Early Morning Swim

Having Rocky Mountain National Park in my backyard (well almost) is a great blessing. One of my favorite places to photograph is Sprague Lake. I love the play of early morning light on the water. After shooting a series of photos one morning last fall, I headed back to our car. Suddenly I heard the bugle of a bull elk and I turned to see him wading across the lake. I ran back and snapped about 10 shots of the bull making his way to the shore. What a delight to photograph this magnificent creature!

Sprague Lake - Rocky Mountain National Park

“In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing, he felt quite sure that he would never die.” -- 

Ernest Hemingway, The Complete Short Stories 


"Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in Me will live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in Me will never die.'"  John 11:25-26

Nancy

Thank you for visiting. Today I'm joining:

Watery Wednesday 

Thursday Challenge

Sprague Lake, RMNP May 17, 2010

The sun is warm on my face as it casts a reflection on the water; a bright spot like a flash of light from a camera.  The air is calm; the customary wind absent.  In the distance a quacking mallard informs me that I am the intruder here.  Birds chattering in the trees behind me reinforce the duck's warning.  I hold my hand above my eyes, shielding them from the brilliant orb in the sky and look to the thousands of pines at the end of the lake.  Suddenly, a chipmunk scrambles across the log in front of me.  Startled, I jump, and in turn I spook the small animal.  He scurries below the log and I stretch my neck to peer at the spot where he has disappeared.  He pops up and peeks at me before bounding off to find a less predatory site.  Again I shade my eyes and search the end of the lake.  I see my husband walking along the shore, dwarfed by the pines behind him. Except for his movement I would lose him in the darkness of the majestic trees.  Above me the silver trail of a jet scratches the blue.  Where is the plane going, I wonder.  Are the travelers aboard looking down on the scene I am surveying?  No, I reason.  They are too far to the East to see what I see.  Distance can be deceiving.   Fifty yards to the left three mallards flap their wings and ascend, flying low, inches above the water.  After several feet they propel themselves into the sky, perform a forty-five degree turn in flawless unison and disappear into the woods.  I imagine "Wild Blue Yonder" playing in the background.  Dennis has returned to sit on the bench beside me.  I notice the shadow of my pen dancing on the journal in my lap and thank God that He has given me sight and hearing to experience His creation and the opportunity to transcribe it.

- NR