Nov 302008
 
Printed in the Vail Daily November 1st, 2008
Newfoundland’s Flora and Fauna
Glacial erratics dropped by the retreating ice sheets 11,000 years ago.

Glacial erratics dropped by the retreating ice sheets 11,000 years ago. Cape Spear, North America's eastern-most point, in the distance.


Imagine, sitting on a cliff two hundred feet above the broiling surf, watching a colony of 11,000 Northern Gannets crowded on a massive sea stack only fifty feet away? It is an assault on the senses; visual, auditory, and definitely olfactory. The birds swoop and glide, dive for food, feed their young, squabble and pair bond in unceasing chaos.

This is only the top, you can't see the seaward side which has the vast majority of the colony.

This is only the top, you can the 10,000 Gannets on the other side.


For untold centuries these majestic sea birds have nested on this massive rock and the inaccessible cliff face we are standing above, safe from terrestrial predators.
But it’s late in the season. We are getting only a taste of the tens of thousands of seabirds nesting annually along the rugged cliffs and rich waters of Cape St. Mary. This Ecological Preserve, on the southwest edge of the Avalon Peninsula, is the most accessible seabird colony in North America.
In summer, Murre’s, Kittiwakes, Razorbills and Guillemots inhabit the cliffs in vast flocks. Pods of whales also feed in these fertile waters. Humpback, Fin and Minke Whales leap and frolic just off the cliffs.

Northern Gannets-Wingspan 6 feet!

Northern Gannets-Wingspan 6 feet!


An hour’s drive east to Peter’s River is the world’s southern-most Caribou herd. At over 3,000 strong it must be an impressive sight in the bogs of the southern Avalon.

Southern stragglers, and all we saw.

Southern stragglers, and all we saw. The other 2995 have moved inland for the winter.


Fifteen minutes farther in Trepassey I see my first moose. Newfoundland has far to many moose. Accidents are common.

Check out the muscles on this guy. He's probably 9' tall!

Check out the muscles on this guy. He's probably nine feet tall!


I had been photographing the bogs at dusk. After dark, when I returned to our B&B, I parked fifteen feet from the front door, taking my equipment inside. I opened the front door to go back out and a large cow moose walked between me and the car. Exciting to say the least!
Naturally, I wanted to see more. When she was clear, I went out and was briefly chased back inside. She then stood under a street lamp thirty yards away. As I watched, the lights of a car came up the road. She took off. I heard a screech-bang and saw her run into the woods. Fortunately, Tom Corcoran, the driver, was shaken but okay. The moose, bruised no doubt, had run into the front corner of his car, doing little damage.

A cow, calf and bull become wary of my presence.

A cow, calf and bull become wary of my presence.

Another hour’s drive east plus a forty-five minute hike, takes you to Mistaken Point, the graveyard of numerous ships. More importantly, Mistaken Point is the burial ground of the 565 million year old Ediacara Biota, the earliest known, most complex, multi-celled creatures.

The fossil in the lower left was some type of leafy creature that rose off the sea floor on a stalk.

The fossil in the lower left was some type of leafy creature that rose off the sea floor on a stalk.


The tennis court-sized sloping rock face is littered with some 6,000 fossils of many species. It is one of only a handful of sites in the world from this ancient era and by far the best preserved. They request removing your shoes to avoid damaging the fossils. What an experience, walking barefoot across these extremely ancient life forms. In the photo, you can make out the wavy surface of the rock. It’s obvious these are ripples are the fine grained floor of a shallow sea. Eons ago a volcanic explosion covered the area, preserving it until being recently eroded away. You can only imagine the millions more fossils in the layers still covered in the cliffs just yards away.

V

Mistaken Point in the foggy distance. Ships occasionally mistook it for Cape Race to the east, running aground on this rocky coast.

An hour north, up the east coast of the Avalon, lies lovely Witless Bay Ecological Preserve. The islands sheltering this quiet bay play host to tens of thousands more birds including the oddly adorable Puffin. Whales again, frequent the bay. In early summer, icebergs float majestically offshore.

Sunrise on the Witless Bay Ecological Preserve.

Sunrise on the Witless Bay Ecological Preserve.

Newfoundland is not just unique for it’s wildlife, it’s geology as well is fascinating. Prior to 11,000 years ago, it was covered by an ice sheet a mile and a half thick. The incessant movement scoured the land down to bedrock, leaving an island of poor, rocky soils. Google Earth provides a good vantage point for understanding this geology.

The bogs of the Southern Avalon Penisula.

The bogs of the Southern Avalon Penisula.

This isn’t to say Newfoundland is barren. By no means! There are dense forests, innumerable ponds, and vast areas of bogs, spongy to walk on, densely covered with low vegetation, berries and small evergreens. The amazing Pitcher Plant is common. Little wonder it is Newfoundland’s provincial flower. Bugs get trapped and are digested by a whole plethora of organisms in the water inside the pitcher, nourishing the plant in the poor soils of the bog.

Pitcher plants and their flowers.

Pitcher plants and their flowers.

Newfoundland is a unique island. Being about the size of Pennsylvania, there is so much more to experience. We want to see the north, where the Vikings landed, and especially the west coast with Gros Morne National Park.

We will return, if not for it’s wildlife and incredible scenery, then for it’s vast, unspoiled landscape, it’s fresh seafood, it’s photogenic fishing villages, and it’s unique culture and wonderfully warm and friendly people.

And somehow, despite the month spent here, we never managed to get screeched in. We have to return to become honorable Newfies by pushing back that shot of the vile rum called Screech, by exclaiming the Newfie blessing, “Long may your big jib draw!” and by kissing that cold, wet, clammy cod.

Sunrise over Pouch Cove on our last morning in Newfoundland.

Sunrise over Pouch Cove on our last morning in Newfoundland.

Copyright 2008 Dennis Jones www.dreamcatcherimaging.com

Nov 302008
 

Printed in the Vail Daily October 18, 2008

Newfoundland offers a world class setting for hiking.

Spectacular is clearly one adjective I would use. Others would be beautiful, lush, peaceful, varied and certainly breathtaking. Newfoundland’s 240 mile East Coast Trail, traversing the eastern edge of the Avalon peninsula, is all of these and more, much more.

Yolanda and I only explored part of the northern section. In that span, we walked along spectacular ocean cliffs and through lush, peaceful forests. We have emerged from a dark wood onto a promontory dropping a shear four hundred feet into the churning sea, literally taking our breath away.

A sheer 400 foot drop to the sea!

A sheer 400 foot drop to the sea!

The East Coast Trail is the work of dedicated volunteers who  carved a world class trail system out of the rugged Atlantic coastal landscape. They built bridges across creeks, cut logs to span rivulets and arranged stepping stones through bogs. Their signage, cairns, posts and ribbons make trail finding a breeze.

A wooded section along the East Coast Trail.

A wooded section along the East Coast Trail.

All tolled, we hiked perhaps twenty five miles of the trail. Each bit is unique, though it might be only a few miles from another section.

We found rugged, wind-swept seascapes in the northern end towards Cape St. Frances. There, a separate two mile section to Big North Cove offers an altogether different experience of moss covered rocks and the abandoned village of Cripple Cove.


This being fall, blueberries, partridgeberries, and bunchberries grow in profusion. Some days we don’t get far, ending up picking berries instead.

A section of the trail heading north from Torbay.

A section of the trail heading north from Torbay.

Ten miles south of the cape, we hike the section from the idyllic pony pastures of lovely Torbay north to the historic fishing village of Flatrock. It’s just five miles, but we don’t make it because the scenery is so spectacular. Here, we discover the promontory that leaves us breathless. It’s not just the shear four hundred foot drop, but also the incredible panorama of coastline and bays to the south that is so captivating.

The dizzying drop at Church Cove.

The dizzying drop at Church Cove.

A second vertigo inducing cliff at Church Cove halts our progress again as one end of a rainbow from a passing squall forms delicately out to sea. I climb a bit further to where the land drops away to the north and find the other end of the rainbow materializing over Flatrock.

A rainbow materializes out of a passing squall over Flatrock.

A rainbow materializes out of a passing squall over Flatrock.

South of Torbay, the trail snakes along the coast around Middle Cove, Logy Cove and Outer Cove towards St. John’s. It passes through the tiny, picturesque village of Quidi Vidi. We stop for a beer at the Quidi Vidi Brewery before passing Mallard Cottage, said to be the oldest house in North America. Across the street is the very eccentric Inn of Olde, a Newfie institution for thirty four years. It’s bizarrely cluttered interior, replete with hockey memorabilia, hundreds of souvenir spoons and all manner of things dangling from the low ceiling force another beer upon me.

Quidi Vidi village near St. John's.

Quidi Vidi village near St. John

Linda, ready to pour a cold one at Inn of Olde in Quidi Vid.

Linda, ready to pour a cold one at the Inn of Olde in Quidi Vidi.

The trail then moves into St. John’s, circling iconic Signal Hill where Marconi received the first transatlantic wireless signal in 1901. The views of the coast and the city are awesome.
Just southeast of St. John’s lies Cape Spear, the eastern most point in North America. The trail wends it’s way around the cape, past it’s historic lighthouse, the graves of numerous ships and through Petty Harbour, probably the most photographed port in Newfoundland.

Petty Harbour viewed from the East Coast Trail.

Petty Harbour viewed from the East Coast Trail.

While wandering the village looking for the trailhead, we meet two extremely friendly old men who would have told us their life story if we weren’t intent on hiking-Newfie friendliness again.

Excellent signage takes us to the trail which rises steeply above the cove. After climbing hundreds of feet, it levels out into gently undulating berry barrens with expansive views of the coastline.

The trail continues 12 miles to the next section at Shoal Bay but the day is coming to a close. We hike only a few miles for a view south to Motion Head several miles away.

The approach to Motion Head.

The approach to Motion Head.

There is so much left to explore. We must return. As well, there are beautiful trails in other parts of Newfoundland. The Bonavista Peninsula to the northwest, has another system of trails. The Skerwink Trail on Trinity Bay is one of the most beautiful on the island.
Gros Morne National Park in the Northwest has even more world class hiking.

Dennis and Yolanda somewhere on the East Coast Trail.

Dennis and Yolanda somewhere along the East Coast Trail.

For those looking for a truly world class hiking experience, the trails of Newfoundland are not to be missed. More information can be found at www.trailconnections.ca or by contacting the East Coast Trail Association at www.eastcoasttrail.com.

Copyright 2008 Dennis Jones dreamcatcherimaging.com

Nov 302008
 

Printed in the Vail Daily October 11, 2008

A History Steeped in Tradition.

Like a fine vintage wine, Vinland, as the Norse called Newfoundland over one thousand years ago, is historically complex with bold cultural flavors of Portugal, France, England, and Ireland. The Vikings made their way here in open boats around 1000 AD, for an unknown reason, staying only a few years.

Not for another five centuries is there evidence that a European set foot in New Founde Lande, not until 1497 with the arrival of John Cabot, a Venetian, sailing under the English flag. His “discovery” set off a five hundred year competition for the vast, fertile fisheries off the island’s rugged and dangerous coasts.

Cape Bonavista and it's candy cane stripped lighthouse.

Cape Bonavista and it's candy cane stripped lighthouse

History is anchored in every cove and inlet, every headland and pond, in it’s place names, and the rich vocabulary and dialects of it’s people.  With it’s own five thousand word dictionary, there is a wealth of slang. I have met people I simply could not understand even though they were speaking “English”.

This is Herb. We could barely understand a word he said.

This is Herb. We could barely understand a word he said.

Take words like marl, “to meander”: “I think I’ll marl down the road fer a spurt.” or smert, “to hurt” or snop “to break in two”: “I smert me hand when I snop the stick.” or dwall, “to sleep or nap”: “I dwalled fer a spurt dere.” “It started a bit mauzy but now the sun is splittin’ the rocks.” means “today started overcast and drizzly but now it’s sunny”.

The lovely 19th century merchantile center of Trinity.

The lovely 19th century mercantile center of Trinity.

Newfie place names are rife with multi-cultural connections like Port Au Basque and Port Au Choix on the west coast and Fleur de Lys on the east. Many names have gotten corrupted over the centuries. Veralum becomes Ferryland, Quitouche, an Indian word for breast, becomes Kitchuses, the French Toulinguet becomes Twillingate. And then there are those towns with cute names like Heart’s Desire, Cupids, Happy Adventure, Leading Tickles and Dildo.

The overarching theme though is fishing, whaling, and sealing. The vast fisheries brought Europeans every summer for hundreds of years. In April there was great competition to be first across the treacherous north Atlantic to lay claim to the limited prime spots ashore. Latecomers were relegated to precarious fishing stages perched on the ubiquitous rocky cliffs above the pounding surf.

The movie set of Random passage illustrates outport life in the 1800's.

The movie set of Random Passage illustrates outport life in the 1800's.

From these stages they would venture into the cold, unforgiving sea for fish so plentiful you could catch them by simply “lowering a basket into the water”. Returning to shore they would gut them, split them, and lay them out on “flakes” to dry. Once dry, the cod would be salted and packed in barrels for the trip back to Europe in the Fall.

A contemporary flake. Old flakes were much, much bigger.

A contemporary flake. Old flakes were much, much bigger.

Initially, very few over-wintered. It was illegal because of the profits made in England on selling supplies. Royal licenses were issued for enterprises like the Colony of Avalon on the southeast coast in 1621. Later, people came escaping the crushing poverty and tyranny of Europe.

The warehouse foundations at the archealogical site of the Colony of Avalon

The warehouse foundations and wharf at the archealogical site of the Colony of Avalon.

Life was very hard, winters long and dark. Tiny outports of three or four families lived a precarious, isolated existence. Starvation, plague and death were frequent visitors.

Over the centuries, population eventually increased St. John’s, with it’s large, sheltered harbour, became the mercantile, political and cultural center. It traded hands between the French and English several times until becoming permanently English in 1762.

The protected harbour of St. John's.

The protected harbour of St. John

The large influx of Irish in the 19th century brought their rich, musical tradition. Celtic influence permeates the Avalon peninsula. At lunch in Auntie Crea’s, in the pubs of George Street and the street corners of Water Street, the lively sounds of Newfoundland music give testament to it’s Celtic history and traditions.

The Auntie Crae Band during a lunch hour jam.

The Auntie Crae Band during a lunch hour jam.

Sadly, with the decimation of the cod fishery from over fishing in the 1970’s and 80’s, the traditional way of life has all but disappeared. The fishing moratorium in 1992 brought an end to five hundred years of earning a livelihood from the sea.

Outports disappeared, processing factories closed while fiercely independent fishermen went on the dole. Small town populations were decimated with the exodus to other provinces where a living could be made. A much smaller crab and shrimp fishery provides some relief. But with the cod season limited to two weeks a year, five fish a day, a way of life has ended.

Old Bonaventure, now only an echo of it's former self.

Old Bonaventure, now only an echo of it

The future though is looking up. Off shore oil and gas is bringing new prosperity. Cod stocks seem to be making a come back. Exiles are returning and new vitality stirs the brisk salt air, bolstering the resilience of a proud, independent people.

Copyright Dennis Jones www.dreamcatcherimaging.com

Nov 292008
 

Printed in the Vail Daily Sunday October 4th, 2008

The Legendary Warmth and Hospitality of Newfoundlanders

Synchronicity strikes again! On our last night in Pouch Cove I went outside the B&B to practice my tin whistle by the ocean. As I played, I sensed someone approach in the dark. The next door neighbor, Dan Rubin, an accomplished and respected Newfoundland musician, had heard me. We chat, and come to find out, he is leaving in a few days for Tuscany and has been unable to find a housesitter. So…change of plans! For the next month, Yolanda and I are in possession of a lovely, ocean front home with breathtaking views, whales spouting outside the cove, and an organic garden.

Here we are in our new backyard on Pouch Cove.

Here we are in our new backyard on Pouch Cove.

Earlier that day, while watching the ferry in Portugal Cove, up the hill walks a woman. We exchange hellos, start talking, and are quickly treated to a dramatic performance of her wonderful poetry. Betty Jarvis Vaters turns out to be a Newfie writer and poet. Like so many people we meet, she is friendly and irrepressibly exuberant. Nobody seems to have told Newfoundlanders they should beware of strangers.

Betty Jarvis Vaters getting into it.

Betty Jarvis Vaters getting into it.

The next day, while walking along a road in Cape Broyle, a small village on a lovely cove down the lush Irish Coast south of St. John’s, up rides a father and two young children on bikes. They immediately engage us in conversation.

In his wonderful, thick, Newfoundland brogue, the father tells of how he just came back that morning from five days of fishing, saw three moose crossing the road and is now taking his kids out plummin’, hunting for native plums. He further regales us with stories about his family and his father’s glass eye which he would pop out and set down telling the grandchildren as he walks away, “Okay, you keeps an eye on dat dere eye for me now, aye.”

A typical Newfoundland fishing stage and stage head.

A typical Newfoundland fishing stage and stage head.

Not five minutes later I’m photographing a picturesque, well used fish shed perched precariously over the water. I am met with three hearty hellos from John and Neil O’Brien and John Walsh, fisherman with their morning’s catch. We chat as they make quick work gutting and filleting their freshly caught cod, tossing the carcasses into the water through a hole in the floor.

John Walsh filleting the mornings catch.

John Walsh filleting the mornings catch.

They grew up here and are sons and great grandsons, on back through many generations, of local fisherman. As we say our good-byes they offer us some fresher than fresh cod fillets to take back for dinner.
The next day, prior to taking possession of our new “home”, we are searching for a B&B in Torbay, another spectacular cove close to Pouch Cove. To our surprise, the woman greeting us at the door is someone we briefly met our second night at the Points East Guesthouse. Annette invites us to stay, doesn’t even charge us and asks if we would like to join her for a play that evening in St. John’s. It is the 30th anniversary gala of the Living Tide Theater, a Newfie institution. Wonderful, hilarious theater!

The paddocks and cove at Torbay.

The paddocks and cove at Torbay.

Newfoundland ponies, a special, local breed, and cows at Torbay.

Newfoundland ponies, a special local breed, getting fresh with the neighbors at Torbay.

Another gloriously sunny September day later, we are hiking the northern end of the East Coast Trail to Cape St. Francis. A few scattered cottages dot the windswept, rocky shore. While watching a bald eagle soar above the cliffs, a woman pops her head out the back door of a cute, little, red caboose and yells, “Would you like to join me for tea?”

Helen's little red caboose at Cape St. Francis.

Helen Forsey's little red caboose and outhouse at Cape St. Francis.

Helen Forsey quickly makes room for us at her table while preparing tea, cheese, crackers and homemade partridgeberry preserves. She is writing a book and seeing us has given her an excuse to procrastinate.
We have a wonderful conversation, finding out that her family in Newfoundland goes way back, that her father was probably the most respected constitutional scholar in Canada and that her very pregnant grandmother had been sent by her grandfather from Mexico, where they were living, by ship to Havana, by ship to Boston, by ship to St. John’s and by small coastal boat to northern NF and by train and then cart to some small town, just so the baby would be born in Newfoundland.

Helen Forsey fixing tea for Yolanda.

Helen Forsey fixing tea for Yolanda.

After saying our good-byes, we wander along the gravel road back to our car is parked at the trail head. Up drives an old, beat up pickup. It stops in the middle of the road and we are once again involved in conversation. Bob and Sally Noseworthy, (now there’s a name), have lived their entire lives in Pouch Cove. They’ve had a cabin near the cape for decades.

Bob and Sally Noseworthy.

Bob and Sally Noseworthy.

Yolanda mentions that we would love to see a moose. “Oh I donn wanna see no moose.” exclaims Regina, telling us of the time the family were all at the cabin. She was driving down to meet them with their prepared supper in pots and dishes on the front seat. A moose walks out in the road and just stands there, making Regina slam on the brake. It took two days to clean up the gravy, potatoes and chowder.

In Newfoundland, Noseworthy is almost as

Noseworthy is almost as common a name as Jones is in the US.

Unfailingly, we are made to feel at home where ever we go. Where else would anyone offer their home to a complete stranger? Where else would someone on the street unabashedly recite poetry to you? Where else would a fisherman offer you part of his catch, a lone woman in an isolated cove invite you in for tea?

Fred Rex, an interpreter and fast friend at Random Passage.

Fred Rex, an interpreter and fast friend at Random Passage.

We are smitten with Newfoundland. From our base by the sea in Pouch Cove, we are looking forward to exploring it’s warmth and hospitality, it’s dramatic beauty and picturesque fishing villages, it’s rich culture and Celtic music. And maybe, just maybe,  I might end up having to get screeched in and kiss that cod.

Copyright 2008 Dennis Jones dreamcatcherimaging.com

Nov 292008
 

Printed in the Vail Daily Sunday, Sept. 27th.

“So, are you going to get screeched?” asks the stunningly beautiful, green eyed, blonde counter agent as she hands me my boarding pass. Both of us give blank looks. “Yes”, she says laughingly, “you get screeched and then you have to kiss a cod!”

So begins our introduction to the very unique province of Newfoundland. We are at the airport in Halifax, Nova Scotia, awaiting our flight to North America’s eastern-most city.

Yolanda and I left the promise of a beautiful, land-locked, Colorado fall for a month experiencing autumn along the rugged, North Atlantic cliffs of Newfoundland and the tiny fishing villages of Nova Scotia.

We arrive in St. John’s, the capitol and the oldest city in Canada, on an overcast, blustery mid-September afternoon. Surprisingly, we find a city that is a riot of color instead of the staid conservatism we expected from the “windiest, cloudiest, stormiest, foggiest, wettest, snowiest” city in Canada. Each of the neat, two story,19th century houses lining St. John’s hilly streets is painted a different color of the rainbow.

The "Jelly Bean" houses of St. John's

The "Jelly Bean" houses of St. John's.

We reserved a B&B in Pouch Cove, a small village tucked into the base of a large, rocky cove opening east onto the North Atlantic. “First to see the sun”, is it’s motto. Earlier in the summer, whales and icebergs would have been a common sight.

Pouch Cove with loads of wildlflowers even though it's mid-september.

Pouch Cove with loads of wildlflowers even though it's mid-september.

Protecting the boats from the wild North Atlantic.

Protecting the boats from the wild North Atlantic.

Points East Guesthouse is a hundred-year old fisherman’s house. It is perched a hundred feet above the crashing surf. Like it’s owner, it has it’s eccentricities. The stairs are narrow and list to leeward. Our upstairs bedroom looks to the sea, a spectacular view. It’s door though, is very odd; four inches shorter than my six feet and with a door handle eight inches to low. Very likely it was a bedroom for seven or eight of the dozen children that originally lived here along with granny and the parents.

Elke, in red, planting a tree in honor of Ilse's birthday as I play my tin whistle and Yolanda helps with the digging.

Elke, in red, planting a tree in honor of her friend Ilse's birthday. The grave belongs to one of her goats.

Elke, our host, hails from Germany via UC Berkeley. She stayed on after finishing her Ph.D. in Folklore in St. John’s to raise a thriving family of goats, chickens, dogs and cats. The gentle crashing of the surf wakes us on our first morning. The promise of hiking the extreme northern portion of Newfoundland’s East Coast Trail beckons us.

At a high point along the trail overlooking Pouch Cove.

At a high point along the trail overlooking Pouch Cove.

The East Coast Trail is a 240 mile long world class system running the length of the eastern Avalon Peninsula. It winds along spectacular rocky headlands, through parks and preserves, passes historic lighthouses, the graves of numerous ships and charts the five hundred year history of this unforgiving coast.
The small section we do today offers only a tantalizing morsel of what exists further south. The trail is very well marked and maintained. It runs along extremely rugged cliffs, the grave of the Waterwitch, an 1875 schooner that ran aground with all hands lost, and climbs to rocky outcrops with panoramic views of the coast and cove.

The atypical rugged coast of Newfoundland.

The wild and rugged coast typical of Newfoundland.

Further on lies the site of a W.W.II American observation post. German U-boats plied these waters, sinking many a merchant vessel. We Americans played an important role protecting the shipping in these waters.
We climb through miniature boreal forests of spruce and fir growing amidst a carpet of blueberries, bunch berries and partridge berries, a type of mountain cranberry. We pick the berries as we hike and meet not a soul.

Blueberries, red Bunchberries and Partidge berries.

Blueberries, red Bunchberries and dark purple Partridge berries.

The trail reaches Cape St. Francis and turns south along the west coast and into Conception Bay. We don’t make it that far today but the section we do hike offers a glimpse of what lies further on.

The locals created a confederation of B&B’s to help hikers explore the trail. They will pick you up at the airport, drop you at points along the trail which allow you to hike a stretch and end up with a hot meal and warm bed in a different B&B each night. Information can be found about this service at www.trailconnections.ca.

Oh yes, about getting screeched. Screech is a vile concoction of high octane rums. There is actually a ceremony performed through which you become a true Newfoundlander. And yes, you do have to kiss a cod. After a session of getting screeched, I doubt you would even know whether it was a cod or your wife you were kissing.

Copyright 2008 Dennis Jones www.dreamcatcherimaging.com