I've had to don a suit and tie only a couple of times this year and coincidentally, both occassions were in the company of my close friend Chip. The first time was for his wedding to his wife Darina. It was a gorgeous day with lots of laughs and good friends and weather. The second, will be this afternoon. I'll be ushering at his father's funeral service. Again, we've got beautiful New England weather and there will be lots of friends there, but I fear the laughs will be in short supply despite the fact that laughing was one of his father's favored activities. Walter was one of the funniest men I've ever known. I hope that he can sneak some humor into our day today. His family needs it.

I'd like to re-post here, my original mention of Walter on this blog. It's from my 365 people in 365 days;

Jun.13 "Frail Fern Twig"
"Listen up you little son-of-a-bitch,... don't you say anything to Brian until I march her down that aisle and get her out of our lives!" -Walter Griffin

Walter was a real jokester and this quotation brought Randy and I to tears when we first heard it. At the time, Chip's sister was engaged to be married to her husband Brian. Chip, Randy, and I had been milling around Walt's kitchen, killing time and enjoying some spirited banter. The conversation came around to Chip's sister and he started to complain to his dad that she had been mean-spirited to him about something. When Chip threatened to call up Brian and warn him about how rotten his prospective bride could be, Walter dropped what he was doing, grabbed Chip up by the collar of his shirt, slammed him against the refrigerator, and with great dramatic affect, delivered the line that I've quoted above. We exploded with laughter! (which of course, was Walter's intention) It was all in jest. Walter loved getting us going, and we loved to return the favor.

Quintessential Maine

"When I was crossing the border into Canada they asked if I had any firearms with me. I said, 'Well, what do you need?"" -Steven Wright

I just returned from a dog training trip to Rangeley Maine and for some reason, I found myself up there with a veritable arsenal. I'm really not one of those wild-eyed, gun-toting Americans who warehouses metric tons of ammunition and gives half of my life savings to the NRA every time a Democrat gets elected, but somehow I've managed to accumulate an armory that 50 Cent could appreciate. What the hell happened to me?! I showed such promise as a youngster.

More of quintessential Maine...

My old girl Sadie is still out hunting. Last October, I was convinced that she was at the outset of her last productive season in the field, but she has proven herself remarkably useful in the Maine woods this fall. I can't imagine owning a better "falconry dog" than Sadie. Her manners around my trained birds are absolutely impeccable and she is still a joy to shoot over. This pointer has defined a decade of my sporting life and I can't speak highly enough of her.

"I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly; because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape; because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion; because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience; because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don't want to waste the trip; because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters; because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness; because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there; because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid; and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant." -John Voelker

I photographed these trout last week in Rangeley Maine. I'm not telling where.

"Oh, so don't pay no mind to my watering eyes. Must be something in the air that I'm breathing. Yes and try to ignore all this blood on the floor. It's just this heart on my sleeve that's bleeding."

The other night, I discovered that skunks like wasabi peas. Actually, they're such omnivores that I'm sure they'd eat just about anything, but I tossed them a couple handfuls of the spicy dried peas and they went to town hoovering them up!

And then two of them started wrestling with one another, tumbling and rolling around like awkward children.

The scoopers here at the shop have dubbed this little critter "Edwina." She's just one of the many skunks that have been cruising the neighborhood this summer.

Here we are in late August (already) and I can hardly believe that in a mere month, the ice cream shop will be closed and I'll be "free" for the winter. Aside from continuing to work with my goshawk, I've got no real plans for the off-season. Anyone have any suggestions?

A fully feathered Finnegan. He is now two months old, flying pretty nicely and continues to work well with one of my hunting dogs on a daily basis.

Finnegan is 38 days old now and approaching full size. And he has just started to take running hops across the lawn while flapping his wings. He will be able to fly soon and "real training" will begin!

Finnegan at 34 days of age. He's been growing like a proverbial weed this week. For a bird that only weighs 1lb, 9oz he's been eating a ton! In fact, he's been putting away 6 to 8 ounces of quail meat every day lately which is about a third of his weight. I'd have to eat nearly 50 pounds of meat each day to follow suit!

A 28 day old Finnegan, taking a rest between spurts of stumbling around, stretching, flapping his wings, and pulling fur from the dog's tails. I'm a very aesthetically focused person, and am interested in all art forms (with a strong focus on watercolors, architecture, and textiles). I used to think that, next to the female form, a tired hunting dog sleeping on an oriental carpet was the most pleasing vision to rest my eyes upon. Looking at a young hawk lying on a richly colored Nahavand-style Persian Hamadan gave me a whole new perspective. If you were to investigate parts of the world that have a rich history of falconry within their cultures, you would find that there also exists a deep appreciation for creating and living with hand-knotted wool pile rugs. Falconry and Oriental rugs have gone hand-in-hand for over 4,000 years, and I can't help but think of that when I see one of my hawks or dogs resting upon one of my rugs.

A nest full of baby Cooper's hawks! This was an interesting nest to visit. The whole time I was in the tree, the adult male never made an appearance, but the mother of these three little fuzz-balls kept a close eye on me from about two trees away. She just sat up there in the canopy watching me photograph her chicks and occassionally shouted a "Kak" or two in my direction, but otherwise, seemed unconcerned.

Thank goodness my old Pointer is so laid-back around raptors. She has spent her entire life working with birds of prey and having them raised around her, so she barely batted an eye when Finnegan started pulling at her ears and biting her collar. He then stumbled around in front of her and started nibbling on her toenails and all she did was lift her head to get a better look at him. Good falconry dogs are hard to find.

Finnegan at 27 days of age, snoozing in an early morning beam of sunlight that came streaking through the window.

Two baby goshawks (Accipiter gentilis); one North American female and one Finnish male. Possible future breeding pair?

This is the "nest box" that Finnegan has been spending most of his time in. He entertains himself for hours by simply sitting around in it, keeping an eye on me and my dogs.

I put new anklets and jesses on my young hawk so that he could begin getting used to them, and he barely paid them any attention. He'd far rather stand around preening himself and shaking off the dander that's results from so many feathers growing in so rapidly.

Here's little "Finnegan" at 24 days of age, taking a break from a wobbly, exploratory stumble around the room that he's being raised in. He's new to walking, so watching him practice is endlessly entertaining.

My new infatuation is a three week old Finnish goshawk that I'm calling "Finnegan." I can't keep my eyes off of him. I've been around scores of imprint falcons and a couple of hawks but none of them have impressed me the way this bird does. I've got high hopes for my new charge.

A full cluster of Early Saxifrage flowers, (Saxifraga virginiensis). These delicate little plants are so named because they're often found growing out of fine cracks in rocks and the Latin word for "stone" is "saxum," while the Latin word for "to break" is "fragere."

The lilacs around the barn that I live in are in full bloom and the smell is absolutely intoxicating. How the heck do winged pollinators do their jobs and stay sober? I was smelling them this evening and wondering if any scents could compare. I thought of the jasmine blossoms at my family's house southern California, Hyacinth blossoms in early April, a lover's hair on the pillow, apple pie fresh out of the oven, a glass of aged Bordeaux... Our sense of smell is so often overlooked, but when the setting is right, it's a wonderful thing.

Ostrich Fern (Matteuccia struthiopteris) fiddleheads are one of my favorite vegetables to eat at this time of year. They were a valuable food source to many Native Americans and because they grow along flood plains of rivers, I often find them while I'm out fly-fishing, which means that my trout dinner will include some steamed or sauteed fiddleheads as well. (lightly buttered and salted, with a bit of garlic thrown in)

Trout-lilies, (Erythronium americanum) are a real "Paul Revere" of spring. They're one of my favorite ephemerals of the forest floor here in New England. Most people barely even notice them, if at all, as they fly through their life cycles and disappear so quickly. Each spring, while I'm out catching a few brook trout, or gathering fiddleheads, or searching for nesting raptors, I take a few moments to enjoy the abrupt appearance of trout-lilies.

Spring rolls on....

and baby birds are hatching everywhere.

Here are five young ravens looking about as gangly and ugly as they ever will, soaking up a bit of sun while their parents forage for food.

Can anyone tell me what in the world this sign actually means?! If I'm going to maintain any shred of hope for our society and humanity at large, then I have to believe that this doesn't give the bearer of stated certification permission to pollute at will in a gross fashion, (not that there's any form of pollution that isn't gross, but you know what I mean). I've got no clue.

Pointless fact of the day: When Mary, Queen of Scots died in the late 1500's, her body was wrapped in her billiard table cover. This got me to thinking about what I might like to have my body wrapped in. Since it's illegal to drag a human body off into the woods somewhere and let vultures, coyotes, ravens, etc., consume it, (which would be my first choice) I think what I'd really like is to be cremated and have my ashes mixed into some clay. The clay could then be made into a set of dishes, bowls and mugs nicely glazed with images of birds and leaves to be used by my family for future meals.

Building a nest on a thin glass tube that houses inert gas and an electric current doesn't seem like the best idea. When these little swallows hatch, they're going to think that they're in Las Vegas. Or maybe this nest wasn't built for egg-laying and raising chicks. Could it be that there are swallows in the eastern United States that are setting up a "red-lights district?"

Goshawks build outrageously impressive nests in the northern forests. There's something absolutely magical about walking into a dense stand of pine trees that's home to a pair of nesting goshawks. It's truly an experience that I simply cannot put into words. It just magic. Pure magic.

I've been spending a LOT of time in the woods since I returned to Maine, and enjoying the signs of spring. With the arrival of warmer days comes the emergence of some of my favorite species. Trout lilies, ostrich ferns, trillium, mayflowers, hendrickson's mayflies, and others. They all take on the appearance of familiar faces to me. Old friends.

I've still got snakes on the mind....

Pictured here is an adult Northern Black Racer. Racers are a very unusual and difficult snake to find in New England.

During my return trip, I was lucky enough to spot several small groups of pronghorn antelope (Antilocapra americana). I love these animals, as they are so habitat specific and really represent the prairie grasslands of the American southwest to me. They are truly native and are found nowhere else in the world.

Some of the exposed rock of southeastern Utah is bizarre. And some of it is a rock climbers dream. There are fantastic crack climbs to be found and the face climbs often offer really nice friction that's relatively easy on your skin. And nearly all of it is beautifully picturesque simply by virtue of the gorgeous shades of orange that contrast so nicely with the blues of the sky.

When it was time to leave the southwest and return to New England I had to decide to either take interstate 40 or 70. Because I had come out on 40 in November, I opted to return home via the more northerly route. I hadn't driven over the rocky mountains of Colorado since about 12 years ago, and that fact added to the allure of taking 70. But when I got up into Utah and started seeing snow, I realized I'd made a terrible mistake!

Following, is a series of photographs that I took while visiting the Canyon de Chelly National Monument, in northeastern Arizona. Canyon de Chelly is an unusual National Monument in that it resides within the Navajo Nation and there are many indian families and their horses and sheep living in and around the canyon, within park boundaries. This was the last place I visited in Arizona before leaving the state and I truly saved the best for last. I have never, ever been to any place in America that moved me in the way that this land did. I had been told that the Canyon de Chelly is considered by many to be more beautiful and picturesque than even the Grand Canyon itself. I not only found that to be true but decided that to my sense of aesthetics it is more beautiful than anything else in our country. If you are even remotely inclined toward the spiritual side of our natural world, a visit to this place is a must. If the Grand Canyon took your breath away, the Canyon de Chelly may very well bring you to your knees. I really feel incapable of appropriately describing this place, so I will refrain from captioning the following pictures. Just keep in mind that, as is always the case, these images don't even begin to capture the vast and impressive views and vibe of the place. This canyon has some serious verve! Please do yourself a favor and plan a visit.

The black-streaked cliff-faces in this photo are over 800 feet in height. Below and slightly left of the streaks is an Anasazi cliff-dwelling known as the "White House." Below that, are two lines of huge cottonwood trees on either side of the river. This river supported the crops and lives of many great Navajo chiefs and their people, and the Anasazi indians that lived here before them. It's waters have now been soiled by the activities of white men like myself. White men who descended from the very same Europeans responsible for the total destruction of scores of Native American tribes and the deaths of over 59 million indians in this country. The largest war on humanity in recorded history.

Dramatic skyscape moments before a brief snow flurry on the Navajo Nation Indian Reservation.

After living in the Sonoran desert for several months it's a joy to see running water.

Heading north from Globe, Arizona on Routes 60 and 191 means driving through Apache land and along the White mountains. The scenery is gorgeous for miles upon miles.

Thought I'd share with all of you, the view from the driver's seat of my car. I left Arizona feeling a bit like the pack-rats that my hawks had been killing among the prickly pears. It seems that whenever I found something lying on the desert floor that sparked my interest, I picked it up, carried it back to my car, and tossed it on the dashboard. I've got a veritable natural history museum going on here.

Just north of Tucson, on the way to Phoenix is Picacho peak. A great place for a little day hike, particularly in the spring time when the desert floor is covered in small wildflower blossoms.

My dream to spend a winter running dogs and flying hawks in southern Arizona would never have been realized were it not for the generosity of one very cool dude. Those who know him, have many names for him; Robert, Ben, Bubba, Santa, the list goes on. I'm lucky enough to be able to call him "friend." Thank you Santa! My winter adventure would never have become the success that it was without your hospitality, advice, assistance, and kindness. Possibly one of the greatest things about being a falconer is the community and camaraderie that it affords. I'm so grateful and thankful for the experiences that I had during the past several months.

On the day that I left Catalina, I'd spent several hours cleverly packing up my vehicle and was just about to set sail and head north when I heard Crawford (my roadrunner pal) call out from behind an agave. He came trotting out to say goodbye and I tossed him a few pieces of rabbit meat to share with his feathered bride who was incubating eggs in a nearby valley.

The quaint little town of Oracle, Arizona has a few buildings like the one pictured here that are simply fantastic. The stone church in town is particularly appealing, but I loved the look of this blacksmith's shop. It just looks.... tired.

Well, it's official... the hawking season is over and I've returned little Hamish to his rightful owners in Vermont. I never thought I'd find myself flying a Harris' hawk. I spent years railing against them and accusing them of being a sub-par falconry species, and although I still believe that you can have much better sport with redtails, goshawks, and cooper's hawks I will admit that over the winter, I developed a greater appreciation for them. I'm now officially "without bird" which is exactly how I like to spend my summers.

Adult male desert tortoise. The carapace length of this tortoise is about 13 inches, which suggests that he's at least 25 years old.

I think I'm suffering from ophiophilia. I keep having vivid dreams of rattlesnakes, whipsnakes, kingsnakes, racers, corals....

Watch your step! This adult Mojave Rattlesnake is in beautiful color and at a nice weight. They may be my new favorite North American reptile.

There are eleven species of rattlesnakes in Arizona. Two of them make an appearance in this photo.

This shot gives a decent idea of the kind of dens and hillsides that harbor Arizona rattlesnakes during the winter months. This particular den is on private property and I was told by the landowner that he has, at times, seen upwards of 130 snakes here at once.

On the way back through Arizona from California, I visited a Great-horned owl nest in hopes of photographing some young owlets. When I made my way up to the nest I found 4 unhatched eggs. One belonging to a redtailed hawk, and the other three to the pair of owls that had been incubating the failed eggs. Two of the owl eggs had visible cracks in them and the third had failed to hatch for reasons unknown.

Here's a shot of the sunrise, as viewed from my family's home in southern California. I was lucky enough to have the time to visit with them again before spinning my car around to head east. They live in a fantastic neighborhood where all of the residents know each other by name and keep an eye on homes, pets, and children for one another. I wish there were more communities in America like this one. As usual, I had a fantastic visit with the family. I enjoyed watching my cousin compete in a nation-wide organ player's festival and competition, I cheered at several soccer games, went on walks with my aunt, and sipped Scotch and reminisced with my uncle. There are few places I know of where I feel more comfortably "at home" than with the California McNeffs.

Okay, time for a little competition: I just drew this image (permanent ink on 90lb., 18"x24" cream colored paper) and as you may have noticed, it is unfinished. I'm looking for a clever "label" for the wine bottle. I'm leaning toward something French, Spanish, or Portuguese, along the lines of "Chateau Mistress" or "Domaine de Virgin." But I'm open to all suggestions. Let's collaborate. Enter your clever idea in the comment section below.

I'm planning to drive north through the Navajo Indian Reservation and visit the Canyon de Chelly National Monument, which Arizona residents insist is more picturesque than even the Grand Canyon. We shall see. I'll let you know.