I didn't get down to my favorite trout stream this year;
not once, not at all.
Which, of course, is a shame. What ever pressing errand that stood in the way this summer, whatever seemingly important, dire event that took place, preventing a visit, is of course now forgotten.
My best days trout fishing have been spent here. A tiny little creek, flowing through an improbable valley of farms, lies like a dream on the edge of the landscape. Wading slowly up through it's crystal clear, icy cold water, ducking around and through the thick vegetation, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that just over there, with-in a stone's throw of where I'm wading, lies it's potential doom: industrial agriculture lies unchecked along her banks like a bullying thug, ready and willing to foul her waters with a vindictiveness that exceeds mere greed.
I finally finished this latest reduction woodcut. It's been a trial of patience, a battle of wills, a real SOB and PITA the moment I started on it. Looking back, I had problems with mixing the correct colors, and the block cracked not just once, but twice. I had almost completely given up on the print and wrote it off, but then I got the new press up and running, and decided to finish it off. It's not my favorite, by far, but I'm satisfied with it.