This is not news to those who have recently been inundated with my latest discovery: Google Photos on my phone. I accidentally activated the app a year ago, and it has been storing up my pictures (even the deleted ones) for more than 365 days. I spend an entire day putting photos into virtual albums and sharing them with friends and relatives.
Sorry, folks.
Today my pal and I decide on a late afternoon paddle in a nearby pond, and by "pond," we actually mean lake, but it's called a pond. I have paddled this pond many times, most often in a kayak but also in a canoe. I know the wildlife that lives around here. I know there's an elusive heron that resides on the reedy part of the pond that is only accessible on rare occasions. I know this because I've heard it and because I've seen it fly overhead. Turtles live here, too, and lots of surface-dwelling water bugs.
Combine my penchant for taking waaaaaay too many pictures with my familiarity of the local environment, and I decide to leave my cell phone in the car. I mean, really; what am I going to do? Take yet another pond selfie?
Nope. Today it's all about the experience; no pictures will be taken.
Wrong.
The pond is clear today and smooth as glass. The sun is shining done on us, creating the optical illusion that everything along shore and in the water has its own exact twin attached in colorful shadowy form. Damn. I could've taken about a dozen fabulous pictures of mirror imagery in the water.
Best of all, the wildlife is not hiding this afternoon. Paddling along we round a bend to see a heron, working hard to swallow what appears to be a fish or a frog or a chipmunk. It doesn't seem remotely bothered by us and allows us to drift silently about twenty feet away. When we reach a better distance, the giant bird casually strolls around its perimeter in search of more food.
Do I get a picture? Nope. My cell phone is back at the car.
Next come two turtles, sunning themselves on a stick. There are several small islands in this pond, but there are countless downed trees that have been absorbed back into the ecosystem creating a labyrinth of natural atoll-like designs that act like turtle resorts.
Do I get a picture? Nope. My cell phone is back at the car.
We swing along the front edge of the pond that is bordered by a relatively busy street. I tell my friend that I have spotted a heron here before. The island has a nature-made damn that creates a natural peninsula. Rowing our kayaks near-noiselessly around the bend is another heron, different than the first one. This one is more timid; it steps lightly to its right, further away from us. The heron, however, allows us within twenty feet of it, posing over and over again as if it knew we were coming to see it model for a centerfold in Yankee Magazine.
Do I get a picture? Nope. My cell phone is back at the car.
Of course the one day I'd be taking amazing pictures, I am without the ability. Oh, the irony. Yet, if I'd had the cell phone, I'd have been receiving texts and emails and IMs, and it defeats the idea of nature and peace and quiet. Without my possible pictures, I cannot visually share today's nature experience with you. I can, however, hold on to the memories made today. Do I need that picture? Nope; not really. Hence why my cell phone is back (where it belongs) at the car.
