One of my favorite places on my grandparents farm is a wooden bridge. To get there you had to leave the main yard and go into the pasture (sometimes goats or horses were out here, but mostly just rabbits and deer). The grassy path was usually cut fairly short because my grandmother has a horrible fear of snakes. You go almost to the middle of the pasture and then turn down a fairly good hill before the land levels out right up to the creek. It was so far from the house that it always felt kind of magical. And the fact that there was this long exciting trek leading to a bridge with no visible path on the other side made is mysterious. When you get down there nowadays all you hear is the wind in the trees, hounds baying in the distance, echoing off the mountains. Most of the birdsong is hushed and there’s a pleasant tension as if the forest had been waiting anxiously for you all day. My grandmother (who is rumored to be Fae herself) used to tell stories about fairies in the woods, and maybe there are. 
2003 
Spring 2007 
Winter 2007 
Winter 2007 
Winter 2007 
Winter 2007 
Winter 2007 
Winter 2007
