Peter Bowers
The Land of Ghosts
A glance over the shoulder
a whisper in the mist,
an echo through the trees...
Spirit travelers, shamans
and tricksters...
As surely as his paddle
slices the surface,
he knows he is not alone...
Poem by Wintercove
Paddler in the early morning mist. Leslie Frost wilderness area, Ontario, Canada.
In the fall, when the nights are cool and the water in the lakes is still warm, you get a lot of mist in the morning. On this morning it was 2 C. I convinced my wife to come paddling with me in the cold by making her coffee.
This is an ancient mode of travel and we're often following the same paths that have been used for thousands of years.
Painted version:
www.flickr.com/photos/carye1/2090778208/
The Land of Ghosts
A glance over the shoulder
a whisper in the mist,
an echo through the trees...
Spirit travelers, shamans
and tricksters...
As surely as his paddle
slices the surface,
he knows he is not alone...
Poem by Wintercove
Paddler in the early morning mist. Leslie Frost wilderness area, Ontario, Canada.
In the fall, when the nights are cool and the water in the lakes is still warm, you get a lot of mist in the morning. On this morning it was 2 C. I convinced my wife to come paddling with me in the cold by making her coffee.
This is an ancient mode of travel and we're often following the same paths that have been used for thousands of years.
Painted version:
www.flickr.com/photos/carye1/2090778208/