those conditions were met on Monday morning.

I first discovered waterfall hunting a year or so before retiring by browsing through a book on the subject by Tim Ernst, the dean of Arkansas's hikers and nature photographers. Sue and I generally only visit the waterfalls in the Leatherwood Wilderness Area--and because it is a wilderness area, there are no formal trails. Some of the falls that are closest to the road have developed an informal path, but generally-speaking bushwacking is the name of the game. Since the great ice storm of 2009, that has become much more challenging.

Now there are huge tree trunks and large limbs everywhere, turning parts of the forest floor into a giant jungle gym. We visited only three waterfalls on Monday, and each of them was within a quarter mile (as the crow flies) of a gravel road. But two of the three were very challenging hikes. That quarter-mile hike always takes one down a steep hill to the top of the waterfall. Then it can be another quarter-mile--or farther--before one can make one's way to the base of the falls. Since a waterfall inevitably implies a rocky ledge, one usually has to consider some rock climbing . . . and there is always the remote risk of slipping, rolling, and tumbling off a cliff.

Waterfall hunting is an adventure that stokes a bit of adrenalin and rewards one with beautiful views . . . and aching muscles.

Icycle? Isicle? Ice-icle? Icicle?

Icycle? Isicle? Ice-icle? Icicle? . . . I can't even spell the blasted word, but I've certainly had enough of it in the past ten days. Low temperature records have been shattered all across the northern hemisphere. Gainesville, Florida, dropped to 17 degrees; Pensacola suffered through eight straight freezing nights; Tampa broke a city record with a low of 26; and Key West, the southern-most city in the US recorded a low of 42, only one degree higher than its all-time record. (Oddly, folks in Fairbanks, Alaska, were noting that it hadn't even hit 40-below this winter!) Meanwhile on Wall Street, futures contracts for orange juice soared by more than 15%.

The last time it was this cold was back in 1980's when a picture of Jan and me  ice-skating on the pond at ASU graced the front page of the Jonesboro Sun. The result this year has been a record crop of icicles. The lovely snapshot at the top is of icicles hanging from a bush near the water's edge. I suspect that fog rising from the warmer lake water condenses on these branches and the drips gradually form the icicles seen here. Perhaps the most interesting manifestation of lake-effect icicles is seen in the snapshot at right. I'm puzzled to explain the physics behind the creation of those double-bulbed icicles. What could cause the thinning at the center and the thickening at the bottom?

The most ominous of all the icicles I've seen, however, are those in the big batch at left. If they look like they are descending from the cabin, that's because they are! When I built the cabin, I was thinking primarily of its occupancy in spring, fall, and summer--though I always contemplated some winter residency. The post-and-beam construction technique I used creates a structure raised on posts a bit above ground level. The crawl space beneath could be enclosed for winter warmth, but that would create a haven for bugs and mice while making it harder to get under there for any subsequent repairs to the pipes and plumbing. Thus, our water pipes and drain pipes are exposed to the air. I've insulated the water pipes, but even insulation cannot protect them from freezing during long cold-spells. 

In the past I've solved that problem by switching off the hot-water heater at night and allowing all the taps to drip a little. Running water won't freeze--at least not readily. Those dripping taps, however, create even slower drips in the larger drain pipes, and this year unseen icicles formed in--and eventually blocked--some of the drain pipes. That happened first in the old bathroom. I realized what was going on when the sink began to fill with water. 

Subsequently, the drain to the new bathroom sink also froze, creating a mini-flood, which produced the nice assortment of icicles dangling from the bottom of the cabin. Fortunately, all of the frozen pipes have thawed and there was no lasting damage. I'm beginning to be a big believer in PCV plumbing pipes since they have so far survived several episodes of freezing without harm.

While I may not have enjoyed the lengthy freeze we have had in Arkansas, I think I may have finally learned how to spell the word icicle. It is not like bicycle without the b. In fact there is almost no point of connection between an icicle and a bicycle . .  . as I know to my sorrow. I have not ridden my bicycle in Arkansas since the first day of December.