Saturday, November 29, 2014
Last year at Christmas I posted the "real" Christmas photo and then the one in which Mark had thrown up his shirt. Someone labeled the second shot,"Can you pick out the bachelor?" I don't know if Caroline ever saw that photo, but there is a little irony. It will be his last Dill Christmas photo as a bachelor. We welcome Carolyn and Elliot to the Dill crew. We are absolutely delighted. No, you may not have her address so you can warn her. By January, we will no longer have two Montana sons. We will have one in Montana and one in Iowa. (And, of course, still two kids and three grands in Arkansas.)
Friday, October 31, 2014
Saturday, August 23, 2014
A Look Back at SummerBrandy and Seth
Our favorite Friday haunt.
Father daughter bonding. They have also enjoyed a couple of trips to Tunica. Pacha's wallet is lighter.
Phuoc went to California to visit some of her kinfolk. She is moving into a dorm at Arkansas Tech this weekend.
The Danville Dills brought E down for Nana-Pacha camp the week of teacher inservice. (Brother went back with them. Maybe he'll stay next year--or the next.)
ith Jasmine (Stephanie) of Aladdin at the Royal
Starting with Cinderella in 2011, she has photos with several Disney princesses. I'm hoping she will be a thespian.
Jim Ed as swimming instructor
Addie (or Norm) with Waldo the anemone
First grade Open House
Sitting at the table from Grandma that John refinished, looking at the Danville backyard I was hoping to get a humming bird in the photo.
Grandson the drummer
Who needs a TV?
The annual trip west was later this year (and a little shorter since John had spent six weeks there for his cataract surgery). I am still experiencing technical difficulties. It was the photo of Tori that I had intended to put on top--even though Mark was showing the swelling of a wasp sting on his face. It was our last visit to see the old girl. There was no cure for the cancerous growth on her muzzle, and it had to be at least uncomfortable--probably painful.She was getting royal treatment at home, but hunting season would have been unmanagable for her.John is holding Jaxx, Abe, and Rosie. Abe went with the men for a pre-bird season run, and didn't come back. He was found at the truck waiting for them. Rosie was jealous, so she dug under the fence that afternoon and had an hour long adventure in Forsyth. She also returned on her own while we searched and called and met most of the citizens of the town. Next shot is Belle (in back) and Zeke.You see in the pose with Rusty just who is queen in that household. We had a good visit, and our sons made sure we did not meet anyone they were dating.
Tuesday, July 01, 2014
Friday, April 18, 2014
Wednesday, April 09, 2014
From guest blogger, Russell T. Dill, Manhattan, Montana
The Virgin Hole
The Virgin Hole
I live in a small town very close to the forks of the Gallatin River. It is a beautiful little Dutch community that was started based on the premise of growing grain and hops for brewing beer earlier in the last century. Alas the plan was a foolhardy one until recently (as several microbreweries are now rather close) and the original crops have been replaced by irrigated wheat and alfalfa.
I float the Gallatin so much I have names for certain stretches. My favorite stretch is right behind the house here and it goes for about 6-7 river miles to the next takeout. I call it” The Homestretch.” I love the homestretch because it is so short and so close and I am familiar with about every linear foot of it. It also allows for a quick afternoon float in the late summer after work.
Well, several years ago a major hydraulic change took effect on the homestretch changing the route of the river for some time. We had what I initially considered a 100 year flood but in retrospect it was just actually a better than average runoff due to an extraordinary snowpack, considering we were coming off of 7 years of drought. Unfortunately the virgin hole is no longer a floatable stretch but merely a boggy hole with excellent mosquito breeding characteristics. Alas, my buddy Holbine and I back paddled into the hole one summer afternoon and were run out of the remaining slough by the fetid stench and clouds of bloodthirsty bugs.
This is not what the virgin hole used to be….. It was a beautiful rock wall that the river ran headlong into and was forced to make a rather dramatic 45 degree turn, where it hollowed out an overhanging cliff where we once wedged a pair of rafts during a late summer afternoon thunderstorm and watched the lightning go by, drinking beer, relatively unscathed under the protection of the rocky overhang of the virgin hole. The river had also scoured a deep hole beneath the cliff face and the water was quite deep for that stretch of the river. It was a great swimming hole, only after its depths had been properly dredged with nymphs and streamers, and I have seen some of the local kids float by in inner tubes, scale up the left side of the wall and jump off. It wasn’t a huge jump but a nice 30 ft. leap on a hot summer afternoon could be quite invigorating.
I mentioned a proper dredging of the depths was mandatory once the boats were beached, as a pretty good riffle emptied directly in front of the swirling hole and we regularly would pull a few of the gullible rainbows from its depths before the games of the virgin hole began. I once watched a friend of mine get out of his canoe, walk smartly to the base of the riffle and pull a verified 22” rainbow out of the bottom of the riffle before the rest of the float crew had even rigged up yet. This very same individual was taught by the virgin hole that his future bride was not a very good swimmer as she and another gal attempted the swirling hole in a canoe, rather unsuccessfully, and my pal was forced to make a quick rescue of his lady in distress. Finally understanding the quote “No, I can’t swim” to the full depths of her meaning, Pun intended.
After beaching the boats on the gravelly sand bar, dredging the depths for hungry fish, and quaffing a few brews, the pace of the afternoon would slow way down as only the hole could induce. The hole was back along the north bend of the river, rather unattainable unless you came by watercraft and its isolation tended to lend itself to a nice long linger. After a while it was inevitable that a rock skipping contest would ensue, and after that had been going on for some time, the rock throwing contest that gave the hole its name would begin. The rock face of the hole was pocked along the upper edges with a few mud swallow nests and the Montana rock dove, i.e. pigeons, would also nest along its upper reaches, safe from any land born predators. But down along about midway was a nice round hole inaccessible to all but the craftiest of birds and it appeared to us to be uninhabited. This was the target of many a long afternoon of rock throwing. Many summers with many floats with many hours of throwing rocks at this inconspicuous hole that somehow always captured our attention, yet no one had every penetrated the virgin hole with a well-placed throw. I would surmise that over the years we had thrown at least a ton of rocks at that challenging little orifice. Whether it was 2 guys in a canoe or one of our weekend regatta’s with multiple crafts and a good blend of the genders, the men were always drawn to the virgin hole – now do you get the meaning?...Some of the guys were good athletes with strong and accurate arms, whipping the rocks in nice linear arcs within inches it seemed. Others were like me, with spaghetti noodle arms but with hopeless determination who would chuck rocks at the hole for hours until our arms hung limp by our sides and we knew the paddle out had become an offhand paddling affair, with the soreness only relieved with a healthy dose of liquid refreshment…
It was on one of these regatta type afternoons with both girls and boys swimming and fishing at the hole that a major event occurred. There were at least five guys, perhaps another or two that I don’t recall, and the contest was in full swing. In the heat of the battle, with a handful of guys all scrabbling over the beach, trying to find the best rocks, and chuck them as fast as we can in hopes of scoring the elusive goal, the rock chucking could be quite frenetic. A constant cascade of rocks would be tumbling off the rock wall, and occasionally someone would get very close to the object of our desire, eliciting oohs and aahs from the appreciative opponents. Probably due to the sheer number of stones thrown, victory was inevitable. I happened to be reaching down, fumbling for another stone while keeping my eye on the virgin hole, when one of the guys, we’ll call him Doug to protect his ego, stepped forward and with perfect balance and excellent form whipped a decent stone right at the hole only to see it disappear with a nondescript thunk. There were entirely too many witnesses with too much history in this game of champions; the beach erupted with whoops of victory and cries of anguish. Wild dancing and celebrating ensued. There was much shouting and carrying on that it would seem to our female observers we had just landed a beluga whale in the Gallatin. A group of men in their very late twenties, or early thirties had just been reduced to a bunch of ten year olds with a rather inconsequential toss of a rock. The celebration would not abate until the girls began to come over and question our sanity with a few probing questions that truly exposed the lunacy of the situation. It is truly a wonder that those girls eventually married a couple of the guys and later even acquiesced to breed with them as well, considering the behavior they saw that unforgettable Montana summer afternoon.
After several celebratory brews were quaffed, and a few hopeless conciliatory stones were thrown (with no success), we loaded our ladies and coolers and fishing rods and headed on down the river to catch a few more fish and get off the river. All the men sat in their respective boats with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and success, eerily quiet as there was really nothing left to say. We had all been witness to an accomplishment that had been attempted thousands of times over many rivers hours through many summers and now it was done. All that were there (the men anyway) had seen it and thus could savor the success. The women chatted among themselves, still not impressed with our accomplishment and the men just sat there and grinned like a bunch of ten year old boys who had just found a playboy hidden in a secret clubhouse…
There might have been a couple more rock throwing contests at the No Longer Virgin Hole later that summer, but that was the end of the trips through the Virgin Hole. Finally the drought that SW Montana had been enduring was broken with a great snowpack the following year followed by a very wet April and the Gallatin shifted in her bed like a restless lover, flopping her leg over to the southernmost channel and changing her course for who knows how long, for that is where she flows today, leaving the virgin hole in her current deplorable state…
As I sit here on an early spring day, the snowpack registers well above average and the runoff is threatening to begin in earnest this week. It has only been a few years since the river so dramatically changed its course, a mere blip in time on a hydrogeological time scale, but I know there are a group of friends who, silently, hope that the gods of the mountains and the rivers will change her course in another violent spring runoff and restore her path through the virgin hole. And perhaps restore a little of our youth as well….
Sunday, February 09, 2014
I've always messed in tropical fish. Started in junior high. When I was still teaching, I promised myself I'd start a salt water tank when I retired. I didn't. After I was virtually home bound for a while with Mother, I decided I'd reward myself. I converted the 55 gallon in the fall of 2012. I started with live rock. I have a few corals. I can't believe I spent time trying to get macro algae to grow because I missed the green. I now have plenty of green. I'd like to get rid of the green bubble algae for sure, but some of the volunteers I actually like. I forgot to load the photos I have taken since I got the umbrella leather coral. I'll get it next time. The bottom photo features the carpet anemone that I got to host the clown fish. We named him Waldo after the children's book. Anemones can move around the tank, and every morning I play, "Where's Waldo?" Usually the answer is "on the back of that rock where you can't see him." The clowns do sleep on him at night.