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@trailwalker13.bsky.social

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Sarah@skarabara.bsky.social · yesterday

#thecampfire Today's story is in the alt text. Sad words about death and dying and the dead. You don't have to read them, but I had to write them. The more time has passed (125 days), the deeper the sadness but it's less frequent. Life goes on and then, the hollowness becomes evident.

Image: a hand holding another set of hands, one pair much older. Words: The warmth of touch. A hand on yours. A hug in a time of need. 4:10 AM. Your body still warm, but not your body now. You are gone. Your warmth is still there. Checking pulses. Placing the oximeter in case we missed something. Listening for breath. Waiting for the chest to rise. Your legs are cold. I cover them. Your hands are cold. I hold them. It crawls up your body, this cold, bit by bit. Brother, sister, come. Place your hand here, by the nape. You can still feel her warmth. Calls must be made. Plans carried out. But I keep returning. My hand reaching up to feel that sacred spot, where death has not yet reached. And then. Nothing.
Graham Jones@oldmanrambling.bsky.social · 22h ago

Thread 1) It is late and many tales have been shared when a familiar raspy English voice is again raised in the darkness as #TheCampfire burns low. "Would you care to hear of the young hitch-hiking, campervan lovers and their now sensible suburban life? Of course not. Would they do that?

Jimmy Innes@jimmyinnes.bsky.social · yesterday

#TheCampfire   1/ This is a simple photo of a humble milk churn. It belonged to my grandad, my hero, and is a treasured memento for me – a reminder of the humble man he was and simple life conviction he had.   His name was Donald. He was born in rural Norfolk in 1922. He was 17 when war broke out.

Black and white vertical photo of an aluminium milk churn, with its top handle laying down on the left hand side
Ginny Stibolt@ginnystibolt.bsky.social · 2d ago

Today’s #BirdOfTheDay theme, #Firsts some of your earliest bird captures, got me thinking that I've been birding for a long time. This photo of me & my brother on Skyline Drive, which runs along a high ridge in the Appalachian Mountains, was one of our "first" birding experiences. Don't do the math!

Old photo of a boy & girl standing on a stonewall looking outward through binoculars. Several old cars are parked diagonally behind the wall. A steep rocky cliff with evergreen trees growing on the top is behind the cars. Mountains and trees are in the distance. Text says, "Skyline Drive in the 50s"
pm gibbs@pmgibbs.bsky.social · yesterday

#TheCampfire I want to tell you about a road. To the outsider passing through it’s a typical country road in the mountains, but to the ones who walk it daily it’s an enclosed portal. The first hello as I turned onto Yerry Hill was to the cows, then to the regal catalpa tree, red barn with pond. ⬇️

Walking on you come by the cutest cottage with a large hedge of forsythia. Oh the gossip, did you see the blooms on the forsythia. Spring is coming around again. And that was another great thing about walking Yerry Hill, the neighbors. Always a pleasant hello or a nice conversation. I met Sarvananda Bluestone on a very cold winter day. Both of us bundled up. He wrote haikus in a small notebook as he walked. It was from him that I learned this was a special walking road. He said, I could walk on many roads, but this one encloses around me. Traveling on you come to turtle rock. If you see it you will know instantly that it’s a turtle head and it has a pine sapling growing from the top. Legend says it points to a water source, which happens to be Yankeetown pond. Passing by Montoma Lane and to the lowest point you’ll come to Gabriel’s yellow house. Many years neglected, but lovingly restored to once again be an artist’s home. Always a wave and a kind hello and also a moment to stop and listen to the spring gurgle on. You know the sound of water is so refreshing and relaxing. Once past the curve at Gabriel’s you start the climb upward and upward. I was always glad for the guardrail to rest on. Finally at the top and sharp curve, if I wasn’t going up Nordic to Snake Rocks, I’d turn around and head back home. I’m far flung from my Yerry Hill, but I close my eyes and I’m walking with all the memories of a place that I once called home.