Friday, April 25, 2008


This past week I was finally able to journey out into the Ruahines once again, even if for just one night. The weather, work, the roar, and life commitments all combining over the last month to keep my lingering desire for mountain interaction in check. The weather was still a bit inclement but the window presented itself and off I went. Two aspects of this one night trip made it special, and a celebration of sorts. 0ne was that it was my 25th night spent at my destination, Top Maropea. The second was that I was joined by my friend Adam, who was on his first encounter with the Ruahines. Adam has given me the gift of his music over these past few months, so it was a pleasure and privilege to be able to share my passion and experience with him.

I first went to Top Maropea in 1998 with a friend, Tony Beddis. I had been doing quite a few day walks with Nigel, and we had just really begun to do over night tramps as we started to get a bit more serious about exploring these ranges. I recall distinctly gasping in delight when I emerged from the beech and leatherwood belt behind Sunrise hut, and the panorama and dramatic view of the main range opened before me. Te Atuoaparpara looming over us, Waipawa saddle to the south, to the north Armstrong saddle and the Waipawa head water catchment. I knew none of this then, just that it's beauty took my breath away. I still firmly believe the one hour walk from Sunrise to the forest above Top Maropea would be the finest one hour walk in the Ruahine ranges, if not amongst all of Aotearoa's wonderful offerings. 0nce high above Armstrong saddle the view opens up to the entire Ruahines and Maropea valley lies below, on a good day Ruapehu, Ngarahoe, and Tongariro - the Rim of Fire - lie to the west, it never fails to stir my soul. At Top Maropea the hut lies at 1242 metres on a terrace overlooking the Maropea valley. That afternoon with Tony my soul was captured by these ranges. It was my first experience with that feeling of "Entrainment" I wrote of on my last post. I just looked out upon that beautiful valley knowing I had to see it closer. I have now become very familiar with the Maropea, and have climbed along its open tops to the north, gone into to the valleys and tops beyond it from all directions. Yet this place still calls to me strongly.

0f the more than 25 crossings I have done of Armstrong saddle, perhaps less than 10 would have been done in perfect conditions, where the walk and view can simply be absorbed and enjoyed. Most often it will be raining, snowing or sleeting, cloud obscured, or windy, and often a combination of some or all of those factors. I have been knocked over a few times by gale force gusts of wind, and have had to shelter at both Sunrise or Top Maropea when I judged conditions to be too bad to venture further. It is only an hour of exposure, but that it is more than long enough to get into trouble in these mountains. I have come to know this crossing well, and fairly good at judging the wind and conditions. So even on this trip with Adam when it was raining and the prevailing nor'wester very strong we crossed. The photos above were taken the next day when back at Sunrise, an even windier experience for Adam. This day was cloud obscured and the wind particularly strong on the western side so no time for photos, or to even relax until we reached the shelter of the forest above Top Maropea.


I came to you

Sought your presence

Not to be rebuffed

by Gales

Nor daunted by Your shades of Grey

Your shedding of tears will not deny

Not today my love

Your moodiness enchants as well

Proceed with Caution!

Handle with Care!

The Journey is only the Beginning

Here I am Again

In your Bosom


Part of this moment

0nce more

It is our celebration

22 April 2008, written at, and for, Top Maropea

We toasted this occasion with a very fine 16 year old Bushmill's Irish whiskey, a mellow sweetness with a nutty finish, and perfect for a cold mountain late afternoon and evening period of celebration. Dinner was Ruahine venison, quick fried after a plum sauce marinade, and served with Maori potatoes boiled first, then fried in onion, garlic, and fresh tarragon and rosemary. Yum!

Getting a fire going at Top Maropea has never been easy. Given its historical structure status, the recent renovations replaced the old smokey hole ridden chimney and rotted out fireplace with a new one. Yet finding wood at 1242 meters presents certain problems. I roamed the forest below the hut with Adam to locate some dead beech branches, and we came across a beautiful chunk of dead leatherwood as well. Tough stuff but if you get it burning it is great stuff. I think my fire building skills have gotten quite good over the years if I may write so. I have learned well from John. The hardest, and most necessary fire, I have built here was in August of 2007. I had come up from Maropea Forks on my own to encounter a sudden blizzard at Top Maropea. I walked up through the forest with trees crashing down and upon arriving at the open tops quickly came to the obvious conclusion there was no way possible to venture any further and retreated to the hut. The wind was howling I was wet and cold from the snow, it was minus 7 Celsius in the hut, I had no paper and only very little wood. I went back out and found wood, glad I always carry a little hand saw, then shaved off the wet bits with my knife to make kindling, and slowly worked it into a great fire, warming me, drying my wet gear, and occupying my mind from concern. The best fire I ever built.

Adam's thoughts written in note book 22 April:

The Ruahine Ranges:

I looked up at the rounded tree covered giants above me. To see the plants and hear the birds, life looks so easy and ordered. The mountains resemble a mother cradling her children and sustaining tenderly life and nature.

It is only when you brave their bitter cold and windswept ridges, the treacherous tracks, the dark vast bush in which one wrong turn could lead to disaster, that you realize this is not a place you should be.

The fragility of life here. The absolute reliance on certain objects: a coat, a hut, some soup or a tin of beans, the absence of which could lead to trouble or death.

These are not the conquered lowlands that I know. Domesticated and broken. A beast of burden sold into slavery for our own economic benefit. This is the last stronghold of the wild, the untamed. A place where we are intruders, where Nature could at any moment unleash it's wrath and smite us......but it has not.

This gives us a new perspective about our relationship with these mountains. Maybe we are not the rulers of this land. Maybe the mountains allow us to be here as a benevolent King allows his subjects to roam his lands. A fleeting intrusion in a timeless place......


Silent Whispers

Ghostly voices I welcome

This Canvass Painted

Golden hues

brilliant blues


more often the grey mist

and sunset bringing

majestic purples

Indescribable shades of blue and black

Rain on the tin roof

Waves of Wind passing over

Quiet but never Silence

Sounds I know well here

Crackling fire dying slowly

I must sleep

22 April 2008 Top Maropea

Below are all photos of interaction with Top Maropea, coming, going, at the hut, the canvass being painted........

The huts in Aotearoa all contain hut books, a book into which parties write their names, dates, destinations, activity, and any comments they might have. The book allows the Department of Conservation to monitor use, aids in possible search and rescue missions, and they also make interesting reading, particularly ones which are in more inaccessible areas and the hut books go back many years. The current book at Top Maropea goes back to 2004, and is a long way from full. I was looking back at the entries I had made in this book, reminiscing on those trips and I noticed where in the activity section of the page, where most write in tramping, hunting, ect., I had instead written adjectives that, looking back now, pretty well describe the reason for my trip and where I was at in my own life reflected in those words. It is a poem of its own in a way.

"Reasons for being Here"

Getting wet
Staying warm and dry
Well Being, Patience, Silence
To learn

Aroha ano

Tuesday, April 15, 2008


On my last post I posed the question of where do we find the love of wild places? Is it something inherent inside of us we respond to, or is it something needing to be nurtured and that emerges with each exposure? I am inclined, at least in my own case, to believe it is a combination of both.

I always felt a certain response to the woods, the aromatic pines, the decaying mulch, and mostly to clear water. The sight and sound of a clear forest brook or stream always invoked something inside me. Yet I needed other guidance to bring me to that eventual recognition of it being important to me. Simply being in those places as a boy, meant someone taking me there, usually early on my father on our relatively rare fishing and hunting outings, and as I got older other friends with similar interests. Then there were boyhood magazines on fishing and hunting eventually leading to books and discovering certain authors, and suddenly a new world is opened.
Two of the people whom have influenced me most through their respective writings of the Natural world are John Muir and Edward Abbey. Which is interesting to me as they would lie on opposite ends of any spectrum other than their shared love of wild places. How they wrote differed, how they appreciated those wild places differed, even how they would have traveled amongst nature differed.
John Muir was a world class botanist, a man with a deep faith in God, a tee totaller who really preferred his own company when amongst his beloved mountains and forests. He thrived in conditions most would be put off by, relishing in storms, earthquakes, traveling in cold harsh conditions with not much more than the clothes he wore, a sleeping bag of some type, and dried bread and tea for sustenance. He loved nothing more than spending hours alone studying striations left on rocks by retreating glaciers, collecting plant life for further study, or simply sitting amongst the huge red woods and sequoias. His writings were testaments to Nature and God, imploring man to get out to wild places and through Nature find God. He ended up carrying the banner for the rudimentary beginnings of Ecological Awareness through his writings, was instrumental in helping to create the U.S. National Park system. He helped save the Grand Canyon from early destruction, brought awareness to the country of saving areas of big trees - influencing greatly the young Sierra Club, and creating a platform for his writings through the National Geographic magazine to reach a wide audience. Finally he gave his failing health trying to save Hetch Hetchy valley, a valley he considered the equal if not superior to Yosemite. He fully demonstrated alternatives for San Francisco to supply its growing need for water in other ways, but failed, and Hetch Hetchy is no more. He died that same year.
Edward Abbey once could not identify some basic desert plants outside a friends house, he was not interested in botany. He was a man of prodigious appetites for whiskey, women, music, and his beloved desert country. Specializing in rafting the rivers of the Southwest he was no light traveler, his rafting parties wanting for nothing, yet he spent much time, like Muir, traveling on his own and camping in the deserts. Abbey's devotion to the wilderness was not like John Muirs, he did not seek it out to meditate or pray. As he drove along highways he felt no shame in littering the detested roads with his beer cans. Abbey hated the cold, and his less than frequent ventures to Montana and Alaska could never end soon enough for Abbey. He was a man of the desert. He never wanted the label of being a "Nature writer", and indeed his body of work includes many other areas outside it. He wrote with great love for his environment in the desert and the need for wild places, but whereas Muir dug deep into finding meaning within the beauty around him, Abbey was content on the surface, there was enough there for him to relish in. Indeed, he himself considered John Muir "relevant, but dull". I am not quite sure I agree with Ed there, as I am somewhat of a below the surface man myself, but his writings are extremely witty and funny, an ecological Mark Twain really. Abbey became relevant in bringing awareness to a generation of America mired in corporate expansion and greed, over development of our park systems, and again, encouraged people to commune with nature on their own, on their hands and knees if necessary to actually "see" something, even if most often we would not. Even today, his 1968 classic "Desert Solitaire" is still relevant and inspiring, his "Monkey Wrench Gang" still a strong call to wilderness action.

I suspect John Muir would roam the Ruahine ranges with glee, relishing the rivers, forests, and open tops, browsing for new and interesting plants and seeing what I have never seen there yet. Abbey would find the Ruahine too restricting, lacking the wide open vista he preferred, too cold and green for his liking. Still, at the end of the day, in front of the Corker or camp fire, most interesting company to share the evenings whiskey ration with and converse.
There are many inspiring and spiritual quotes I could use here to demonstrate the writings of John Muir, a few I have used already in prior posts. Abbey offered little in the way of finding that connection to Something Else Beyond Here in wildness, it simply was what it was. Yet I find him, at times just as inspiring through his appreciation for the surface and his pragmatic approach to the wild. I quote Edward Abbey writing about how one should approach the desert,
"Enter at your own risk. Carry water. Avoid the noon day sun. Try to ignore the vultures. Pray frequently".
Muir would have us fight for Nature by being amongst it and finding a connection to our part amongst the whole, therefore, in Muir's view, God. If he fought for a cause it was legally or through appealing to the masses through his writings. Abbey would have us hurl a brick through the window of a developers office. I see merit in both.

Entrainment is a scientific word used to describe the phenomenon of one organism rhythmically and internally adjusting itself to another, when life pulses coordinate. Van Morrison uses the same word to assert : "Entrainment is what I am getting at with the music...Its kind of when you are the present moment - with no past or future".

Perhaps "Entrainment" is what I sometimes get to experience in the Ruahine ranges, and in a few very special moments out here in the world. This past weekend, for me, was one of Entrainment, by the standard of both definitions above. It was filled with music, friends old and new, and a sense of wonder and beauty - mostly me wondering how I could be surrounded by such beauty, calm, and wonderful people. It was a weekend I will remember forever.

Friday evening my friend Adam, see prior post Drinking Deeply, arrived for the weekend to play with a band he has hooked up with during his visit from Ireland, A Parcel of Rogues, whom had a two night gig booked at the Celtic Pub here in Palmerston North. Playing with Adam, on fiddle, were Andy on acoustic guitar and drum, and harp, Nick on mandolin, banjo and guitar, and Mark on drums. It was an excellent evening, one of the rare ones Tara and I get out together, and certainly rare to a pub! We had an excellent evening, meeting new friends, enjoying the beautiful mixture of Irish and Country Alternative music, as well as tunes by Wilco, Steve Earle, Bob Dylan, and Tom Waits. And so cool to see Adam playing with a band on his new electronic fiddle. Nick and Andy are rapt to have found someone of such quality, and in my opinion both excellent musicians themselves. Spent a bit of money! But well worth it in the big scheme of things.

The following morning I rang Tara's brother Davey, an accomplished guitarist himself. Davey has recently left a band, growing tired of playing pop music and has been concentrating on acoustic and searching for a sound. Not long ago I turned him onto a few blue grass bands to listen to and he has fallen in love with that sound. So he came over and met Adam and within minutes they were jamming, Adam running Davey through some basics and then off they went. Adam was highly impressed with Davey's technique, and how fast he picked things up. He was wishing he was staying in New Zealand longer to possibly do some things with him. Tara and I just went about our normal Saturday morning business while being serenaded by our own private little house band.

And if that were not an exceptionally fine gift, later that afternoon we were joined by Nick, and Tony whom we had met the night prior through Pohangina Pete. Tony plays in a local Irish band here named Slate Row, and along with Adam and Nick, we were treated to another lovely jam around the fire. The guys took turns singing and playing, joining in on each others songs. I had tears in my eyes a few times - and not just from my smokey fire! It was just a fine afternoon and I felt blessed by the presence of such people. Thanks to each and every one of you.

That's Entrainment

You by the countryside
0h you when you reach the sky
You and you're climbing that hill
Well you when we're listening to the little whippoorwill

You when the sun goes down
You in the evening, in the morning when the sun comes round
You with your ballerina dance
Well you put me back into a trance

That's Entrainment, that's entrainment, that's entrainment

by Van Morrison - Keep it Simple 2008 - Copyright extract lyrics reproduced with kind permission of Exile Music.


1. John just below Rangi saddle on the main range and Kawhatau valley below on a misty
Ruahine day.

2. High above Rangi saddle looking across to the Hikurangi's and Mangaweka, the highest peak in the Ruahine ranges at 1733 metres.

3,4,5. Andy, Adam, and Nick, and photo 4 left, Mark : A Parcel of Rogues

6. Robb and Tara

7. Tara

8. Adam

9. Davey and Adam

10, 11 Tony -from Slate Row- and Adam
12. Tara and Charlie

13. Amelie, Pete, Nick, and Jonno

14. Nick, playing Christmas in Washington by Steve Earle
15. Charlie and Adam


Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Beginnings : The Boundary Waters

Where do we learn to love Wild Places? How does that urge to explore and investigate come upon us? I have found a spiritual place in the Ruahine ranges, in a way it seems a place that has always called to me, even if I was never aware of its gentle whisper in my ear. Yet I wonder if I had not met Nigel and John and gone for those first ventures into the mountains would I have found them on my own?

0n my last trip to America I began to sort through possessions left behind, things I thought I would soon return to but never did. Not much in the way of material wealth, but rich in old books, photos, and notebooks now long ago written. To come across them almost after 15 years was almost as if reading of another lifetime, or looking at myself as someone else. And maybe I was. I packed a lot of it up and had it sent here, only to put it away again, too busy with my new life as a parent, and husband, and Kiwi to sort through these relics of my past. This past weekend I did find time and it was a very cool experience. Some of the first photos I came across were of my trips to the Boundary Waters. The Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness is the northern most third of the Superior National Forest, an area of lakes and streams 1.3 million acres in size running 150 miles in length adjacent to Quetico Provincial Park of Canada of almost equal size. A huge area to roam in any ones book. All travel is by canoe, except in a few restricted areas on the outer edges of the park which allow motorized transport. 0ne paddles from lake to lake, carrying everything needed in the canoe, then portaging all to the next lake over and through rough forest trails where off you go again. Trips are by permit only, so as to reduce human contact, and there are no huts or structures, only designated camp sights on the lakes with built in grates for fire - thus reducing impact on the forest and also controlling somewhat the over use of wood as fuel. Rubbish is carried out, and human waste buried. I first went there in 1985, and returned there 4 times more before moving to New Zealand in 1993. Before I encountered the Ruahines it had made the greatest natural impact on my life, a place I felt as close to what I feel now in the Ruahine ranges. Please allow me to share this with you. The photos are rather rudimentary and aged but you get the idea.

The Boundary Waters are a result of the great glaciers which covered most of North America thousands of years ago. Through its relentless gouging and scraping were left behind the bones of the earth, granite hardened by the ages, huge house size boulders, stunning rock formations, crags and cliffs and canyons, and thousands of lakes and streams interspersed with islands and surrounded by forest. 0n any given day you might see the majestic Bald Eagle, huge moose, deer, and even curious black bears in search of a meal, all adding to the sense of wildness. At night you will hear wolves howl. After all, this is their home, we are only visitors. And there are the loons, the state bird of Minnesota, beautiful in their colour and especially their mournful song. Before I met the Whio my spiritual bird kin. Many people come here simply to camp and fish, the lakes laden with fresh water treats such as walleye, northern, bass, and lake trout. While I liked to fish, back then my main focus was to travel and see as much as I could, often getting up into extremely remote and rarely visited country in the Quetico region. Most of the day spent paddling and portaging until a cool camp spot revealed itself, mostly picked for a breeze blowing over it which would keep the relentless mosquitoes at bay. I could never get enough of the tough travel through such amazing country, even the portaging through the beautiful pine and birch forests I loved, indeed a fine respite from paddling. Along with the canoe are taken two packs, both rubberized and pretty much water tight. 0ne pack, a Duluth pack, is enormous, perhaps 150 litres, and it was one persons job to carry it across the portages, while the other takes on the smaller pack, perhaps 60-70 litres, and the canoe, with fishing rods and paddles lashed inside, and off we go. If on your own you simply had to do multiple portages if not a light traveler. Carrying the canoe is not as hard as it may seem. With a yoke, or padded shoulder rest in its middle it balances quite nicely. The harder part comes in the more remote terrain where the portage trails are less used, more overgrown, even obliterated. Fun times!

Above are my friend Quinn and I on my last trip to the Boundary Waters in 1992. We are along the Kiwishiwi river and trying to induce walleye out of a little water fall. I remember this day well, as not long after a pair of bald eagles landed nearby and flew around us for a few hours as we worked our way up river to another lake. I was never sure if they were interested in us or hoping we were fishing and might leave an easy meal behind, but which ever it was a memorable day.

Quinn and I were on an 8 day trip covering over 70 miles, 27 lakes and countless streams and back waters. Quinn is perhaps my oldest friend and had never done anything like this in his life, yet he proved a worthy companion beyond the normal scope of our friendship, putting up with the bugs, and mud and rain, and able to enjoy the place in all conditions. Never have I been prouder to call him, and still call him, my friend.

Journal entry : 16 June 1992 - Boulder lake

What a day! I'm so full of bug bites, scratches, scrapes, bruises, you name it. I am so tired. Yet in a sense I feel so invigorated, so happy. I should sleep but I know I cannot, nor do I want this moment to pass.

loons are calling on Boulder lake, the wind whistles through the pines, the fire crackles, it is Peace. We humped it hard today, harder than I ever have in this place before. And it rained and rained! We wanted to get here to Boulder, but we took a wrong portage at legend lake and went way north of here through some indescribable portaging. Actually it was beautiful deep forest, up near the cliffs leading to Kekabic. Though with all that rain, bugs, and trying to figure out where in the hell we were, we had to focus. The terrain was rocky, muddy and thick - not conducive to huge packs and a canoe. We ended up having to portage and extra 900 rods, three plus miles. Not to mention canoeing around all the lakes trying to find the portage spots. "It's All in the Game" - Van Morrison.

We finally ended up in some nameless little back water, a swamp really, but could not find the portage. 5 times we went up and down this perhaps 300 hundred yard long bog in our canoe, finally leaving our gear on one end so as to paddle easier and search. The mosquitoes were just tearing us up! Finally I spotted a small opening, got out of the canoe and investigated and that was it! We went back and got our gear and one final portage brought us to Boulder lake at 7:30 p.m., another 11 hour day on the move. No fishing today. But I loved every second. A true test of patience and toughness today.

It was such a relief to get onto big Boulder lake where the breeze was strong enough to blow away the mosquitoes. The rain stopped and we pitched our tent on the point of an island camp with the breeze blowing over us. I am getting the fire ready as Quinn casts for some fish dinner. Fresh fish would be nice. I have learned so much on this trip, with lots more to learn. But today I always felt in control, always calm. I can only deal with these things as they come in this place. 0ne at a time. I wish life were that simple back in the world.

The photo above was at Boulder lake. The big blue bag is the smaller Duluth pack, the black stripes at the top harder rubber which fold down then clamped to the sides make it relatively water tight. The bigger one is just a huge sack with straps to carry it. I am sort of amazed looking at these photos at how inadequate our gear really was. 0utside of my goretex jacket, which I still have, and our other rain gear, all our clothes would have been cotton. Not much good when wet. Then again this method of travel allows for bigger loads, though I reckon now I could travel with less than half the gear we would have taken back then. And we traveled pretty fast in any case.

At night, when the evening meal is done, the last cup of coffee drunk, and bed not far off, you must hang your food high off the ground and away from camp. Above are my friends Karl on the left and Jeff on the right. Above their heads is our food bag and cooking gear, ect. This is to prevent black bears from ruining a trip very quickly as their sense of smell and climbing ability is second to none. You must find two trees of similar height, far enough apart to prevent a bear from getting at it from either tree. Black bears can get up to 400 pounds, but even one of 150 or so you would not want to wrestle with. Banging on pots and pans usually scares them away and in all my trips we only had one such encounter, though I have seen many bears in the Boundary waters. This is a trip from 1989. Karl and I were in one canoe, and Jeff, the finest canoeist I know, was solo. Canoeing with a partner is a matter of trust and timing. The front man must be muscle only and allow the back person to steer and direct. Which in a place like this can be difficult when first getting underway, as there are huge boulders that lurk up out of the black tannin stained water, and an inexperienced front man can start pulling hard to avoid it rather than communicating the danger to the back man and allowing him to easily avoid the rocks with a simple twist of the paddle. Jeff in his own canoe was flawless and fast, still is from all I hear.

Above is Jeff on Mahlberg lake with a nice stringer of Northern Pike. Probably 4-5 pounds each, they can get up to 30 plus pounds, and even at the lighter weight are very tough fighters. Also excellent eating, these yeilded enough fillets for three hungry fishermen. Just above I am pictured with a good eating size walleye landed on the Kiwishiwi river.
Journal entry 19 June 1993, Bashatong lake : So here we are for our last night on Bashatong lake, a beautiful little lake off the beaten trail near Mahlberg and about 5 miles from our entry point. We spent the afternoon and early evening paddling around the lake and exploring. Some high granite cliffs opposite our camp proved irresitible and we went over to climb them. That was enjoyable, to see what time slowly does to these handsome giant monuments. I have come to the conclusion the rocks are the most noble part of this wonderful place. So elegant and each seeming to have its own character. At one point today we portaged through a sheer tunnel of granite which stretched up through the tree tops, smooth and cold as ice. It is the oldest hardest rock on earth.
This lake has been hit by huge storm, and I suspect a tornado, very recently. The shore and shallow woods on the eastern shore are simply littered with downed trees, most snapped off at the trunks like twigs. What force must have rolled through here! John Muir would love it. Firewood will not be any issue at all for our final camp fire.
A quiet afternoon for Quinn and I. We did not talk much, and felt no need to do so. I sense Quinn is also trying to soak up the last remnants of peace and solitude on offer in places like this. So the evening comes, our last meal, our last fire, our last cup of cocoa, our last meandering camp fire conversation. Thank you water, thank you rocks, thank you trees, for your timeless pristine presence. Until I return again.
Note from 1 April, 2008 : I have not been fortunate enough to return to this wonderful place since the above trip, though have certainly been blessed in finding a place here in the mountains I love in much the same, and in many different ways. I still hope to return one day to the Boundary Waters. In a way, writing this and posting these photos has allowed me to return there now.

"Evening on Bashatong"
I stand on the shore
of the moon lit lake
its surface today rough
now smooth as glass
the Wind today our foe
now quiet with only the gentlest
of loving whispers
The heavens above reflected
on the mirror of the still waters
In the distance the sun still sets
Colors of purple and orange
hard against coal black clouds
loons call in the stillness
their song enters my very soul
the fire crackles and hisses
with wood still wet from rain
I stand very still
with no reason to move
a moment of True Harmony
19 June 1993, Bashatong lake BWCAW.