Category Archives: Humor

Sleeping In

Posted by dkrashb on

Warning:  Complaining follows.

I spent 8 hours in the car on Saturday.  I pushed myself to get home when I might have been safer pulling over to sleep in a hotel or even in the car.  What I looked forward to was sleeping in on Sunday morning.

Chattanooga did not get the memo that I was planning to sleep in.  Or, I missed the memo that the Chattanooga Marathon organizers felt it was absolutely necessary to have the loudest available speakers set up directly across the street and start blaring “The Eye of the Tiger” at 6:15AM.

For a moment, I thought I’d been returned to the summer between the 9th and 10th grade during which I saw Rocky III three times.  I’d gone to the theater to see E.T. all three times, but it was sold out.  I guess it was karma since I had never seen Rocky or Rocky II.

As a side effect, my girlfriends and I learned every word to the song and sang it loudly (and badly) along with the radio whenever it came on.  I wonder how much we actually liked the song vs wanted to impress the boys who saw the movie with us?  I would bet they were not impressed.

Nor was I at 6:15AM on Sunday morning.  After recognizing that no time travel had occurred, I laid in bed thinking it was a car stereo and it would move on quickly.  It didn’t move on.  I threw back the covers and walked onto the balcony to discover it was an event, not a car.

Frustrated when The Eye of the Tiger gave way to another song at the same volume and recognizing the music wasn’t going to stop any time soon, I took Tisen for his morning walk.

I made a stop to ask my tormentors if they had a noise permit.  They claimed they did, although they couldn’t produce it.  I walked over to a cop parked at the intersection and he assured me they did have a permit.  I really wanted to meet the person who thought that was a good idea, but I kept my mouth shut.

Tisen and I walked down to the river where it was significantly quieter.  I debated trying to curl up on a park bench, but decided it was too cold to sleep outside.  We made our way back to the loud crowd and squeezed between runners warming up for the run of their lives.

I always wonder about the sanity of a marathon runner.  I’ve run a few 10Ks, including one that was part of a triathlon, but I’ve never found any joy in running.  I feel even less joy now that being rudely awakened at 6:15AM on Sunday morning is part of the sport.

After our walk, I went up to the roof to try to catch some fall color.  I realized it just isn’t peak color yet here.  I knew I should have stayed in bed.

Birding with Enthusiasm

Posted by dkrashb on

Tuesday night, I set up the coffee maker and set the timer so it would start brewing at 5:15AM.  I put out the clothes I would wear for rowing.  Everything I needed was ready to go so that when the alarm went off at 5:30AM and I was stumbling around disoriented and wondering why in god’s name I continue to get up at 5:30AM, I wouldn’t have to think.

Wednesday morning, hot coffee in hand, I looked at my schedule for the day and there, low and behold, was a bird walk on my calendar for 7:00AM.  As in a bird walk I was leading!

Startled by my oversight in planning, I shifted gears, pulling together my bird walk backpack and gathering binoculars and my camera.  I pulled up the flashlight app on my iPhone and went searching in the darkness for a different outfit.

I admit I was feeling slightly resentful about giving up my rowing time as I imagined sitting alone in the park waiting for others who never show up.

At 6:50AM, it wasn’t even the crack of dawn yet.  I sat in darkness until I was surprised by a silhouette that turned out to be the Audubon property manager.  Next, a father with 4 enthusiastic children arrived.  Then, a regular from the condos arrived.  I stopped feeling bad about missing rowing.

I started my lesson about birding during fall migration.  I talked slowly and told more stories, hoping the sun would rise.  Every time a shadow went by, one of the children would turn, point, and shout, “What was that bird?”  I need to find out what kind of coffee they drink in the morning!

The amazing thing was how much the kids knew about birds.  They knew which birds were locals and which birds would not be found in Tennessee (even during migration).  The girl immediately recognized a Brown Thrasher she had barely seen for a split second.  Her older brother told me all about the birds he sees at his feeder at home.  Their father told me the interest in birds was the kids passion.  I thought that was pretty cool–also an advantage of home schooling.

I didn’t do so well on photography that morning.  First there wasn’t enough light.  Then I was just a bit flustered by all the questions and exclamations (LOOK!!!  THERE’S A CARDINAL!!!  LOOK!!! THERE’S A TURTLE!!!  LOOK THERE’S A BLUE HERON!!!  LOOK!!! THERE’S A SQUIRREL!!!).

As much fun as it is to be surrounded by little people who think everything is fascinating, it does make it a little more challenging to take a moment to shoot.  I’ve filled in the photos a bit with some leftovers from the previous walk and one shot of Cody, an unreleasable Red-tailed Hawk who has appeared in this blog several times as part of the S.O.A.R. raptor program.  I saw Cody again over the weekend, but that’s another blog post.

Migrants in Disguise

Posted by dkrashb on

This past Saturday was the first October beginning bird walk.  Fall is an interesting time to bird.  In the fall, I have a love-hate relationship with birding because the birds are migrating, so there are tons of species in town who haven’t been here since at least last spring.  On the other hand, they are wearing their drab fall colors, blending in with the fading colors of the leaves.  And they are quietly eating everything in sight with little more than a peep to even let us know they’re there.

This means paying careful attention to ever flutter and flick among the leaves.  It also means throwing out all the learned images and looking for pale yellows and browns where, in the spring, one might have looked for brilliant red.

Take, for example the Scarlet or Summer Tanager. We eventually decided it was a Summer Tanager after we saw it several times, but it was almost impossible to decide for sure until looking at the photos.

The Summer Tanager is an all-red bird in the summer.  In September, it’s yellow and green.  Not only are these birds busy getting ready for their long journey to warm climates, but they’re also expending energy completely replacing their wardrobe each fall.  I guess it’s necessary.  I know that I’ve seen many Scarlet Tanagers prior to the leaves on the trees growing in the spring.  I’ve seen only 1 after the leaves are fully out.  In spite of having neon red coloring, the Scarlet (and Summer) Tanager manages to stay well hidden in the canopy of the trees.  Once the trees drop their leaves, however, all bets are off.  So, I guess it makes sense that they would turn to a dull yellow before beginning on their annual trek to mecca.

We saw Magnolia, Nashville, Tennessee, Yellow, Yellow throated, Common Yellowthroat, and Chestnut-sided Warblers. If you have never seen these birds, take a look.  They are tiny, beautiful birds that don’t come to feeders.  Many people die having never seen one, yet they are often nearby (at least during migration season).

While the changes between the breeding and non-breeding plumages for these tiny warblers is not as dramatic as for the male Scarlet and Summer Tanagers, they still got through some dramatic changes.

I wonder how their parents prepare them for this?  Do they tell them that they shouldn’t despair over their dull colors when they’re young?  Do they sit them down and have the “birds and bees” talk?  Or do they call it something different like “the humans and the fish”?  And do they warn them that they will return to the dull yellow every fall like some sort of magical curse in a fairy tale?  And do they have controversy over whether this needs to be taught in the public schools or handled at home?

However bird parents handle preparing their young for “the change,” the birds are well-prepared for blending in.  They all look like leaves.

 

Clouds Landing

Posted by dkrashb on

When a boy in a cape appeared at the top of the sledding hill (aka, “the volcano”) with a giant cloud rearing up like a monster behind him, well, who can blame me for snapping a few shots?

I took four shots of Super Boy up on the hill before he ran (flew?) away.  I couldn’t decide which one I liked the best, but in the end picked this one because it had the added bonus of the bicycle and the pedestrians moving through the frame below, oblivious to the superhero on top of the hill.  On one hand, the shot with no bike or pedestrians is less busy.  On the other hand, I feel like it’s a more complete story to have the tiny boy on top of the hill, potentially battling the cloud monster, while the adults go about their business like it’s just another ordinary day.

That pretty much sums up the difference between children and adults most days.

I try to imagine myself wandering around the park in a big red cape.  I picture myself at the top of the hill with some sort of mask and my cape blowing in the wind with a fist raised above my head as I shout at the clouds, daring them to transform into something dangerous.  I imagine running down the hill at top speed, pretending to fly as my cape billows out behind me.  It’s ridiculously fun.  I am tempted to start shopping for a cape.

In the meantime, I return to shooting the clouds as they hover close to the ground.  They billow on the horizon, sitting so low that they look like white hills of cotton stacked up against the green hills of the park.  It looks like you could run up the hill and jump onto the clouds.  Now that would have been a good shot of Super Boy–one of him leaping mid air, ready to bounce off a cloud.

I wonder if I bought Pat a cape if he would model for me?

In the meantime, my photographer’s assistant is not doing a very good job of assisting.

He is caught in his own imaginary game.  He is playing “hunter.”  This is a game in which he imagines himself as a pointer or a rhodesian ridgeback or some other great hunting dog.  He freezes in the midst of long grass, cocks his head and listens, sure that there is wild game hidden in the grasses nearby.  He raises one foot, bent at the elbow in a near-perfect approximation of a point.

I turn and watch, but cannot see any sign of prey hidden in the grass below.  Eventually, I sit down on the curb and just wait to see how long Tisen will continue to imagine himself a great hunter.  He outlasts me.  I say his name and he wags his tail as he returns from his imaginary world to follow me home.

Bird Kings

Posted by dkrashb on

I have a lot of funny stories about birding.  Let’s start with the 2 years I spent getting out my CD-set of bird songs every time I heard a particular bird calling, trying desperately to figure out what it was, only to discover (eventually) it was a chipmunk.

Or, how about the time I managed to convince myself that a Great Blue Heron (one of the most readily identifiable birds around) was a Tri-colored Heron because its feathers were hanging at a weird angle, making a pattern of color around its neck I hadn’t seen before.

Then there’s the time I was sure I was seeing a Louisiana Waterthrush only to realize I was looking at a female Red-winged Blackbird.  While I think all birders have been fooled by a female Red-winged Blackbird, I’d bet there aren’t too many who thought they might be a Louisiana Waterthrush.

But besides my identification mishaps, I also have physical ones.  For example, at the end of this month’s Wednesday morning bird walk (which I was leading), I got excited trying to see a bird in a tree right above us and I walked right into a concrete bench and fell over it, landing on my rear.  Fortunately, my fellow birders managed to catch me enough to keep me from falling all the way over the bench and onto the ground.

There’s also the time I was so busy looking up that I walked into a branch that smacked me right in my wide-open mouth.  I guess that’s better than a friend of mine who made the mistake of looking up with an open mouth just in time to catch a not-so-tasty snack.

Oh, and then there’s the time I drove off the road trying to identify a hawk perched on post at the side of the road.  Friends, don’t let friends bird and drive.

Perhaps it’s all of these antics that often give me the feeling that the birds are as amused watching me as I am watching them.

On our Saturday morning bird walk, which I was also leading, we discovered a family of Eastern Kingbirds.  It appeared the baby had fledged and Mom and Dad were trying to encourage it to start feeding itself (sound familiar, parents?).  But the baby wasn’t ready to give up on getting spoon (or beak) fed.

Perched low in a shrub near eye-level, we had quite a treat watching these wonderful flycatchers swoop in and encourage the baby to make an effort.  Baby, on the other hand, demanded to be fed loudly, squealing at Mom and Dad with a bright pink, open mouth.  No tasty treat for Baby either.

I love Eastern Kingbirds. They’re the easiest flycatcher to identify by sight.  The white rim along the tip of their tails and their size along with their pure white breast make them striking and distinct.  That’s what makes a bird a favorite for me–easily distinguishable features.

The Necessaries

Posted by dkrashb on

Our second hike in Vermont was on a gravel road that ran next to a stream.  The stream spoke the usual stream language, babbling to us as we walked.  Something we don’t always think about when we imagine the sound of a happily babbling stream is the way it seems to connect directly with our bladders.  Or, at least, mine.

I love the sound of running water diving and dipping and dropping over stones in a shallow bed as it makes its way downhill.  I love it less when I really need to use the non-existent facilities.  This is a case where perhaps the advanced hike might have been more accommodating–finding a private place at least 50 yards from water to go off and take care of one’s needs when walking along a relatively popular dirt road with a group of 15-20 people is not such a simple undertaking.  I endeavored to prove I still have good bladder control.  I made it to the turn around point, through the snack break, and about halfway back, but then we arrived at the juncture between the road and the stream.  The very thought of water rushing beneath my feet as it crossed under the road was more than I could bear.

I made a break for the woods and climbed up an overgrown hillside, bushwhacking my way to a private spot, trying to do as little damage to the hillside in the process as possible.  Fortunately for me, my selected site was in fact private and no one caught me in the somewhat awkward act of re-positioning clothing after the fact.

This, did however, evoke a memory from a long ago jeep trek up a mountain jeep trail near Ouray, Colorado in Yankee Boy Basin.  It was a trip I took with my father, brother, and elderly aunt to deliver my mother’s ashes to her favorite location in the world.  About half way up the jeep trail, my elderly aunt needed to use the facilities.  When I explained to her that there weren’t any facilities, she exclaimed, “What??!!!  They should have a bathroom if they’re going to let people come up here!!!”  The concept of wilderness was a bit lost on her.

I took her to find a spot in the woods.  I don’t think she’d ever walked through the woods except on a fairly flat and easy to follow trail before, let alone found a hidden spot to squat.  I found a secluded spot for her and walked around to another secluded spot for myself not far away.  About the time I was getting re-situated, I heard squealing.  I ran over to where I’d left my aunt and was greeted by two feet, pants circling the ankles above them, kicking in the air amongst the underbrush.  My aunt had fallen over backwards.  Now that is a sight I wish I could forget!

Thankfully, I managed to enjoy the hike in Vermont and leave un-traumatized.

Cross-Country, uh, Wrestling?

Posted by dkrashb on

Back in 2009-2010, we decided to spend two weeks in the Canadian Rockies over Christmas and New Year’s.  On this particular day of that trip, I’d managed to talk Pat into renting cross-country skis.

My logic was simple.  It was about -22 degrees Fahrenheit that day.  We were either going to end up sitting in the lobby of our hotel all day (and it was not the kind of lobby you want to hang out in) or we were going to find something to do outdoors that would keep us warm.

I don’t know of any outdoor activity that keeps a person warmer than cross-country skiing.  It’s the equivalent of going running with trekking poles.  You use every muscle in your body, including some you may not have known you had, and the only time you get a rest is if you happen to go downhill.

Since Pat had never cross-country skied before, we chose a flat, groomed trail listed as easy.  This may not have been the best idea–Pat never got to experience what gliding down a gentle hill feels like.  In fact, I don’t think Pat got to experience what gliding felt like at all–for him, cross-country skiing was more of a wrestling match.

As it turns out, cross-country skiing does not keep a person warm when said person must stop and wait for wrestling spouse to catch up every 5 minutes or so.  And, shocking as this may be, being impatiently waited for every 5 minutes or so does not exactly make the wrestling spouse enjoy his wrestling match more.  This was not one of those activities that turned out to be good for our marriage.

I’m better at being patient when I’m not cold and he’s better at learning a new activity when I’m not around doing it better than him.  The fact that he had never done it before and I had did not seem to make him feel any better.  It certainly didn’t keep me any warmer.

I did my best to pretend I was grateful he was taking so long because it gave me time to shoot.  It also allowed us to see some deer along the trail who didn’t notice we were there, possibly because they couldn’t perceive we were in motion.

The trail was 18K to the lake and back.  We had read that doing the first 5K was well worth it.  If we made it out 2K, I would be surprised.  But it was good we turned around when we did–the sun was already getting low in the sky by the time we made it back to our car.  Days are short up North at the end of the year and the darker it gets, the more bitterly cold it gets.

Pat determined we could have hiked faster and declared that we weren’t going to bother with cross-country skis anymore.  So far, he’s a man of his word.

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It Bears Repeating

Posted by dkrashb on

The Tennessee Aquarium not only offers a diverse collection of aquatic life, but they also have these fantastic river cruises.  Pat and I took the 3-hour tour (but the weather didn’t get rough) last September.  It was such a great experience, we decided to do the 2-hour version with Pat’s family during their recent visit.

In my mind, there would be a cool breeze blowing across the river that would somehow wipe the 106 degree heat away and leave us feeling cool and refreshed.  Or, worst case, we’d be in a cool air conditioned cabin.

Allow me to mention that when we took the sunset tour in September, it was about 30 degrees cooler and it was, well, sunset.  Between the extra 30 degrees and the very direct sunlight during the brightest part of the day shining through a mostly glass-enclosed cabin, the A/C had a little trouble keeping up.  Oh, wait, I forgot to mention that in September, there were 13 of us on the cruise.  This time around, there were about 70 people sitting together sweating.

The circumstances kept us from regretting that it was only a 2 hour cruise, at least.

On the plus side, we had a knowledgable and hysterical guide.  He kept us all laughing in spite of the heat–he may have missed his calling as a stand-up comic.  We also learned quite a bit–I think I’ve now been on enough of these tours and to enough historic sites that the history of Chattanooga is finally starting to sink in.

We also saw a lot of Osprey–something we didn’t see in September.  I was so excited by the Osprey that I stood up on the deck the entire time we were allowed up there regardless of feeling like a slowly frying egg.  There was enough of a breeze at first to prevent the sweat from pooling and dripping.  But then we turned around and the breeze died.  Everyone went below except for me a couple of die hards.  I felt bad for the woman sitting next to me when I finally returned to the cabin–I’m pretty sure my deodorant failed.

My photos also failed.  Between the extraordinarily bright sun (one of my friends recently asked if we were still the 3rd rock from the sun–I think she’s onto something) and the moving boat, I can’t say I got any really great shots.  I really wish I had one of the two Osprey chicks both fully visible, but I was shooting between people’s heads to get the shots I did get.  I’m thinking about starting an etiquette blog for photographers where I can offer my advice on tough questions such as “when is it OK to knock over a dozen tourists because they keep passing in front of your lens while a nest of Osprey is in full view?”

I suppose I will have to go on a private cruise if I want really good shots.

Mountain vs Couch

Posted by dkrashb on

As much as I love to be active, there’s a part of me that would really prefer to lay on the couch all day.  That part of me was screaming when we decided to try mountain biking for the first time in Jasper National Park several years ago.

Fortunately for me, I was still shooting with my PowerShot G3 at the time, which weighed approximately 1/3 what my current camera with a wide angle lens would weigh.

When the locals we talked to assured us that there was a “super easy” trail just outside of town that was only 10 miles long, I imagined it would take about an hour to cruise around this loop trail.  I planned for us to take it easy, stopping for a picnic lunch by a lake and having a leisurely day.  As we headed out for the trail, I wondered what we would do the rest of the afternoon.

When we got to the trailhead, we found if we went to the South, it looked flat.  If we went North, it was a very steep climb right from the start.  We, naturally, went South.  Of course, after about 100 yards, the trail turned uphill and we began the most painful climb of our lives.  Painful for two reasons:  first, our lungs (and every muscle in our bodies) were burning trying to keep the bikes moving up and over roots, rocks, bumps, and pot holes as we climbed.  Second, we were crawling along at such a slow pace that the plentiful mosquitos were keeping up with us.

When we encountered objects beyond our skill level to get over or around, we fell over.  Once we fell over, we had to push the bike along until we got to a flat enough place to get started again.

I pushed the bike up a hill at a run with my rain jacket on and the hood up trying to get away from the mosquitos.  I’ve been riding bikes a long time.  I’m pretty sure that “riding” doesn’t mean taking your bike out for a run.

After stopping for a quick lunch (due to the mosquitos) in a spot where we could watch loons on a lake, we turned around and started heading downhill back home.  We came to a screeching halt when Pat spotted a black bear peeking at us from behind a shrub.  Eventually, the bear figured out we were humans and took off.  We went on our way singing loudly in the hope of scaring the bear away (anyone who has heard me sing would appreciate how effective this would be).

Then, we out-peddled the mosquitos and discovered how much fun mountain biking is when you’re going downhill!  Much better than laying on the couch.  Going up, not so much.

When at last we arrived back home, over 3 hours had passed in spite of our brief lunch.  We both needed a nap–the perfect time to hit the couch.