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patterns of ink

How fruitless to be ever thinking yet never embrace a thought... to have the power to believe and believe it's all for naught. I, too, have reckoned time and truth (content to wonder if not think) in metaphors and meaning and endless patterns of ink. Perhaps a few may find their way to the world where others live, sharing not just thoughts I've gathered but those I wish to give. Tom Kapanka

Saturday, June 24, 2006

A Place Called Killbear

Next time I'm home I'm going to scrounge around for some old snapshots from our trips to Killbear Provincial Park, Ontario, Canada. They’ll add a more believable touch to these unbelievable shots by Robert Williams.

The seascapes at Killbear usually have a world of granite in the foreground and blue water in the distance. That was where we spent our days, running barefoot on those prehistoric hillsides where the granite meets the bay.

The water was about twenty feet deep at the cliffs and we imagined ourselves to be the famous La Quebrada Cliff Divers of Acapulco.
The only difference was we didn’t speak Spanish and the water at Georgian Bay is freezing cold. (Okay, I confess, there was also a slight difference in the height of our dives, but in our minds this was us on the right doing swan dives.)

Of all our camping memories, the years we went to Georgian Bay fill chapters all to themselves. If I find the pictures, I'll add some narrative.


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