It's fun, once again, to have content for the Photo Bin. The recent run of blog posts here has been picture heavy, but that's what you get when a new camera arrives and an expedition is undertaken. There's been lots to look at, but still a few odds-and-ends have managed to fall to the Bin.
Craig, Montana exists for but a single purpose; to sustain those who fish the Missouri. The main drag is just a of couple blocks long and has three fly shops, a breakfast/sandwich take-out joint, a nice, rustic restaurant, and a lodge house. It would all dry up and blow away but for the river. Behind the lodge house there's a bar and I never caught its name. It's a locals' watering hole, as far as I can tell, for that's all we encountered during our late night incursions. Admitted, we were there well after the out-of-towners, the sports, had retired to their beds.
The tricos come off early, you know.
In the heart of the place, there's Headhunters. It's the smallest of Craig's three fly shops, but it projects a funky vibe and an energy that's infectious. Good people. It also served as my communications central. My friend Jess McGlothlin had clued me in. "Cell service is sketchy but you can get it in spots... sit on the white bench on the porch and you're good to go." Thanks, Jess!
Further north (way further north - British Columbia north), Elk River Guiding Company owner Paul Samycia keeps a healthy fly supply in the truck as we head out to chase some cutthroat and bulls.
And why wouldn't you keep a truck full of flies with waters like these around? My buddy Mac tests Wigwam's shoreline structure amid the splendor of freestone and fir.
The week-and-a-little kicking around British Columbia, Alberta, and Montana was a blast, due in large part to the company of good folk. Left to right: Jay, Chad, Todd, Mac, and Chris. Thanks, boys, for a fine adventure.
Closer to home, the hummingbirds swarmed everywhere. I had a ball trying to capture their kamikaze antics and twittering attacks. I nicked a number of shots that were technically better, but this image speaks to me best of the attitude of these pugnacious little buzzbombs. Aerial warfare.
Finally, on a sad note, we judged our neighborhood's annual sunflower contest on Sunday. The finale (a day in which we, as a group, wander from house to house where we measure every entry and, more importantly, take pause for a bit of "refreshment" at each stop) is normally held in July, when the sunflowers are at their peak. But schedules and weather pushed it late into August and the contestants were worse for the late summer wear. Drooping and pitiful. The flowers were bad too.
Our sunflowers never really got started as I was in charge of the garden during Mary's June/July recuperation from hip surgery (and you know who wears the green thumb around here). Between the bugs, the birds, and the benign neglect, they hadn't a chance.
Rich and Sheila's were also a no-show, but they were more creative in their non-entry.
What is a Photo Bin?