The Halls

Paddlers call it an otter slide. It's a cool (I must admit) showy entrance into the water. Tuck yourself into the kayak on dry land, get situated and rock back and forth nudging the boat forward until sliding off a bank and burying the nose underwater and popping up. Mine may have been called a Muskrat slip-about a 1' drop, kerploosh, into the drink. It's as cool as I can get right now.

The put in is just below the Trow Lake hydro dam south east of Merrillan Wisconsin. Halls Creek, which runs through the upstream town, dumps into two small flowages, Oakwood Lake, alongside State hiways 12/27 and 95, and Trow Lake a few miles downstream. Halls is another one of the small creek gems within the Black River basin. It shares some similarities with Wedges Creek to the north and Robinsons and Morrison further south. Of all of these, Halls maybe is the showiest-not so much in water, but in the grandeur of some of the high sandstone walls, which creates an almost canyon like feel in places.

Dan, my paddling partner, jokes about locals having nothing to do in this part of the state-they are clueless about these rivers right in their backyard. I admit, though I spend every second I can outdoors, I had no idea how great the waterways are nearby. Once one drops a boat into these rivers and creeks, it's like another world from the surrounding countryside. Halls, keeps that tradition just like the other bodies we've paddled lately.

Water levels are crucial on Halls Creek (also known as Stockwell, upstream from Merrillian) if one is to avoid a scrapy trip. The nearby Black River sometimes is a poor indicator of water levels for these smaller creeks. A visual cue is a large rock upstream from the hi-way E bridge, if it's half exposed, water is too low. Our tour down the Halls saw enough water-with some scrapes and bumps, but passible. You could body english yourself across the drops and most of the riffles had enough flow.

This would be my first run down the creek, while Dan had paddled it several times. Again, he kept his opinion of the Halls to himself, and let me enthusiastically discover it's beauty- “I knew you'd like this one.” he later commented.

Indeed, Halls brings a scenic richness that I hadn't expected. Much of it flows through county forest, and what is private, has limited development, with few structures. The first section to Garage Road is a bit more understated, much like Wedges Creek, with mostly easy riffles, good water flow and a subtle shoreline. This four mile stretch would be easy for novice paddlers.

From Garage Road to the confluence with the Black River, the creek (to me anyway) changes character. Water generally flows faster, with more rapids (class I & II) to interrupt the serpentine path of the creek and shorelines reach higher and higher with sandstone walls. In a word, more dramatic in complexion.

There are drops along the way to the Black, 2-5 footers, that I, as a rookie, managed to slide and scrape my way across. At higher levels, the water may very well increase the pucker level. An old dam near an abandoned YMCA camp really starts things off after a few minor rapids upstream. Dan had told me about this and I wasn't sure, but wanted to give it a go.

Delapidated Camp Bradfield lies overhead and as far as anyone knows, the cement dam blocking Halls Creek here was constructed to provide a swimming hole for visitors. Perhaps it's older-maybe a remnant form the logging era, when logs cut in the pinery to the north were held in Trow lake, then floated down Halls to the Black during springtime flooding. Hard to imagine the difficulty in that process now days. A small chute, cut or worn in the dam at river left, provides the only safe passage through the obstacle. Cement and iron pilings protrude across the rest of the dam and are potential for serious injury. I hope at some point, this eye sore is removed to provide a free flow through to the rest of the creek.

Riffles and class I rapids lie downstream from the old dam, and the before mentioned drops. With Dan leading over the river features, I just avoided places he'd get stuck-that, and hit the drops with speed to hopefully slide through the rocks. They were fun and a little sense of accomplishment for myself as I (hopefully) continue to improve my paddling.

What really stands out (literally) are the high layered sandstone walls on almost every outside corner of this pretty little creek. As we travel downstream, they seem to get higher and higher (they actually do) and more impressive. Some appear to be squishing the layers of rock below after thousands of years of pressure. Different gradients of color, from gold to blue and green and every shade of ochre in between. Tiny plant life, mosses, miniature ferns and lichens, cling to any fissure the stone allows. Water seeps from the rock, and in places ice walls still clung to shady faces. (Ice climbing next winter?)

The last couple big bends before county hi-way E are awe-inspiring. We lingered a while, taking some photos and drifting beneath the rock outcroppings-almost baby sea caves in a way. Current is fairly strong here, so the boats still need to be tended to even while we admired the scenery.

Drifting below the high bridge, a few rock gardens greet us, but current slows considerably-it's a pick-your-way-through kinda section. Some scrapy bottoms and a couple twists of the creek push us toward the much larger Black River ahead. A few remaining walls line the shallow sandy terminus of the Halls with a high tiny waterfall on river right as the last sensatory treat before we hit the DNR landing around the corner. The swift strong current of the Black, a stark contrast to the last mile we'd paddled, swirls around the canoe launch, making one last challenge for a “dry exit” from the kayak.

Like many of the smaller creeks and rivers in the Black River country, the characteristic of the water can change dramatically throughout the year-hit the level just right, and they can provide a whitewater delight, at lower levels, a tamer cruise. I appreciate that these different watercourses also provide such a variety of visual experiences for the paddler. Each has a distinct flavor, and Halls Creek is one essence I'll have to try again.

Twangfest 2015

The turn signal clicked off and the pickup started to roll down the steep blacktop township road north of Black River Falls. Moments earlier, the long shanked padlock was daisy chained to an odd set of other locks securing the steel gate of the hunting land. A sappy sad moment for me for I had that duty. The 33^rd, 34^th, or 36^th Twangfest had come to it's conclusion.

The bowhunting weekend has been a tradition with a bunch of my friends since our days in college at UW LaCrosse in the early eighties. Quick Sunday trips to Jackson County to bow hunt turned into long weekends of camping in late October or early November each year. None one seems to be able to nail down the exact “first Twang.” At that time we were busy graduating from college, moving to other towns and cities, starting careers-beginning the adult life.

Luckily for us, Twangfest was a consistent reason to pull us back together each year. For most of the 7 or 8 of us, we've been back over three decades...and counting.

The Black River Falls area has been our home base, landing on three properties through the years. Fortunately, we have connections through parents who are generous land owners and allow us to gather each year and hunt their land. We try to be good stewards of their generosity and are so appreciative in these times of shrinking hunting access. We're scattered from Neillsville to Nashville, to Chicago and Minneapolis, so having a once a year home on private property is something we're grateful for.

The 2015 edition starts like everyone before it-immense anticipation starting at about 50 miles down the road from the previous year. The prospect of the next Twangfest grows throughout the year and everyones calendar is kept clear the first week in November (prime whitetail rut, of course). Thoughts of what new “junk” (hunting gear) needs to be procured for Twang doesn't end until we pull into the gassy landing in front of the old trailer. No different for me as I made a quick stop in BRF for last minute things before heading up the steep coulee.

Typically we arrive on a Thursday late morning and hunt until Sunday noon. The first day is so much easier than the last-trucks and cars are swiftly unloaded-tubs overflowing with camo and food stuffed into the modest, if not rough old mobile home. Resident mice are encouraged to leave and stale air circulated out the door. Man hugs and back slapping abound, for most of us have pretty limited chances to see each other during the year. It's a homecoming of sorts for the “brothers.”

Greetings and catching up conversations gradually subside after the last vehicle pulls in and thoughts of hunting commence. By all accounts, we should hit the peak rut just right these four days-I'd seen a lot of sign of that in the previous scouting trips here the past week. For most of the gang, this is their only bow hunting opportunity of the year, so we try and make the best of it. New crisp camo and old ratty stuff is soon donned and practice arrows flung at a target just to be sure bows and arrows are good to go.

We hit the woods early-during the rut, animals could be moving and chasing at any time and with the expectancy of shooting a big buck running high, there was little delay. A pick-up is loaded and soon bouncing down a logging road to the far end of 200 acres with happy hunters aboard.

That first afternoon always feels like a test run of sorts, the real hunt would begin in the morning. Some of us use the same general stands and blinds each year, while others, are “not sure where to go” and skulk around a bit for the most promising spot. We use this opening p.m. hunt to get back the feel, the aura of the woods and where the deer may be. 

The general theme of the hunt at Twang this year was wind-lots of it. Forecasts looked fine temperature-wise, but strong breezes would not let up. With tall ridges and deep valleys, the gusts also circulate from all directions it seems. A steady blow from the north west most days up above was south east or variable down below where most of us hunted. Not to make excuses, but it did hint at limiting deer activity. Sadly, it's the only thing I could come up with.

One of the best parts about hunting with these guys is “story time” when returning to the truck-while I may not have seen anything, it matters little if someone else did or there is a tale to be told. Each new reappearance of someone at the pickup would begin the same: “Whatja see??? What's the story?” And the new report would be woven into the previous ones and the first ones back would need to repeat everything again. I'm never sure if it's best to tell ones tale first or last.

The narrative from the day one gathering (and every morning and afternoon sessions thereafter) was almost the same for everyone. Maybe one or two deer seen-mostly far away, very little chasing activity, no “horn monsters” and bows frustratingly remaining at rest, arrows in the quiver.

There were a few variations to that theme-a small “sixer” did peg “Junkman” as it appeared behind him-7 yards. “Polecat,” who had a divine location nestled into a quiet draw, would be skunked everyday. Nixter, directly from Nashville for his annual woods venture, seemed more surrounded by turkeys than whitetails. “Googins” (yes, everyone has a nickname) would watch helplessly as does worked in and out of the “sanctuary” on the neighbors land. “Pete” the conductor, JoJo, Claudius and I all stayed with the light-in-the-deer-sightings version. That's why it's called hunting, right?

They were long days in the stand, but as usual, we feel alert there and everyday work, news and distractions are forgotten. These woods and the hunt insulate us from diversions of real life. Maybe what we were doing was more “real?”

Evenings are filled with cooking, enjoying a few refreshments, and laughter overcoming the howling winds outside. Guitars, a bass and feeble attempts at percussion join the revival of songs echoed here each year. It's Twang-Jam time and some of us (myself especially) just sit back an enjoy watching the talent in the room come alive. The music stops only when the last few heads start to droop or tired hunters shuffle to their bunks. The Son's of the Pioneers would be blaring too loudly and too soon the next morning as our alarm-quite effective.

I'm not sure why, but this year seem to fly by way fast-all of a sudden it's Saturday, our last full day to hunt. Seemed like we just pulled in. I shouldn't be surprised I suppose-time has a way of accellerating as we get older. We were just 20 or so when this 'fest started, now we're pushing through the mid 50's. A lot has changed. Appreciate the time together more? The effort to come together worth it? Yes to all those thoughts.

My truck had the shortest drive back home after leaving the Twangfest grounds and locking the gate. I'd be unloaded, washing hunting clothes and showered before some of the guys were even half way back. Like the rest of the vehicles, mine was empty of deer- no venison from this outing, but like anything that challenges us, we'll keep coming back for the next time. I can't wait.

Just Ride

This spring exploded out of the door just 2 days after snowcover welcomed snowshoes and skis in early March. Pow! It arrived. Sure, we had a few stubborn snows after that, but in truth, we knew spring was winning the good fight. As such, any open mountain bike trail in the state is going gang busters and Levis Mound, (www.levismound.com) one of the first, has had 3 weekends of packed parking lots. Not that it matters, with 25 miles of singletrack, riders spread out quickly.

It seems that early season also brings out mountain bike enthusiasts of all types, shapes and sizes. Some maybe with shiny new rides, others with solely a resolution to just ride more often and this is their start. It makes for interesting people watching post ride outside the chalet. My little gang of trail building friends are no different. Some of them like the latest greatest full suspension rig- sporting gram saving carbon and Ti doo-dads, and others just clip into last years dirt caked mongrel steel steed.

Relaxing in old camp chairs, we sip our beverages and conversation moves back and forth between the next new wheel size (“28.2” wheels-they'll be awesome and I'll be killin it!”) and lamenting the poor souls lifting old school 26” bikes from their racks. “Those look so tiny” -commenting on the bikes that were perfectly fine for all of us a few short years ago. Yeah, they still do work you know.

My friend Dan is on the old school-steel-is-real end of the spectrum. He's built up a rare “69er” which you'd be hard pressed to see at any trail head, rides a single speed 29+ Krampus and a fatbike. He loves to give people grief anytime the weight weeny conversation gets too serious. I like that. He'll tirelessly needle folks anytime the chatter is more about the bike than the ride. Sure-we all like the hardware, but it shouldn't come at the cost of why we're out there in the first place. Sometimes we need reminders of that.

I like riding with Dan- he's fit and can hammer with the fast dudes who power up and down the Levis trails, but he keeps it all in perspective and I'll join him for a no-drop-just-ride-along as well. I'm not in the jet set racer mode mentality any longer, so I appreciate going my own pace and riding within my ability-fitness or skill wise. I can use the excuse that I want to enjoy the time outdoors “just riding” (and that is true) but to be honest, I wish I still had the horsepower to keep up. It is what it is. “Next month I'll be in better shape.” Dan's favorite prevailing philosophy may be “Just ride and shut up.” That, and don't take yourself too seriously- “pass the flask dude.”

The conglomeration of bikes continued to stream past us in the parking lot. An old Klein Mantra, a brown 26” Schwinn High Sierra, four bar linkage suspension bikes, a 750B and enough single speeders to keep my quads quivering. Strutting riders in their flashy new 2015 kits walk by all serious, others in tattered shorts and t-shirts with shin guards not so much. Some pay their trail fee others sadly “forget.” The no helmet people are the most worrisome-they, if anyone, need the protection the most. They all continue to parade by, click in and head out the trailhead entrance. It's all good.

It's dirt on your legs that is more important than the latest greatest gizmo and what bike you're on seems to disappear once the pedals are spinning. While Dan loves his steel, I'm not a frame material zealot-I've had them all and am on a bamboo bike at the moment for gods sake! They all worked and got me out the door pedaling. Earlier in the day, my little group sported a fatbike, a couple single speeds, a pair of 29+, a full zoot FS and a lightweight 29er hardtail. Quite an array. We stopped every once and a while, waited, chatted it up, viewed the scenery and kept the Strava feeds mostly at bay. That's riding in my book.

“The best bikes aren’t at the extreme ends of the functionality spectrum, so specialized that they’re a bike-length away from dysfunctionality. The best ones are boring jacks-of-many-trades, and you stretch them to their limits with skill and experience.” ― Grant Petersen

I'll admit-back in the race days there was a new bike in the garage every year and any new shiny thing had to be hung on it. I followed the sport and it's iterations constantly. Cost was almost no object and I figured I needed all of that to make me a better cyclist. Those folks, like my old self, will always be there, and I was knee deep in it. Nothing wrong with all that per se, but in hind sight, it didn't make the ride any better.

It seems, as really has always been the case, the best rides are ones with no agenda, no attitude and they unfold with no regard to the clock or a distance travelled. Legs can burn or not, wheels can roll solo or with others, and training logs are forgotten or not even considered. Maybe it's my age, my wisdom (ha) or maybe it's just an appreciation of how lucky I am to be doing this at all. Just ride.

Sweaty Yeti

Russell in Winter Colour

It has become apparent that the Fatbike scene is not just a flash in the pan novelty. The big wheeled bikes have been around for some time, the first being modified double rim jobs first seen in the Iditasport race in Alaska.  In the rest of the country, they have been rare it seems until the past couple years and now they are popping up in a lot of cyclists garages-especially this winter.  I've long ago embraced the fatbike as my all around, all season bike-I just like how it rides and where it can go.

If you have a bunch of people with a new found love of winter riding, you'll probably get someone who thinks out loud- "Well, we should race these things!"  And there was and we do.  The just-for-fun races kicked into full gear last year, including our inaugural "Sweaty Yeti" race at the Levis Mound Trail.  Although small in turnout, there was a growing enthusiasm there and we brought it back for a second year.  Doubling the riders and having the perfect winter day made for a great race-the course getting better with every lap (Thank goodness!). 

This post isn't a race report really-as race director, I tried to be sure I had great volunteers and as many ducks in a row as possible so riders visiting our trail would have a "I wanna-come-back" experience.  Everything starts running itself after the gun goes off, so I had a rare opportunity to walk the course, camera in hand and make a few photographs of what this whole snowbike/fatbike thing is about.  

Scott on Bear Den

We'd had an unwelcome dump of snow 2 days prior to the race, which made the job of all the groomers that more difficult.  One trail however, the Bear Den, turned out to be amazing.  It was conceived as a winter only downhill section after last years race, and with the addition of a connecting trail, ended up being the racers favorite.  Good friend Scott Cole above gave it his approval.

Racing on Bear Den

A short connector trail off the Upper Glen trail turned out well, and even with a small climb midway through, it remained a swoopy fast section worthy of a race course.

Justin Racin

Hammerhead, nice guy and eventual race winner Justin Piontek rocked the course and could traverse the climbs and downhills at amazing speeds-ahh, it pays to be young and have a great coach.  Unlike so many top race dogs, Justin is friendly and always appreciative of the work done by trailbuilders and our meager race prizes of hand made mittens and aSand Creek sixpack seemed to be more than enough as race winnings.

The Sweaty Yeti

It's very difficult to get a good photograph of a Sweaty Yeti....I just know one came riding in and he was.  

Flyin Down the Bear Den

The new snow left a very scenic landscape and I liked the longer distance images of the riders as they passed by.

The Look

Upper Glen is not an easy climb, but once up and over the rocky crag, one is is rewarded with a fast sketchy downhill-well worth the gear grinding effort.

I Heart MY FatBike!

GoPros

Good friend and singletrack grooming guru Dan Hiller decided to make his bike as heavy as possible during the race, so Go Pro cameras were attached at about every braze-on-we're all anxiously waiting for the amazing video he'll produce!

Upper Glen Climb

Jen on Upper Glen

There are core groups of Fatbikers around the state and Jen Barden is a top notch pedal masher from the Wausau clan.  She'll be at the highest podium for most races, but more importantly is an advocate for the sport and so enthusiastic for everything that includes a bike and being on a trail.

One by Nine Climb

Too twisty and narrow for a snowmachine to groom, all of the new winter trails had to be packed by snowshoe-working out well in our case because we had so many volunteers putting in the hours to make it work.  As the race went on, these sections just became firmer and firmer and a blast to ride.

Elevation

Trail volunteer Mark Haferman finally pulled the trigger on a fatbike and decided to enjoy some of his singletrack handiwork by racing this year-all smiles by the end.

Race Start

My recent piece on ski trails and fatbikes living together should have included this image or several others of skiers and bikers alongside each other.  Okay, so this was an unusual case with the race and all, but still it illustrates that these sports can work together as my biker trash friends Laura, Phil and Dan can attest to.

Sweaty Start

I decided to finish this post with the start photograph.  Keeping with the fun-at-all costs theme of fatbike racing, we used a Le Mans start-shotgun blast and a running sprint around a deer and back to mount the bike and willy-nilly take off.  It works and is a fan favorite.  I just like seeing all these fatbikes speeding away on "my" trail!

Twangfest 29

Norb in Game Face Mode

There are things that we sometimes do that require effort, that are outside of our daily routine.  Things that would be easier if we didn’t bother, if we stayed in our comfort zone of modern life instead of stepping outside (literally) to live something greater from time to time. To live life.  Those were my thoughts on the first late night of Twangfest this past week when I looked up into the night sky at all those billions of stars, listening to the darkness and the muffled sound of guitar and song from inside our trailer.  Yes, this weekend does require effort-gathering all our hunting gear (if we can find it), driving or flying hours to arrive here in the Black River country, buying food and supplies and leaving everything else behind for a few days.  But the payoff could not be greater, a chance to be back together with hunting partners and friends every year at this same time.  To spend countless hours in the stand, seeing, hearing and smelling what we miss in our usual routine.  To be a participant in the hunt instead of an observer and to ever dream of that chance at a trophy.  Trophy or not, time spent in the woods at Twangfest is always a success.

Movement in the Pines

This year was the 29th or…….30th anniversary of “Twangfest,” a term coined many years ago for a weekend campout and bow hunt in the hills near Black River Falls, Wisconsin.  At that time, we were young, mostly in college at UW La Crosse and would make weekend pilgrimages to hunt whitetails as a break from study and jobs.  Soon an idea was born to camp and hunt-requiring a lot of scrounging for a bunch of college kids then.  Years rolled into decades, and we all moved onto real jobs, families,  and other locations. New family came into our lives and sadly, the loss of family members as well, but one thing remained a constant-our annual return to the archery deer camp called Twangfest.

The Nixter

Our love of the hunt and hunting brought us together then, and remains the key ingredient even now, but the camaraderie, brotherhood and music, food, drink and laughter is what bring us back.  It is the first thing on my calendar each year.  It has always amazed me that for many of us, this is the one time each year we see each other, but it feels like yesterday.  That is how strong the friendships are here.  The first meeting is the best- real man hugs and a genuine joy of being back together.  That lasts for all of a few minutes and then the unloading of tons of gear begins-quivers and bows to beer and brats.  Sleeping bags, guitars, and the latest do dad from Gander Mountain and Cabelas.  Piles of food, and camo clothes and boots lay scattered inside the trailer in an instant.  There is also a sense of urgency as well-this IS the first day and we have had dreams of that big buck-fueled by recent game cam photos and smart email chatterin in the days leading to this.  Within an hour, dust is settled and civilian clothes are now exchanged for camo clad men, fittling with sights and arrows and few practice shots.  Soon the sound of my tapping toe impatiently waiting to “get going” and begin the actual hunting phase of the weekend.  We eventually are bouncing down the logging road and soon hours pass in the stand we again realize how much we are blessed to be able to experience this.  Yes, it took effort, but to be out here…in nature, in the woods, is primeval and beautiful and deep down something we long for I believe.

The Morning Hunt Report

Each morning and evening hunt (with just enough time for a sandwich in between) is always followed by the deer report.  “What did you see?”  “Okay, what’s the scoop?” And of course, there are tales of misses (me this year sadly at a large large buck), getting nailed down by a too smart doe, “bambies” milling around and the grunts of big bucks chasing.  The stories are again re-told at every stop as we pick up all seven of the hunters on the way back to camp.  Sometimes the stories even change, which is all okay with me.  Over the past 29  (or thirty) years, we have had many good years of harvesting a deer or two…or three.  Some does, some very nice bucks, but not always, and that is okay as well.  It’s all about the hunt and the brotherhood.  Funny, I don’t think I use that term (and I do mean it)  in any other context all year, except in describing these guys I spend the first week of every November with. 

Lem on Johnny Cash

Besides the pursuit of deer, music has become a central element in the fest.  Our group is blessed with several talented musicians (not including myself) and before the meal is done and dishes washed, guitar cases are flung open, cheater glasses on (to read lyrics now a days) and endless tuning begins.  Requests are made and familiar songs ring out inside the trailer or around the campfire.  Favorites include “Ladder Stand,” “Paper Products (from Mosinee)," and a new hit-“The Easement Blues,” along with lesser know songs of Elton John, Peter Gabriel and REO Speedwagon .   Song and laughter continue until the realization that the wake up call (my duty it seems) comes early and we better retire.  Music has entertained us over the years, as well as skits, impressions and other ridiculousness  which we so love and leave our guts sore from laughing all weekend.

The Bus Stop

The “last day” feeling always starts for me on the evening hunt Saturday.  Knowing  that this is the last night stand, that our time is drawing (pun intended) to a too quick end leaves a pit in my gut.  One last chance for that well placed shot and maybe a buck of a lifetime.  Not everyone can stay til the end- too long of travel back home or family commitments take some away early and there is a sadness when each guy pulls out of the logging road.  The final morning is the hardest….knowing that getting a deer today will require a lot of extra effort to get back to camp, pack, transport home and process before the work week, but we just have to try one more time…this still is about the hunt and you have to put the tree time in-there are no shortcuts.

The Mid-day Break

All too soon the packing and cleaning start in a flurry.  A good friend lets us use the old trailer (and his land) as our Twangfest HQ and to him we are indebted.  So we take extra care to leave everything better than we found it and leave behind enhancements (hopefully) for the other hunters who stay here.  Since some of the guys live out of state, they usually are on the road first-hours of travel for them ahead.  I’m the lucky one I guess, a short half hour drive to Neillsville and I’m back home, still wanting to turn around and drive back up those bluffs to hunt a bit longer.  But the one key thing would be missing, and it would not be the same until next year, when that band of brothers return to again to live Twangfest another year.

The Twangfesters of 2011

Nate and Ena

Earlier this fall I was asked to shoot a wedding for some friends of mine from the Sand Creek Brewery in Black River Falls.  I've gotten to know Nate and Ena over the past couple years during stops at the brewery or at brew fests across the state that Sand Creek is attending.  Nate is an assistant brewery there and whips up some pretty tasty homebrew as well (some of which he served up at the wedding reception).  They had seen some of my work and asked if I could shoot some casuals at their small, low key wedding.
The ceremony was held at Lake Wazee, an old iron mine site, now the deepest fresh water lake in the state.  They had selected a nice overlook above the lake to take their vows and I was excited to have such a great location to shoot.  The service was really short, so I did my best to fly around and get as many images as I could-no hour long sermon here!  The couple didn't want to do a ton of group shots (thank goodness) but I did scout out a couple nearby spots that still had good fall color where we could do at least a few photographs.
The reception was held at the brewery, and heading in I knew the lighting would be tough.  Cranking up the iso helps, but I'm always fearful of getting too noisy of pictures, and I don't have fancy strobes to help out.  Besides, I didn't want flash to intrude on the location and guests.  It was a fun shoot with good friends and family and I hope they like some of the images from this special day.

The Kiss and Smile

Nate said he really likes black and white, so in many of the shots I saved two versions for them-I really liked this moment with the couple.

The Bridesmaids

Nate and his Men

You may Kiss the Bride...Again.

Last Minute Details

 Genuine Smile

 Sand Creek Reception

 Wedding Homebrews and a Favorite

 Unity Candle

A Fall Sampler

The Back Yard

There are so many pictures to be made in the fall, yet sometimes it can be very frustrating because it's all been done before you know?  Not by me maybe, but by someone and when looking at others' photos I start to wonder why I should even press the shutter.  Because........ sometimes you just have to, just have to get those photos out of the way.  But to be fair to myself, I also have to because no matter how many fall photos others have made, I still love it, love the colors and smells so most likely, every year, I'll be out there clicking away just for myself.

In any regard, here are some I liked during a couple hikes lately-a week later, most of those colors are on the ground-wind and rain made sure of that quickly-sad, but it's the way of the seasons.

Molly at Attention

Red Oak Complementary Colors

Red Oak Depth of Field

 

Molly after the Storm