The waterfall of yesterday was perhaps even more generous with photo opportunities upstream from the falls, as I followed the riverbank back to where I had parked. 

Water reflections are, to me at least, the most remarkably beautiful, transient form of art and poetry. 

These images were taken at the brink of the falls, in the pool of water that gathered before the plunge down the granite. I could have spent hours watching the leaves swirl past me and then disappear over the cascade.

 

 

 

Today was a glorious, sunny, bluebird-sky day, with an unheard of high temperature of 16 degrees Celsius. I really, really, really wanted to go out and get some photography done while the trees are still wearing their autumn finery, and to be able to do so without freezing my fingers off would be a bonus. I succumbed to temptation.

I specifically wanted to return to a waterfall I'd photographed and blogged back in June. It's in a gorgeous but rather remote spot; off the beaten path even in this off the beaten path area of Ontario. Knowing that the chances were very good that I would be the only one on the trail, my biggest misgiving was the very real possibility of encountering a bear. They've been very bold this year, driven by hunger to come and forage openly in the village and other human habitats they would normally steer clear of. So I did a bit of mental weighing of the pros and cons, and in the end the prospect of getting autumn waterfall pictures won out over caution and common sense. I did however take some measures of prudence: I left a note on the table so that on the off chance I did perish, at least people would know where to look. I pared down my camera equipment to a bare (bear?) minimum - one camera body, one lens, one filter, all in a mini-backpack that would still allow me to run if necessary. And a tripod, which would do double duty as camera support and as a ''big stick'' - that is to say a potential bear javelin, if not to wound, to at least distract momentarily and allow me to flee. I put on a white raincoat with loud red polka dots, so the bear would be able to see me coming (or so the search party could find me more easily). 

I was indeed the only person there, and I hiked through the woods stomping dramatically and jingling my car keys. I made it to the falls without even seeing any bear poop, let alone bears. This was comforting. 

These falls, though, seem to have some really bad juju for me. Last time I was here, we had the infamous Nikon-takes-a-bath incident, and one of my lenses is still not right from that little escapade. This time around, the Canon, perched on the tripod and saddled with a 10-stop neutral density filter on the end of the lens, was clearly unhappy about trying to focus through all that darkness: it completely lost its little mind and threw an error message and stopped doing anything resembling functioning. Happily, the tried and true remedy of removing the battery and then putting it back in again was enough to overcome the electronic brain fart, but I couldn't help thinking that Skeleton Falls does have some kind of curse.

But at least it did not have bears. This time.

 

 

October

The sweet song

Before death comes.

Cold creeps in,

First stealthily,

Then boldly, briskly, imperiously.

Winds and rain

Sweep up the fallen leaves,

Carry away the colour.

 

Remnants

Diluted.

Depleted.

Muted.

All that lingers is

A dormant, barren,

Grey-brown world.

 

And yet today,

In mid-October,

Under brooding, rain-heavy skies,

A beguiling, surprising warm wind

Reached up from the south.

A single Monarch butterfly,

The first I’d seen all year,

Tumbled about in the eddies,

Danced once around me,

Perhaps attracted, deceived,

By the mirage of my bright pink jacket,

Then fluttered onward,

Lost but determined,

Perhaps – likely – doomed,

Hopelessly hopeful,

But seemingly unaware

Of having tarried too long.

 

Monarchs, so legends say,

 - And I choose to believe -

Are the spirits of lost loved ones,

Returning for a brief visit

To those who mourn them still.

As I lost sight of the windborne scrap of orange

And wondered if it were a mirage of my own making,

I looked up at the storm-soured sky.

My eye fell upon a tiny gap of bright blue

Amid the angry, low-slung greys.

 

October may bring death,

But death, like October,

is simply part of a cycle:

Renewal.

Memory.

Hope.

Life.

Even as death creeps inevitably closer,

They find their way.

They do not die,

But go somewhere else.