Avoid Cooper Ridge Road!

Okay, so part of the good-ole fitness program is to walk/run down the stagecoach trails that pass for roads in my neck of the woods (literally). Don't get me wrong, I LOVE where I hang my Daniel Boone hat and wouldn't trade the daisies for streetlamps, not even for a Klondike bar.

Over the sixteen years I've lived out here, I've crossed paths with deer, wild turkeys, coyotes, a fisher, and even once had a too-close encounter with a bear. It was a good thing that not all of the stuffing between my ears has been blown away, by those nasty nor'easter's we get up here in the attic of North America. There was enough sense tumbling about in there, to stave off the temptation to high tail it. The nearest bruin-proof structure was over a mile, that's approximately 1.60934 kilometers for us metric folks.

Anywho, that's quite enough claptrap about (or aboot) that, if you wish to subscribe to the stereotypical Canuck (Canadian) accent. None of these adventures with our furry and feathered co-habitants of this big, blue marble, can compare with the trippy experience, of the bovine kind, that sent me spiraling down a worm hole, questioning my sanity. I've always believed that it was at least held intact by the same string used to package meat, but it's become apparently evident that my perception was just a tad bit off. Here is proof that it's being hung by a thread soaked overnight, in the corrosive beverage that supposedly eats roofing nails.

Okay, alright, I'll shut my bone box. Sorry, just slinging a bit of Victorian slang your way. Now, I'm just nutters about those picture books, and especially them pop-up storybooks. Actually, kinda creeped out by them, 'cause, you can't surprise them . . . just you try sneaking up on Rikki-Tikki-Tavi at three am. I'll just let these photos and captions spill the beans about what went down on that horse trail named Cooper Ridge Road.