Shooting the Toy Canon, September 2011/2012 - Pt. 2

 

Today is the autumnal equinox, when pagans and scientists are in agreement.

Don't tell either that the world turns just the same, with or without them.

This year on the prairie, the sound of leaves in the breeze already has a brittle edge. Cicadas are intermittent. On overcast days like today, crickets rule.

A decade ago in the northwoods, the autumn season was robust.

Were I born in a different time and had the Toy Canon (or these days just your average phone), I suppose I'd have more snapshots.

But I didn't, so those from the fourteen straight months spent exploring the land I love best are about it.

From here they sure look like good years to me.

My emergency backup ended up a casual pursuit. It was convenient. Near weightless. A simple reflex, not a thought.

Hadn't much considered the results, until now. For sure, I'd never try to get a fine art print from any of these these.

The technical term would be crappy.

 

But fine art printing's no longer at issue. Lucky me, eh?

Time flies.

And with it flows the life giving light.

People say the light is long or short, warm or cold. Almost always it's somewhere between. Occasionally in near perfect light, it's everything at once.

What's not to love about Superior autumn?

For the last few months, the northlands day has steadily shrunk.

Some take autumn for being warm and rich. Nostalgic, even. And they hold the sublime light in their hearts like living, breathing memory.

Transitional light is all that good stuff, sometimes. When not otherwise in your face chilly and blowing low.

Depends on the day.

The Toy Canon's been gone a long time now. I don't mourn its passing.

On the prairie as in the northwoods, countdown to winter solstice began in June. That just means we're about halfway there, pagans and scientists both.

Happy autumnal equinox.

#equinox

Shooting the Toy Canon, September 2011/2012 - Pt. 1

Despite September having long been a favorite time of year for wandering the northwoods, ten years ago this month when I first set off on the original Odyssey the timing was no more than a happy coincidence.

My job had ended, as scheduled. I was ready. So too, the season.

Hell, could've been stinkin' February and then what, right?

Originally, the gig was intended to run a year and done. Maybe a bit more, if it went really well. There'd be times I'd want to report 'live' from the field. Some form of digitally transferrable capture was a must.

Shopped around for a new style magic wand that if the canoe dumped and it (not me) was lost, it'd prove easy (cheap) to replace.

Settled on the Toy Canon. Plastic body, plastic lens and camera bag equipped with the even then pretty measly 12.2 megapixel captures.

No fool I. Except here we are, a full decade later. Go figure.

Typically, on the Odyssey I carried my Toy Canon most everywhere I went, whenever I did. Just in case.

Took random chances with it that I would never, with my ever-shrinking pile of precious film.

Or simply pressed the shutter idly as I walked. What the hell, pixels were free. There was just to get them off the puny card and onto the laptop for review.

That miserable plastic lens? It was a long(ish) zoom, which reminds me now that for all my solitary wandering, I was rarely if ever alone.

I've been rummaging through the vintage Canon folders recently, another happy accident of timing. Mostly, I'd forgotten. Over fourteen months starting ten years ago now, I got pretty much everything I wanted from the film.

Yet turns out the Toy Canon was handy just the same. At the very least, it was like flexing my fingers between bouts.

And while the old pro in me still understands the basically crappy nature of the product…

…it turns out they hold up fairly well when tossed into ether and the content stashed in those neglected file folders is not inconsiderable.

Especially when it comes to September, which I was once fortunate enough to freely indulge.

#upperpeninsulafall

Superior Summer 2021, Pt. 2 - Transition

 

Thirty-eight years ago tomorrow morning, Heather took my hand in marriage. Didn't fully understand why she'd do that then, it's still something of a mystery to me today.

S'okay. Mystery is the stuff of life.

By this time the day after, we'd set up camp in the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness for the first week of our honeymoon on the shore of Lake Superior.

The second week we spent at Bobcat Lake, in the Ottawa National Forest.

We'd been going to the U.P. together for some years beforehand and I don't recall there being any real question but that we'd honeymoon there.

When younger, autumn was our preferred time in the northwoods. Tent camping during late September in the wilderness was frequently hard. It tested us and mostly, we passed.

Over time, August became our preferred month because that far north it offers the best of both worlds. Many days are still warm enough to enjoy quality time at the beach…

…while others offer glimpses of autumn's cherished mystery.

By late August, summer's harsh light is softened.

Though the living forest remains lush and green.

Save for 'round the edges, where September can be seen.

In my heart of hearts, I still love northwoods autumn best. Except we've been tested, have prospered for the experience and over the many years since, haven't forgotten.

So the reasonably long days of late summer that come mostly filled with warmth and easy living make by far the stronger case.

Besides, autumn's coming right down the pike. Nothing will stop it and winter's close behind.

So best to make the most of summer while we can.

Shining Light on the Prairie – Winging Toward Autumn

I've wanted for years to get a great picture of a praying mantis. All its other peculiarities aside, the thing about a mantis is that it looks you right in the eye and no bones about it.

The gaze of other insects is often opaque. Not so, the mantis. It sees you.

On a humid summer evening with a squall line bearing down and knowing we'd soon have to duck inside, I finally got my chance. This young one appeared as if from nowhere.

I raced inside, grabbed the Nikon and happily, didn't blow it…

It's been an up and down year on our prairie garden. A chill spring led to prolonged drought, followed by violent storms, then persistent heat, high humidity and periodically, more fierce storms.

Though I'd my doubts throughout June and most of July, by August the resilience of prairie life won out.

Now with every passing day, the light softens and recedes.

With that, the food supply is steadily constricted. It's getting crowded out there.

While there's still some pollen left on the Echinacea…

…that's increasingly the province of birds, whose sloppy eating habits spread the seed that'll inevitably turn into next spring's bounty.

It's been a fine year for monarchs. At any given time I can stand out in the yard and as many as five of them flit around me in the breeze. They jealously guard the butterfly bushes, which will provide for latecomer's the last food available after autumn's first frost.

My friends the Great Black Wasps returned, made babies and then taught their kids where the good stuff is. Each day, those buster the Greek Oregano from first light to last.

This year featured fewer Skippers than I'm accustomed to, but there were some.

Everyone works harder now, for less.

With evening, cicadas sing in raucous chorus. Afterwards, the nightshift takes over and critters I'll likely never see pronounce their existence just the same.

Every living thing on the prairie knows exactly what time it is. And that time is getting late.

Maybe this year will be when we find a monarch caterpillar on our milkweed. After all, that's why we grow it. As is, these hardy little buggers prevail.

In any event, we'll always have the mantis. We didn't, until one dropped by before the storm and said Here's looking at you, kid.

At this point, I'm just happy I was here to see it. And am utterly convinced the mantis saw me, for sure.