What a grand trip back to our home state. Here are several shots, some from “downtime” when we weren’t out hiking or driving, un-cropped but taken with two different cameras that feature different aspect ratios. Did I mention Long Pool Campground is a great place to camp? (click any pic to enlarge)

Lasted only 20 minutes — Now and Future

Tailgating Lost Valley — Family Tree

Exploring — Trading Eyelids for Overlooks

Mmm… bacon — Unsurprising Fascination

Two C’s Construction — Normal Family

Crazy Family

Last week at work I saw a detailed map of Allen, Texas sitting on a break room table. Its cover featured a picture of a small waterfall going over an old stone wall. I unfolded the map in search of information about the photo, but found nothing.

After painstakingly re-folding the map, I called the local Chamber of Commerce. A nice lady there said, “Hold on a minute,” and then returned to tell me the location. I had a goal for after work.

I wandered sidewalks and trails for about an hour, and somewhere in there I found the spot. My equipment was a cheap, broken tripod and my snapshot digital camera. Besides that, the water was very high and an ugly brown color from recent heavy rains.

The next day I brought in better equipment and headed out for a photo expedition on my lunch hour. I parked in a different spot this time, and after about one minute on the trail I was at the site. For the next 45 minutes I was in the zone that inspired me to take up photography as a hobby.

Mostly pictures follow, with a few comments from me on methods to the madness.

(click any pic to enlarge)

I learned this trick from my father years ago. It could help a lot back in the days when one might go months before developing a roll of film containing pictures from several places.

The obligatory straight-on shot. Notice how it dips down in the middle.

In this one I’m standing on the chain-link mesh that helps hold together the surrounding rock. I’m also thinking of walking out onto the dam rocks (laid in 1874).

One view from atop the dam. I had pushed those logs out of the “spillway” and they got stuck there.

Here’s my tripod, legs tricked out for the low angle shot above. I wonder how many more years I’ll be able to lean over a setup like this to look through the viewfinder.

And here’s a nice flowing water shot. Note the trees’ warped reflections right at the chute’s opening.

So, there it is, a nearby scenic place with a little bit of history.

“Daddy, do we get to ride in one?” Benjamin said.

“No, son. Most people who go to the Balloon Festival don’t get to ride in one,” I said.

“But I want to ride in one,” he whined.

“That’s not how it works, Ben,” Shannon said.

“But I want to ride in one.”

We repeated this conversation about three or four times that very long Saturday as the launch time slowly approached.

(veritable photo blowout coming after the jump)

Our plan was to watch the balloons launch and then go home, so we could get Benjamin to bed on time and he and I could report back early in the morning to see the sunrise launch.

We thought we had left in plenty of time to get to the hot air balloon launch, but then so did about 500,000 other people (give or take). Rather than trying to catch colorful snippets here and there from inside the car in stop-and-go traffic, I parked so we could at least watch from a parking lot. Lots of spectators with folding lawn chairs were content with a similar fate. Two or three balloons were in the air when we parked.

Shannon and I figured we ought to at least try to get closer, so we walked. Balloons two-toned and multi-colored passed silently overhead. Every few seconds another one climbed above the distant tree line and drifted our way. Most sported a recognizable brand name — All State, EDS Credit Union, ReMax — the kind of companies that can afford to sponsor a $35,000 balloon.

We walked a solid 45 minutes before reaching the ticket booth. Children scampered along a steep, grassy hillside to our right. Some rolled down it, their arms and legs tucked in close for maximum speed.

The launch was over, but we paid $5 each (Ben was free) to get in the gates. Our plan was unraveling. Pleasantly, but unraveling nonetheless.

Oddly, we saw lots of people holding helium-filled Mylar balloons with the title of the show “Yes, Dear” emblazoned on them. I wasn’t aware that the show was enjoying a resurgence. In fact, I’m not sure it had a “surgence” in the first place.

The food alley (not pictured) was so densely packed with people that I could not take more than one step without having to turn out of somebody’s way. After about 10 minutes in the corn dog/cotton candy line, Benjamin and I ditched Shannon to scope the other eating establishments.

Mobile phones make these events much simpler for a family to manage. It was the first such event where we both had one, and they proved invaluable. Benjamin got his aforementioned festival food while Shannon and I enjoyed chicken tomatillo soft tacos from Blue Mesa Grill.

Apparently our new plan was to watch the balloon glow event. None of us had seen such a thing, and it sounded like fun.

“So, I guess this means Benjamin won’t be getting up with me to see the morning launch,” I said.

“Ah, no,” Shannon said.

We were farther back than I had hoped, but once it got dark the balloons glowed brightly enough that it didn’t matter. Sometimes they glowed in unison, sometimes at random.

The show over, we hiked back up the hill, with one stop for Benjamin to pose with his mommy. Oh, and the new light saber he had picked out at the junk toy tent. I’m glad I got those pictures, because by the next morning he had smacked it inoperable.

   

I reported to Alvis’ house the next morning at about 6:20 a.m. and we made it down into the valley in plenty of time for the launch. In fact, we got there before they had rolled their balloons out of the baskets.

The mist hung in the valley as the ballooners (balloonists?) unfurled their colorful fabrics. Men with ropes, as if in some mighty tug of war, helped eased the balloons up as they filled with hot air. One by one the bulbous behemoths lifted off, at the wind’s mercy.

Alvis and I snapped away with our dueling Nikon DSLR’s. That early in the morning, I was not surprised to see more than a handful of other people similarly serious about their photos, and most sporting the same brand of camera.

   

On our walk out we met a man who gave us lens envy. He had a 400mm f/2.8 lens on a Canon DSLR. For perspective, imagine the camera lenses you see on the sideline of college and professional sports events.

“Oh, you’re shooting Nikon, I’m sorry,” he said and laughed. “No, just kidding. I have friends who use Nikon.”

“So, are you just a hobbyist, or are you shooting for somebody?” I said.

“I just do it for fun.”

He then told us that he had about $35,000 worth of camera equipment stolen while on vacation. Alvis and I left wondering what his day job was and how we could get one. Or, why the guy didn’t just buy his own hot air balloon instead of taking pictures of them.

   

(Note: the vignetting effect on these photos was unintentional. It was caused by my cheap, consumer zoom lenses.)

In a plan whipped up by my brother and me on Thursday, I got the second half of Friday off and whisked Benjamin away for his first cousin’s birthday party weekend. A six-hour drive later we arrived, and only after shaking off his nap did LC realize Ben really was right there in the same room with him — not just in an online video clip or in his dreams.

It would be a tragic miscarriage of justice to state that the party had a pirate theme. Pictures convey the feeling only marginally better.

Early on, Benjamin channeled Errol Flynn as he leapt from one waterslide pool to the other. Seriously short on damsels in distress, he settled for saving his own skin.

Armed with foam swords and foam guns, the little ones created a few dust-ups, but surprisingly few conflicts arose considering they were a bunch of sea-faring scallywags. Up and down the inflatable waterslides they went, soaking up the water and the sun on an oddly cool August day. Splashdowns often were followed up with a few thwacks of the sword.

At first the huge pirate ship my sister in-law built sat largely ignored. Usurped by the more modern water toys, the galleon “floated” patiently, her spooky black sail looming over all who passed. Ultimately the kiddies climbed aboard and sailed the seven seas in search of innocent boats to plunder.

On their treasure hunt (my sister in-law’s specialty) they uncovered spoils to make every pirate proud — eye patches, spying scopes, earrings, and gold! The leader was awarded sweet bread for his boundless courage and reckless abandon. Unlike most captains, who would hoard the reward for themselves, he shared with his crew that and the candy freed by one of his bigger, stronger mates.

The only crying resulted from an accidental head bonk. And, of course, when I didn’t get a corner piece of that very cool cake.

The party was not the only thing we did. We rode bicycles, went to Chuck E. Cheese’s, and watched our sons further develop their relationship. None of their spats was ever enough for them to stop playing together, although Ben threatened it a few times.

Their occasional shouting matches were not much of a surprise coming from two five-year-olds who (1) do not like to be told what to do, and (2) sometimes tend to be bossy. Nevertheless, except for once or twice, they always worked it out without our intervention.

Benjamin tends to be less touchy-feely than his cousin. LC has a hard time coming to grips with the rather boisterous response he gets when hugging Ben outside a, “Hello,” “Goodnight,” or “Goodbye.” He started catching on pretty well this time. There also might have been a tiny bit of a teasing factor at work; the flashbacks to their daddies’ childhoods never seem to stop. For me, anyway. But I’m working through it. Hold me.

Both boys lit up when my parents arrived. I wanted for only two things that weekend: that Shannon could have been there, and that Benjamin could see my folks more often. They are big things, yes, but I still managed to have a great time.

Amid all the family action, we watched Michael Phelps set a new world record in the 400m individual medley. For our part, my brother and I showed our competitive spirit by smoking a few aliens in Resistance: Fall of Man, on his Playstation 3.

At least one of you has looked at kids in those crawl tubes at fast-food restaurants and thought, “I wish they had that for adults.” On my recent trip to St. Louis, a unique place granted that wish and more.

I don’t know that a long, drawn-out narrative would do this place justice, so I’m going to let the pictures tell most of the story. Warning: veritable photographic blowout ahead.

After the Brewfest, I carefully executed a series of controlled turns and one u-turn in the Mini Cooper to get us to the City Museum. At first glance, that doesn’t sound like a very exciting place for three guys to spend their afternoon, especially when two of them are inebriated. The thing is, although it technically holds enough historically significant facts and artifacts to be called a museum, it doesn’t fit that moniker at all.

Although the rain shut down MonstroCity, when we pulled into the City Museum parking lot I could tell that we were in for something unique. A fire truck, an airplane, and a school bus were perched high in the air, connected by tunnels of rebar. A sculpture and a playground in one, at its base was a huge ball pit big enough for adults.

Moksha assured us that, “Nobody has died in here, but somebody lost a finger once.” My compadres mostly sober by then, I was feeling good about it.

Once we paid our admission, we didn’t stop for about three hours. We squeezed through tunnels with walls and without, dead trees, and in places we weren’t sure we were supposed to be.

The three-story Monster slide was our first taste of the excitement awaiting us. Looking for an even bigger thrill than the slide alone provided, Moksha later grabbed some paper towels from the restroom and used them as a sort of mat. The former standard, he said, was for the Museum to provide a treatment of Pledge for decreasing friction. The potential for severe injury was too high, they decided, and the employee we approached steadfastly towed the company line.

Moksha, who had been there many times before, often scrambled to a tunnel’s exit point to wait as Simon and I inched and grunted our way toward him. More often, though, he was there with us, making his way head first instead of feet first, or on his back instead of his belly. That freedom and the fact that many tunnels change ensure that the City Museum is never the same experience twice.

During a particularly long and somewhat painful trek over rebars spaced nearly a foot apart, I made my way in front of Simon. About 10 minutes in, after a snaky scramble between two pipes, I wasn’t sure we were in an area intended for patrons. “Is there a way out?” Simon called.

“I hope,” I said, by then proceeding head first and flat on my back to preserve my kneecaps.

Something slapped the concrete walkway below me. It was a familiar sound.

“I think my wallet just fell out of my pocket,” I said.

I turned my head and looked between the rebars to see my new open-face wallet lying there on the concrete, my debit receipts of the past week splayed out beside it.

Nobody stood directly below, but I heard voices coming our way. I stuck my arm down through a gap and waved my hand. “Hey, over here!”

“What? Who is that?” a female’s voice replied.

“Can you see me?” I waved my hand again.

“Oh my God! There’s somebody up there!”

“Can you please come over here? My wallet fell out and it’s right there.” I pointed.

Three girls came around the bend and one went straight for my wallet. She bent down and collected up all the receipts and clipped them into the wallet’s magnetic money clip as she extended her arm above her head. I reached down to grab the wallet from her outstretched hand.

A few minutes later, after the relieving discovery that the tunnel had an exit point, I waited for Simon to make the last squeeze between pipe and ceiling. That way provided maybe an inch more clearance than the space between the rebar and the pipe.

“I’m glad they were honest, because if they had taken off with that, there’s no way I could get down from here fast enough to catch them,” I said.

Simon emphatically agreed. Then he turned around because he couldn’t quite make it through the last tight space.

The City Museum’s just that kind of place; you have to go there before you truly have any idea.

A word to anyone planning a visit: if you have a chest larger than about 40″ and a waist bigger than about 32″, there are many places in the City Museum you simply will not fit. Height shouldn’t be a factor if you’re fairly good at contorting yourself into a pretzel. The sculptures and the industrial elements the artist has incorporated make it worth a trip even if you don’t plan to make like a tunnel rat.

The place is filled with highlights. Some favorites were: rebar corkscrew tunnels suspended high above a water fountain; a three-story stainless steel slide; a skateboarding area featuring quarter-pipes and bowls (and tunnels underneath); the enchanted caverns (starts underground and goes 135 feet up into an industrial space featuring a pipe organ and vintage pipes).

If you have a kid hidden inside you somewhere, the City Museum will find it.

Link:
The City Museum

(Continued)

The Dallas Arboretum is the centerpiece in an oasis in a concrete jungle. Plus, the deli makes a great panini.

Shannon and I loaded up her father and Ben in the minivan and headed out last Sunday for a warm, overcast-then-sunny afternoon among the flowers. Every city’s residents should be fortunate enough to have such a grand retreat into Nature’s colors.

Tulips ruled the day, azaleas took second and Japanese Maples ran a close third. If you don’t make it to the bottom picture of this post, then you just ain’t livin’.

We ate in a gazebo whose corner posts crawled with wisteria vines. The lavender flowers hung over the eaves, their fragrance floating in the brisk breeze, which also happened to blow away our napkins and plastic utensil wrappers.

We enjoyed a carriage ride, pulled by two “real” Clydesdales, not those “freaks of nature” Budweiser uses, according to our driver. In fact, he said, they get about 10 of those size for every 1000 they breed (or was it 2000?).

Benjamin was a handful at times, but mostly he enjoyed smelling the flowers and running under the water spouted by the oversized spitting frogs of Dallas County. What I wouldn’t give for waterproof cameras so I could follow him around in there. Something about kids playing in water defies explanation (keep going if you want to see proof).

I’m mostly happy with the pics, but our attempted re-shoot of the blog’s About Me picture didn’t quite make the cut (compare Shannon in the top pic to the About Me picture right beside it to get an idea why she wants a new one — 17.8 18.6 pounds and counting!).

Thursday is here and I’m ready to be back with my family after a long work trip. The next post promises images of an intriguing event that I’m not quite sure I’ll like, but that I will be unable to resist chronicling.

(Note: The post title refers to an obscure song on the claymation-animated computer game, “The Neverhood.” I’m sure it’s a misheard lyric, but Shannon and I still swear that’s what the singer says, even though it’s “operator.” Listen below for yourself.)

A new park opened near us.

See for yourself (and click to enlarge a pic)…

When I finished up late that Thursday night making a video and doing crazy voices at Moksha’s house, I stopped at the picturesque private college nearby. The snow continued falling fast and steady, with about three inches already on the ground. I missed wooded parks blanketed with snow, and this college was the next-best thing.

I turned carefully into the school’s main entrance — the snow not cleared as well there as on the main thoroughfares. A couple of cars moved slowly in the distance, glistening horizontal cones of snowflakes leading the way.

Across from one of the beautiful buildings bedecked in Greek columns (or were they Roman?), I noticed a dark figure lying on a concrete bench.

As I drove closer, the prone form looked more and more like a homeless man huddling up from the cold. Why would he be out in the open instead of bundled up near a doorway? Was he alive?

He hadn’t been there long, because the snow had only just begun to pile up on him.

Relishing the opportunity to speak to a real homeless person just before posting the first of my chapters about Bernie, I pulled into a side street and parked. I prepped my camera and my recorder, never sure what I might need.

I cranked up the ISO setting so I could get a few pictures without using flash. A bright white streetlamp shone on him from one side, a yellowish nightwatcher bulb from the other.

My camera’s mirror slap was enough to roust him. He turned toward me, and as soon as he realized I was taking his picture, he held up his hand in protest. “Get away from me!” he yelled.

I managed to get a couple pictures of his face.

I ran to the car and fumbled my keys into the snow. Before he could reach me, I found the keys and got inside. I shifted into reverse and mashed the gas pedal, snow flying out from under my front-wheel drive tires.

I spun the car around and got out of there as fast as I could on the slippery streets.

Despite my risky behavior, I was safe again and would live to write “Bernie” without that man-on-the-street interview.

About a week ago Saturday, Benjamin and I went to Home Depot to build a firetruck. You know, the kind that’s little and holds crayons in its back end?

Cloudy skies started us off just right. We climbed out of the minivan to the sound of a dozen hammers pounding nails in 12 different rhythms, bouncing makeshift tables of particle board supported by white buckets.

We grabbed our fire truck kit from a woman wedged between her chair and a folding table. The hammers and glue awaiting us shook in time with the nail-pounding cacophony. Benjamin took a few whacks at a nail before deciding to watch me work.

Bless his heart, the hair will grow out.

Rainy skies hurried us to a somewhat haphazard finish, a short break in the minivan, and our pitching in to help employees move the operation to a covered area. After we bought a pint of paint Benjamin picked out for the truck (suckers), and a 99-cent can of black spray-paint to use as primer (cheapskate), we headed home.

Infer what you must from the pictures that follow, and by all means click to see them bigger. I know I would.

The two holes in the hood would be from when I first nailed that piece on upside-down.
Hey, we were getting soaked.

For the rest of the story and the finished product, you’ll just have to wait click here.