haiku

five-point buck attacks

plate-glass window’s reflection—

rival for his lust

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back

 Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is where it’s at—

the galactic mysteries, magic, and a bit of mayhem.

If I yearn for inspiration, teleportation,

or release from my human soul,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is my habitat.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is on the flat

between dimensions, cosmic strings, and spatial warps.

If I want to brave the flow, a black hole’s abyss,

or the next step in evolution,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back has all of that.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is a place to chat

with Spartans, spacemen, spirits, sprites, and spidermen.

If I desire conversation, motivation,

or directions to immortality,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back gives tit for tat.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is all of that—

it’s Limbo, Hogwarts, Xanadu, and Jurassic Park.

If I seek its location, make it a destination 

 that’ll inspire my imagination,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is where it’s at.

Living Room (a lachesis)

They say I’m wily as a fox.
I am one hiding in the phlox
Bordering a black mailbox.

Long gone are the fertile fields and wood
My parents hunted.  This is no good.

I’m forced to hunt a vast suburbs.
Instead of leaping streams, it’s curbs—
Yes me, the subject of proverbs.

But where else can I possibly go?
I cannot fly off like a crow.

Those humans work with machine speed
Bulldozing land to gorge their greed.
They never ask us what we need.

I hear a mousy squeak up there
Under the hosta.  Do I dare?

I see a chipmunk scratching seed.
I smell a road-killed skunk’s last deed.
There are so many of us in need.

Red Fox
by Jan Haffley

Misfit Bird

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Lost.  Trapped.  Separated from her nest.
Lost.  Alone.  No mate to be found.
Misfit bird, what are you doing in here
inside this place where
winds are driven by fans,
sunlight suffused by glass,
concrete fouled by shoes?

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Fear.  Panic.  Caged by prison walls.
Fear.  Fatigue.  Driven by needs.
Misfit bird, you cannot fly forever.
Freedom is through those doors where
winds are forged by fronts,
sunlight filtered by clouds,
concrete scrubbed by storms.

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Wings.  Wings so powerful.
Wings to do what I cannot.
Misfit bird, over there is the exit.
Come, follow me.
I have learned the way
out of this manmade world
into the natural one.

Chipping Sparrows
by Jan Haffley 

8-Travel Days Times Two

Phil was happy.  He had good tiger pictures and so did I, especially those of a 5 year old male cooling off in a wildlife swimming pool (man-made).  Phil and I had different angles on the same pose because we were in different vehicles.  The big male tiger who rules the territory was 8 years old.  We didn’t see him, but another photographer did.

We left the local airport for Delhi and the Radisson.  There the Haffleys and the McDonalds said “Goodbye” to our traveling companions, and later we said “Hi” to two new photographers, each with an endless sense-of-humor.  I wish I had taken better notes so that I could illustrate that last statement.

The next morning, the six of us boarded a flight to Mumbai, and from there a second flight to Diu.  On the first flight I was thinking that I should be reading more, thinking more, processing more photos, and then there was this blog which was why I was making notes when I could.

I intended to write about our travels and the wildlife we photographed on the blog.  But I could also write more about people and cultures.  Except to write about people and cultures, as interesting as they are, I would need to do more note-taking than I seem to have energy for.

For the second leg of this travel day, we boarded a Jet Airline plane with one overhead wing and two propeller (not jet) engines.  Phil and I hadn’t been on a prop since Alaska.

 

Bengal Tiger
by Phil Haffley

7-One Egg, Lallo

Spotted Deer
by Phil Haffley

After three days of tiger hunting, I had to take a morning off.  At some point while I slept, someone had snuck in and taken our laundry to be washed.  (Actually I learned from Phil that he had set the laundry outside our door.)  When it was returned to us, it had been washed in muddy river water and ironed.  The service did help us stretch our clothes to a full three weeks.

Every waking moment seemed to be taken up with travel, eating, or exhaustion.  Even when I took time off, I was fog-headed.  It showed in my handwriting.  What I need to do is limit my sojourns as a chronicler to one excursion per day.

I could stay at the lodges and take photographs of landscapes and the special people who work at these places.  They do seem to be content with their lives.  There are stories to write at those lodges—and some poetry.

For example, for each midmorning breakfast Lallo, the man in charge, asked me how I wanted my eggs prepared and how many.  No matter how I wanted them prepared, I always asked for one egg.  I would receive two or three eggs and then accused him of not being able to count to one.  But for my last breakfast, I received just one egg—and his arm to escort me to the parking lot where our bus waited.  I think Lallo was just trying to put some weight on these old bones.

Spotted Deer
by Phil Haffley

Spotted Deer
by Phil Haffley

6-Tyger, Tyger

My first tiger was a young female with a sister somewhere else in the park.  I took  some shots of her walking through the forest, but missed some when she was nearer the vehicles.  Mary Ann, who was with me, gave me copies of a couple of her shots.  I think she would have shared all of her shots if I had asked her.

Phil was jealous of my encounter.  He had yet to see a tiger, but the second day he made up for the deficit by watching a five-year old male cooling off in a watering hole.  I had a second row seat to a repeat performance that afternoon.

We both missed the best show on the last day of this mini-shoot.  Some of the photographers saw a tiger family with two 9-month-old tiger cubs—one male and one female.  The young tigress was carrying a dead baby rhesus monkey by the nape of the neck as if it were her cub.  The corpse was not bleeding nor obviously injured, but her play with it had probably been too rough.  Now it was but a doll for a mother-to-be to practice with.

Tiger
by Phil Haffley

Tiger
by Phil Haffley

Tiger
by Phil Haffley

5-Mini Tiger Safari

The gravel roads were so bumpy that my neck and back were jarred almost continuously.  On the second day of this mini-safari, we stopped for few pictures.  I was not sure that I should be doing this type of photography given the physical effort it required of me.  People had to carry my gear for me, push/pull me into and out of jeeps, and strap me down with bungee cords.

Yet, my helpers and I were having fun.  No matter our nationalities, I’ve discovered that people like to help others—and I really do need the help.  Why not make a game of it instead of being embarrassed because a stranger has to push my behind up into a jeep?  Still, I can’t help but wish I were younger and healthier.

Dry leaves fallen from trees made the landscape look like it was autumn, but the afternoon felt like summer (34°C/93°F).  The vehicles kicked up a lot of dust.  I discovered that the same scent I smelled in the forest was in the hand soap in our room.  (I was probably just smelling myself.)

I like the travel aspects of wildlife photography—seeing new places and meeting people.   But I wasn’t making the notes I thought I would for a travel journal.  Rarely did I find the time and energy to write because I was acting like a photographer.  I’m not sure if I want to be a writer or a photographer—or just pretend to be both.  Or, maybe I should just be a travel blogger.  I can’t seem to make up my mind.

And now several weeks later, I can’t remember the type of program we saw that second evening. It was some kind of dance that those of us who were able joined in.  On the last night we heard music from a wedding ceremony.  Happy sounds to soothe an aching body.

Sloth Bear (as seen through dust)
by Phil Haffley

4. Bandhavgarh

A  knock on the door.  A man with a flashlight waited to escort us to the dining hall.  He carried my camera gear.  We walked around a Mehndi painted on the sidewalk.  Cups of hot tea and biscuits awaited us in the dining hall.  A more substantial breakfast would be served mid-morning.

Soon we were off to the parking lot where the 4x4 jeeps were parked.  Who was going with whom?  We were told which photographer we would go with, but not in which of the four vehicles? We knew the first in line would be the first into the park.

Bandhavgarh National Park is set among the Vindhya Hills and consists of 168 square miles of Sal and a mix of bamboo, grasslands, and a complex of deciduous forests. There were 21 different kinds of vines in those woods.  The park is divided in two—two entrances and two series of trails in each section.

I had some bad memories from the trip four years ago because of our struggles with the bureaucracy.  Eight single trails and one-way traffic.  For example, one of our drivers parked his jeep off the road once because he knew no tigers were around there.  He played with his new cell-phone and conversed in Hindi with the guide.  We, who were paying for their services, could take only photos of skinny trees and a langur tail that morning.  Thankfully, some major improvements were made during those four years.  Now after starting out according to plan, we would be free to change trails and reverse direction as needed.

At the control center we picked up our local guides who would change with each trip.  Previously those guides were trash police more than our guides—as if we wildlife photographers would litter any animal’s habitat.  This time, our drivers did most of the guiding with fewer restrictions about where they could go.

Barking Deer, a small deer
by Phil Haffley

3-Déjà Vu

The next morning we were bussed back to the airport for a flight from Delhi to Khajuraho.  Vans then picked us up at that airport for a five hour drive to the Bandhavgarh Jungle Lodge—a time to do nothing more than stare out windows.  When we arrived, we were assigned rooms, settled in, and then met in a separate building for dinner.

I recognized the dining hall.  We had served ourselves at a buffet four years ago.   My husband usually fills my plate and then goes back to fill his own.  This time young men brought bowls around and served each of us.  I wondered why the change.

In the throes of fibro fog and self-consciousness, my imagined reason for the change became my physical limitations.  Maybe that thought was too far-fetched, yet I wouldn’t put it past Mary Ann to make such arrangements.

I remembered the last time we were in India four years ago.  Joe was relaxing in a conversation lounge, and I accused him of the ultimate sin—of teaching me to love photography as much as he did.  That’s why I couldn’t give up and give in to the twin trolls of rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia.  It was Joe’s fault
I was there.  It was his fault that I was there for the second time.

Langur Monkeys
by Phil Haffley

2-Arrival

We arrived in Delhi around 9:30 pm local time, a day early to help us adjust to jetlag.  We were rushed through customs and the airport by the young man who pushed me in a wheelchair.  After we collected our checked-in luggage, a representative from the Radisson Blu met us at the exit.

The Radisson is an upper-crust facility surrounded by a 20-ft security fence.  At the gate, a guard checked our van out, even raised the hood looking for a bomb.  Yes, everywhere seems to have become more dangerous.  A staff member greeted us at the door with praying hands—fingertips up, palms pressed together—and a nod.

We were assigned room 434, and breakfast was a buffet of American and Indian food.  Because of the 10.5-hr difference, I had a problem deciding which pills I should take when.  Did it make any difference?  <Shrug>  I didn’t know.

I practiced with my new camera by shooting pigeons and flowers.  The pictures were nothing to brag about, but I learned which buttons to push.  That afternoon, we meet three fellow photographers (all men) who joined us and the McDonalds.  Joe and Mary Ann were leading these safaris (McDonald Wildlife Photography info@hoothollow.com).

Oriental Magpie Robin
by Phil Haffley

1-Ashes

I wasn’t as excited about going to India as I might have been.

Our son, our middle child, passed away the previous month.  We’d been taking care of details and putting our home back into some sense of order.  Dan had lived with us the last several years and became a central focus of our daily lives because of his health issues.

Phil and I came on this trip to get beyond our grief.  In a way, it honored Dan.  He  had studied photography in college and had helped us both improve our efforts.  My dream had been that he and Phil could go on photo-shoots together when I was physically unable to because of my RA.  Now, I guess, it’s up to me.

In India my senses will turn outward.  I can’t seem to write about Dan right now.  I need to turn inward to do that.

“Photography and writing deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul,” according to the novelist Anne Lamott.  I’m counting on these kinds of soul food to revive me from my lassitude.

Jungle Cat Stalking Prey
by Phil Haffley

USA

From Ghost Trees to young Cypress (sans knobby knees) to Alligator Junipers—from India to Baton Rouge to Madera Canyon—our travels have been extensive so far this year.  Yet they seem to be coming to an end for 2016.

We are home again after two short photo-shoots separated by only five days.  That was time enough to wash clothes, download photos, and repack camera gear.  In Arizona I was going to need my heavy SLR Canon camera and gear because we would be working from tripods.

On the boats in the bayous of Louisiana and the jeeps in India however, I needed to handhold cameras which meant lighter gear.  Yes, I’m jealous of all the new professional cameras and lenses I’m no longer able to handle.  Their pictures are superb at 20-plus mega-pixels which I interpret to mean lots of cropping room.

What I’ve learned is that India may be unique, but our own country can be just as magical with Spanish Moss flowing from cypress limbs and Sycamores of the desert southwest seeming to be the American version of India’s Giant Ghost Trees.

Phil and I have many photos to process—thousands of them.  It’s going to take time to get them ready for this blog and for me to write a story or two about our encounters in nature.  We never did get photos of nesting trogons, but they are there as close as the Madera Canyon of Arizona.

Namaste

A f;lirting peacock from Bandhavgarh National Park, India
Photo by Phil Haffley

haiku

evening, black lava,

perched atop, yellow warbler—

a nugget of gold

Chirp

     Chirping, she expects me
     to follow her up a tree
     or under a raspberry bush.

     When she tires,
     I pick her up,
     kiss her forehead.

     A bottle of goat’s milk
     warms on the stove.
     Her chirps grow louder as she
     kicks free of the towel
     I’m using to protect
     my clothes as I hold her.
     I coo, ‘Soon.  Soon now,’
     as if she could
     understand.

     Rewrapped
     cradled in my arm,
     she sucks the nipple
     once,
     twice,
     thrice,
     then pushes the bottle away
     with five-fingered paws.
     She yawns,
     gulps,
     tries again.

     Her belly swollen,
     I set the bottle aside.
     Under the tap, I wash
     tiny hands and sticky snout.
     She nestles in my arm
     and purrs
     while I dream of the bridge
     I will build
     so a small raccoon may cross
     from my world
     back into hers.

Photo Shoot

               I step into a cooling
               pool of possibilities,
               sink into a reflective background,
               splash to shower my images
               with creativity,
               preen to remove unwanted ticks,
               and pretend my prints are pearls.

One of Them

Cinnamon-sugar sand—
light on the cinnamon—
corrugated sand
sculpted by waves
spills into my shoes.
I wade toward the surf-wetted interface
where strolling will be easier.

My visit will be brief hosted by the
heartbeat of surf
spicy scent of seawater
feathers of a breeze.

I reach down for a scallop shell.
I feel the smoothness of its pearl
and the roughness of  its surface—
gentleness inside
toughness outside
like most of us.

I stop to watch
black-bellied plovers
glean the surf
Bonaparte’s gulls
                sunbathe on a sand spit
brown pelicans
                dive-bomb for dinner
Forester’s terns
                frolic on air
and I am at one with them
until the tour bus leaves.

Hermit Crab
by Jan Haffley

Godzilla Rises

Godzilla rises from the sea

To put a scare in you and me

Until we look at pixels and see

An enchanting ghost of what could be.

Marine Iguana
by Jan Haffley

Huddling

We are going on a couple more photo shoots during May and early June.  I haven't finished all the India posts yet, so it will be a couple of months until I get back to them.  In the meantime, I'm going to post some piece from earlier trips.  This is the first:

 

 Huddling

Mousy mousebirds

with long feathered tails

cling to woody twigs,

huddled like football players

learning the next play

for blocking the evening chill.

Mousebirds
by Jan Haffley

White Ghosts

These ghostly trees may wear
cloaks of different hues—
a mossy green when rains
ride on monsoon winds
a blondish tan when dust
drifts high from dirty thongs
a hint of pink at dawn
azure blue at noon
vermilion at sunset
ashen at midnight
and white when all is well—
when Flames of the Forest burn
at their branches’ ends
and other species drop
their leaves to the forest floor
revealing ficus vines
arching from tree to tree
and clusters of bamboo
hiding jungle fowl.

These White Ghosts now stand
guard with regal air
calling for all who hear:
this forest is fit for life—
for the Bengal Tigers
and Sambar deer, their prey,
Asia’s Lion prides,
Leopards and Panthers Black,
pouncing Jungle Cats,
termite-eating bears,
Blackbuck stags, and more
who may not become
ghosts by extinction’s fate
as long as forests thrive.

                                  by Jan Haffley