Morning at Manter Creek
12" X 16"
Our campsite by the creek sat in a pocket of trees that had escaped the terrible fire. After scrabbling over and under the broken bones of trees for a few miles, we came upon a broad glade drenched in cool, blue shade. There, the creek widened out, running mossy green and earthy black, a lullaby of sound between overhanging banks of grasses and mint.
It was the perfect spot, with logs encircling a campfire ring and plenty of stubby branches to hang our gear. As we started to set up camp, Clint sent me down to the creek, knowing I was itching try out my new fishing pole. It was one of those spots so lovely you could just sit and absorb it for hours. Ah, Domeland!
We did more fishing, than catching. The few little trout we caught were gently returned to the water and bid farewell until our next trip. It was heaven wandering along the bank, while taking in the glorious fragrance of the creek: mud and decaying vegetation—that rich, sweet smell of living things reuniting with the earth.
This idyllic creek soothed us to sleep and flowed through our dreams. When the sun came up, beams of color broke through below the canopy illuminating clumps of grass and casting fire upon the water. At the end of the day, the soft coral light of sunset kissed the creek good night.