| ECO COVE HOUSE |
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See seasonal photos below! FALL IS… Fall is… Trees, glorious trees! The dogwood blushes, with red lipstick seeds promising abundance in winter. Tulip poplar leaves, shaped like upside-down angels of yellow and green, float on the breeze. The sugar maples’ carrot tops rival the vibrancy of natural redheads. Sourwoods dress in crimson lingerie with their summer blossoms drying like seed pearls on their breast. The green-gloved rhododendron wave gaily good-bye, knowing the others must go while they remain with the tailored evergreens. Fall is… The smell of wood-smoke on the air, the promise of what is to come. It drifts lazily against the bluest skies of the year. Zephyr-launched leaves of burgundy, bronze, copper and gold pirouette, and collapse to earth in piles, to crackle softly underfoot. Fall is… Bright-eyed children with pink cheeks; cuddly clothes you’ve missed; hot-mulled wine; talks around the fireplace; cornucopias filled with nuts, squash, Indian corn and pumpkins; haystacks with straw-stuffed men decorating edged-brown lawns; chrysanthemum, colored cabbage and pansies before the first frost; wakening in darkness; dew-soaked mornings giving way to hoarfrost; quilted clouds tucked softly in the laps of the mountains; mists every morning transfiguring the pond into the River Styx…And evening darkness falling much too soon. Fall is… Black bears visiting the porch on their last winter forage, squirrels with fluffy tails busily stuffing cheeks with acorns, the gift of apples at the forest edge for the deer, and the dogs’ thick winter coats forming again. Fall is… Carving jack-o’-lanterns, ghosts, goblins, and black cats; followed by turkeys, Native Americans, Pilgrims…And the sweet anticipation of Christmas and snow! Fall is… Cocooning, reading, and a time for introspection. It is the time I give greatest thanks for all my blessings. Just as Spring’s emotion is joy in the beauty of new growth, Fall evokes the deep warmth of love of family and appreciation of all God’s gifts. © Gabrielle M. Thompson Being Trees reflect in a kaleidoscope of color upon the zephyr-kissed surface of the river umber, rust, vermilion, and gold fracture in the sparkling mirror of the water’s surface, offering short-lived beauty in the chromatic light. Pepper, tongue lolling from a smiling mouth dripping tiny rainbows onto her silken, ebony coat, studies the opposite bank. Her ears perk and mouth closes, silencing her pant, when attention is drawn to the movement of squirrels on the far shore. With a glance at the chilly expanse of water, she blinks away the thought of chase. I bask beside her in the last remnant of fall’s warmth, watching the canoe on its tree-tether wave to and fro, to and fro in the breeze that beckons us to further adventure. It cannot shake me from my complacency, from feeling content just to be. ~©Gabrielle M. Thompson Victoria Press 2005 Lake James From our canoe, the white high-water mark of the lake is above our heads: it has been an abnormally dry year. Etched in the earth, the lamina hints of an unreadable story to the untrained eye. The 150 miles of wooded shoreline offer a variety of indigenous trees. We marvel at the tenacity of the white pines which have split the thick, striated rock. How could these 60 foot sentinels ever begin a foothold? Trees of this stature at water’s edge seem more reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest than North Carolina. Around the next bend a willow stretches low, searching the shallows with graceful, green fingers. Boulders are more prevalent here, and muddy banks replace massive stone. A zephyr dances over the water, sending a thousand sparkling messages to the willow, which caresses in response. We are reminded of our spiritual home, Hurricane Hole, St. John, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. There gnarled mangroves and boulders gave contrast to turquoise-clear waters, and other humans were rare in the early years of our visits. An angler nods from his dinghy as we silently pass. Our paddles tell us we are in 4 inches of water, and, aloud, we compliment his ability. He laughs, and says his prop is probably shot. Lake James offers an array of fish: bream, walleye, large and small mouthed bass, crappie, bluegill, muskie, catfish, sunfish, perch and muskellunge. Because it is such a large body of water, 6,510 acres, its varied underwater terrain offer sportsmen a multitude of bays and inlets for a particular catch. Lake James was formed by dams built across the Catawba and Linville Rivers in the early 1900’s. It has been a source of hydroelectric power for Duke Power Company since that time. In 1987, Lake James State Park was established, a 565 acre tract. Camping is offered from mid March to mid November in 20 campsites, two of which are handicapped accessible. Each site offers a fireplace, grill, picnic table, and tent space. Running water is nearby. Restroom facilities and showers adjoin the concession stand and park office. Examples of indigenous plants and animals are on display in the office, and rangers offer planned tours regarding the ecosystem on most Saturdays. A designated swimming area and a covered, 12-table picnic shelter available for rental are other amenities of the park. Two short hiking trails originate here, following the shoreline to either the Sandy Cliff Overlook or the Lake Channel Overlook. Observant hikers are rewarded with glimpses of wildflowers - pink lady slippers and indian pipe being two of the most breathtaking. The latter resemble miniature Meerschaums, ceramic in their fragility, which rise in clusters, and push the soft leaf cover up from the forest floor. In our canoe, we follow the curve of the shore to the headwater where the Catawba River feeds Lake James. From its initial beginning as a spring near Old Fort, the river follows a 450 mile path to the ocean. The purity of the water ensures the crystal-clear environment of the lake. The Continental Divide borders the west of McDowell County. From here, Western North Carolina rivers begin their journey to the Atlantic. Our canoe noses into bubbling shallows, only to turn back. Perhaps if the river was at its normal level we could have made it through without reverting to portage. We are too lazy to bother, and retreat to explore other aspects of the lake. On a peninsula near the railroad bridge, we explore a shallow shoreline of snags. The stark, black branches look like sinewy arms and hands reaching in desolation from oozy mudflats to reach the crystalline blue sky. Suddenly, one of the branches breaks away and lifts into the sky! The six foot span of wings transports the stick-like legs and neck into an aerodynamic ballet of grace and perfection. The great blue heron circles, then roosts high above in the protection of a stately pine. If we had not visually followed its path, we would not have recognized the long neck, head, and bill for anything more than a dead branch at the top of the tree. A train rumbles overhead, and the air reverberates with the raucous, guttural call of great blues as fifteen birds simultaneously take flight. They are joined by white egrets; a smaller, more “bird-like” avian. “We may have to take up painting,” my husband says, smiling. We are glad we have chosen this shallow area near the western bank to explore. Marinas dot the lake farther east. Boats with motors, canoes, and even guided-tour boats are available for rent. In these deeper areas of the lake, water-skiers and jet skis abound. Private boat access is offered at Hidden Cove, Canal Bridge and Linville Access Area. We prefer to roam this serene, less populated area around the North Fork Access. Many island of various sizes rise from the lake, offering secluded picnic sites available only by boat. Having previously spent 14 years on our own 75 foot schooner in the Virgin Islands, we delight in finding similar places of solitude so near our new home. We choose to picnic in our canoe, tied to a tree branch along a shady bank. Our appreciative silence gives way to discussion of meaningful aspects of life. We talk of our own acre pond, newly constructed, and our hopes that wildlife will be drawn to its banks. We wonder why it has taken us so long to spend a day here when the lake is only 8 miles from our door. We question our dedication to all of the “should-dos” of life, and our small allotments of time for introspective activities. As the water laps gently against the canoe, I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun’s rays. Gold-red sunbursts paint closed lids. Being in nature offers a renewal of my spirit that is inaccessible in any other way. When I connect to the earth, I connect to the divine. It is a nurturing akin to a child feeding at her mother’s breast. I breathe deep and open my eyes to my husband’s gaze, a caress of love that needs no words. He opens his arms, and I rest in his embrace. Our hearts beat in rhythm, seemingly one. I could stay in this moment forever. At day’s end our faces glow with the warmth and color from the sun, matched by our mood. Sitting tightly together on our return trip in the truck, my hand rests lightly on his thigh. As we round the curve in the road that borders our dam, we stretch to the upcoming view of the mountain’s reflection on our pond. Rising from the water’s edge, a great blue heron takes flight. ~©Gabrielle M. Thompson c 1997 North Carolina Mountain Trout Imagine stepping back in time, to another century, hooking a trout from a Western North Carolina stream. Oak, willow, hickory, poplar, and elm trees abound, as pure water rushes over your feet and the fish takes the line. Your heartbeat exhilarates as you lean into the play of line. Sunlight sparkles on the water, an epiphany of a fisherman’s concept of heaven. In those days, the fish on the line would have been a brook trout, properly called a char. In olden days, it was the most widely distributed indigenous species in North America. It had a large mouth, violet mantle, dark mottling and red lateral spots that were distinctive against its dark greenish-gray body. The struggle for existence and growth was oppressive, and its average size was only 12 inches and 1 to 2 pounds in maturity. The life of a char was difficult at best. During fall, their spawn, where the female scraped a hole in the stream bed to lay her eggs and the male deposited his sperm, was only abut 5% effective for hatchlings. Coupled with the non-sustainable logging practices of the time, the construction of dams, and increased population, habitat destruction was the result. The wild brook trout suffered defeat, and only exist in a few remote, undisturbed streams. They are, however, raised in commercial operations to supplement restocking efforts. In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, rainbow trout were introduced to local streams from the West Coast. Indigenous to the Rocky Mountains, they were known for their fight and taste. They have been stocked in lakes and streams of every state. Rainbow trout, or Oncorhynchus mykiss, have over 100 varieties of the species. Our local variety has an iridescent-pink dorsal stripe. On the West Coast, these fish migrate to the ocean and are called steelheads. While in saltwater, they develop a bright sliver coloration. They return to fresh water streams to spawn. Rainbows grow faster and larger than brook trout. Within their first year, they attain the 12 inches and 1 pound weight it can take their cousins an entire life to achieve. By the time a rainbow is 4 years old, it can weigh 20 pounds. The record holder is 31 pounds, 6 ounces (caught in Lake Michigan in 1993.) A steelhead was caught in Alaska that weighed 42 pounds, 2 ounces. Male rainbow trout mature in the first year of life, unlike the female who takes another year to develop sexually. Males develop a hooked jaw called a “kype,” resembling a salmon. In the spring, they fight over females, inflicting serious wounds which may result in death. The fertilized egg hatches into a sac fry after about 2 months. It lies helplessly on the bottom for a few weeks, absorbing the yolk sac. At this point, the surviving fish is called a parr, and is approximately 1 inch long. It begins to swim, and search for food. As the water warms, it grows up to an inch each month. A voracious eater, it can consume fish half its length. Crustacea and insects are other dietary supplements. Commercial trout production began in North Carolina over 40 years ago. Our state is second only to Idaho in production; however, North Carolina trout is mainly grown on small farms with cold, clear water and a great deal of hands-on care! Approximately 100 farms produce an average of 75,000 pounds of trout per farm, per year. There are big farms with trout in concrete raceways, and natural, small farms with earthen ponds. Also, our local rivers are stocked yearly for the avid angler. The trout grown in these natural earthen ponds eat similar diets to those of the wild, but are usually supplemented with high protein feed. Major growers rely solely on store-bought feed. Many local residents say they can taste the difference! The North Carolina State University Cooperative Extension states that rainbow trout have been found to contain high levels of omega-3 polly-unsaturated fatty acids, which reduce the risk of heart attack. Eating 2 or more portions per week reduce the risk of heart disease. Natural Health Magazine (April, 1999) shows farm raised trout as higher in omega-3s and lower in any stored toxin than the majority of fish or shellfish, including wild trout. So, while you are here on the Blue Ridge, enjoy some of our locally grown trout in our fine restaurants. You can even take some home for that fabulous friend who has been tending the homestead while you were gone! © Gabrielle M. Thompson Published in Parkway Milepost, 1999 Winter is... • Seeing vistas of rolling, deep purple mountain ranges, one after another in endless progression, against a slate sky revealed through barren branches of trees whose leaves decorate the forest floor. • Journalizing in introspection as I relish the quiet of the season and the enforced stillnessof my endless duties and interests. Having time for my soul’s growth and listening to the quiet within. • Purring cats cuddled by the fire, stretching in ecstasy as I stroke their back or rub their ears. Dogs leaping through snow drifts, chasing one another through sugar-spun mounds that twinkle in breaking sunlight. • Hearing the morning alarm, dreading the cold that awaits me as I race for the switch on the thermostat. Flying back to bed until the heater can work its magic. Repeating the gist of the scenario an hour later with my automobile. • Following spoor of deer, pale with lichens and moss that sustain when grasses fail in killing cold and frost. Counting tracks in the snow leading to the creek branch, where tender greens peek through the crisp white blanket. • Waking to ice storms and praying the electric power will hold as we watch crystal palaces from our windows, and trees that bend low with the weight of glass that encapsulates the branches in sparkling rainbow beauty. • Wrapping in wool, watching steaming breath against ruddy cheeks and gleaming eyes as cold bites the tender skin that is left exposed. Walking in heavy boots that repel the damp chill, trudging through the wasted landscape that awaits spring’s kiss. • Reading seed and garden catalogs and dreaming of warmth and green and growing again. Watching the sun as it spurns and returns—bringing back longer days and the sweet promise of awakening. • Knowing the love of my family and its sustaining essence, filling my heart with light and happiness. Winter is gaining insight as I acknowledge all of my blessings and give thanks for all that I receive, all that I am, and the love of God that shines within. © Gabrielle M. Thompson © 2000 Gabrielle M. Thompson Frozen Cerulean mist envelops the holler as daybreak announces the passing of the storm. My eyes strain through its enchantment to the bent-back form of the hemlocks, weighted in cocoons of ice, anticipating the rescue of dawn. As the sun crests the mountain, the mist lifts and swirls like white dervishes in mad disarray escaping the darkened hillside’s crevices floating ever-upward in joyous abandon. The light breaks full-force on deciduous trees whose tubular-sheathed branches of clear, sparkling ice ignite in crystal-fired beauty that overwhelms the passion of the sky. The firs grovel in their white shag chains feeling the stroke of the sun’s rays and their promise of redemption. I cautiously follow my driveway, careful of my footing on black-ice surprises. I stop periodically to gaze upward at the mare’s tails’ pronouncement of change and thaw while maples and sourwoods drop rivers of tears in the melt. At the pond, a heron stands sentry awaiting the warmth that will encourage activity and bring his daily meal to the surface or bank. Yellowed grasses hold dew-encrusted spider webs radiating rainbows with a promise of color’s return. Gabrielle M. Thompson, 2006 Victoria Press Nature Meditation in a Small World Awareness as a state of grace is only possible when we are in a be-here-now reality. But when that opening happens, it has an ethereal quality because being truly awake is to see God in everything. I find it difficult to be aware with any regularity. Meditation helps me focus, when I can still my mind. A walk in the forest is another approach. The forest is a tapestry of visions and Lilliputian worlds of mysticism and majesty, a fairyland at our feet. From the first Trillium, Lady's Slipper and wild Iris of spring through the wondrous, fecund carpet laid by summer, many delights abound for eyes willing to search the undergrowth. Running cedar swirls in riotous chartreuse, reminding me of Fourth of July fireworks. The kelly-green ferns are knee deep, with curling tongues of new growth. When I was seven, I saw my first forest ferns in Oregon. Their feathery beauty was the most remembered aspect of the entire vacation. I marveled at the delicate pinna, and the tiny brown "eyes" on the under edge. When I look closely at the ground, I notice the citrus moss follows a pattern resembling miniature palm trees. It covers rocks and decaying logs in a microscopic forest within a forest. Verdant algae flows from its edges, recalling tiny meadows. Silver, grey, and brown lichens form boulder-like protrusions along the edges, and shelf fungi glitter golden in the filtered sun. On cool mountain mornings, or during gentle rains, mists swirl through this world adding droplets of moisture that become stained glass for the fairies. Mushrooms explode in showy clusters or singularly, each intent on besting its neighbor. The most vibrant - the red, yellow, orange and pink - remain small caps. Those whose colors are the more mundane tan and browns use size and shape for their splendid signature. Clusters of small, white Indian pipes reflect their name with a ceramic quality: fragile, almost translucent, and cold to the touch, like a Meerschaum yet to feel its first match. In the glens, small eyes watch me, and my Irish heritage fantasizes that special rocks and shelves in the creek belong to civilizations of spirits. A native showed me the real fairies that congregate on still, moonless nights above the forest creeks in mid-May. Millions of phosphorescent insects, the size of a grain of rice, glow in currents of continuous, eery green luminescence along creeks; all moving together in the same direction, at the same speed, and the same distance above the earth, forming rivers of light through the trees. When I've asked other North Carolinians if they have seen them, most of them look at me as if they were expecting a punch line. In summer, Foxfire is another such gift of nature. Its green bonfire brilliance conjures images of the Beltane fires of old. When I am in nature, I sometimes feel a vibratory pulse in my body, an actual alignment with the energy flowing, swirling, and ebbing through and around me. These precious times are occasionally experienced in meditation or in creative pursuits such as writing, but less often. It's as if God offers a shortcut right outside my door. All I need is the desire to walk and let the beauty fulfill me. ~ Gabrielle M. Thompson © 1996 Gabrielle M. Thompson |
Any season, it is beautiful in the cove!