Ingo Lilpeach

I’ve always had a thing for nicknames –
maybe even a thing for new names –
even though I like my name.

Ingo Lilpeach was one that I never told anyone about.

Maybe an alter-ego?
Maybe a medieval character
in the part of my imagination that
closest resembles “The Princess Bride”?

I don’t know.

But the name was cooked up
on a bus ride
into New York City.
A school trip
with a forgotten meaning.
I’m thinking
it was in middle school.

I was listening to a lot of opera music back then.
Never told anyone about that either.

Look up “Ute Lemper”.
Channel the pages of “OMNI” magazine.
The two are unrelated, but they make up the make-up of that time in my life..

Crappy Articles, Guns, and Life in the Great Outdoors

Outside Magazine is forever poking the bear with one-sided articles about people carrying firearms in the outdoors. Recently, they reposted an article from a couple of years ago, on a slow news day, to bring up their likes and comments on Facebook.

No, I won’t link to it.

No, they’re not talking about people who carry rifles for hunting – but people who carry a handgun when they go out and explore the outdoors.

Their claim is that those people pose more of a threat than anyone else hiking, camping, etc.

They’re also the same people who think bear spray is going to stop a determined grizzly bear.

Deep sigh…


I am out in the woods quite a bit.

I don’t frequent the frequented trails and there’s a lot of places I end up in that I don’t have cell service.

I’m out in places where my voice – even at its loudest scream – will only travel to the next tree because the woods are so dense.

I go out in the outdoors without a net because the purpose of going out in the outdoors is to escape and explore.

I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, and I really don’t see that changing. I don’t want it to change. I thrive in that environment and those situations.

But it was in one of these situations where I realized that it would only benefit me to carry a firearm. I would change a part my overall life, to balance out a fraction of it.

Wild, right?

It was about ten years ago, after a weird and wicked snowstorm ripped through Connecticut in October. Looking back, it feels like it was over before it began but the days after were long and disrupted as crews worked to clear roads and restore power throughout the state.

On one of those days, I decided to take a hike to one of my favorite spots – a place I had been frequenting weekly for years as it was remote and led me to a part of the forest that had some really unique and long-forgotten trails.

As I came over a ridge, I saw something that instantly turned my stomach – turned the whole vibe sour – it was a massive camp with multiple, family-sized tents and tons of belongings – plastic books cases filled with books, storage bins filled with DVD’s and electronics, clotheslines full of clothes, a couple of tables, etc. It was as if, overnight, a neighborhood had sprouted up from the earth and people had claimed the area as their own.

What made this even more ominous is that this area was remote. A couple miles from any road in any direction – meaning that all of this stuff, all of which was brand new, was carried in – and by a lot of people. I even checked for tracks from a quad or a dirtbike – something that made this all rational, and nothing existed. Nothing had been covered up. It was all hoofed in.

These were people, in a large number, that came out here for one reason or another and completely changed the atmosphere.

Over the course of a couple of days, news spread around town about this camp. About people from out of town, coming and moving out into the woods. There was talk about how crime was up and drugs were more prevalent. How people that nobody recognized had been seen lurking around.

Sounded like pure paranoia, is what it sounded like, to me – but I too had seen it and it made me feel… Off.. Like I didn’t want to go out there anymore; like I shouldn’t go out there anymore.

Now, look – there were people already living on that mountain. Folks who didn’t gel with the locals and society and went into those woods and built themselves a life. I had stayed with them. I had eaten dinner and played music with them. These were good people. And yeah, there was element of drugs and a little bit of danger – but they were accessible people and welcoming.

This new camp was not that. Not at all. Not even a little.
And those other folks living up there felt it too. It put them on high alert – made them uneasy in the place they came to, to feel easy.

So, one day, I went back to the woods because I wanted to see what this really was. I didn’t want to be the guy running to the police because good people fell on the outs and ran to the woods to live. I wasn’t going to blow the whistle on them with just a yucking feeling in my stomach.

I was struggling with it, but not enough to make those people struggle.

I was almost at the camp when a dirty little barefoot boy in an oversized t-shirt crossed my path. Crying the blues about being hungry and not knowing where he was – but me knowing that there was no way he left his house without pants and shoes on.

Or that he was alone.

And that’s when an older, shirtless, gentleman with a rifle emerged from the bramble – trying to sing me a sweet song about poverty, all while keeping his hands keenly positioned on that rifle. He wasn’t pointing at me, but it would only take a fraction of a second for that to change.

The kid was bait.

He was sent out to stop someone coming down the trail so that this older guy could freak them out and get a little cash or food out of them, at minimum.

The same older guy who totally helped carry all the new gear, and collection of DVD’s into the deep of the woods.

This was a bad scene – these people were the bad scene. These people were everything that everyone was whispering about in town. Were they just trying to survive out there? Completely. Were they going about it the wrong way? Completely.

It was very obvious that there was some ill-intention in this conversation.

I talked my way out of that situation and got back to the trailhead. And then back down to the main trail and out to my truck where I sat and gathered my shit for a minute.

And decided that I would become a gun owner.


In a rural setting, the first place people go when they don’t want to be found is the woods. It doesn’t matter the reason, but they are out there because they want to be left alone. It’s why people go hiking, but in the case of these more destitute folks – it’s a little more edgy, not as bountiful, and it’s not so they can post pictures on their favorite outdoor Facebook group page.

Are they a threat? Depends. But why put yourself in a situation where you’re unprepared? The gift of gab got me out of that situation with that old man and his pint-sized accomplice. But if it didn’t? What if there were more folks there? What if there were more guns there?

When we head out in the woods, most of us make sure to bring water, a compass, a knife, cellphone – what’s so different about a handgun? Because they carry a negative connotation in modern civiliazation?

Cool. The woods – the mountains – the forest – the river – caves and root huts – they aren’t modern civilization. They are an escape and, as much as we would like to believe the law extends out, under the canopy, in the middle of nowhere – it doesn’t.

People are in the mindset of escaping, and the tendrils of modern society are a big trigger for that escape.

So, here’s some reality.

For the last ten years, I have carried a handgun with me when I’ve gone hiking and camping – and I have yet to shoot anyone. Hundreds of miles in the woods – and I’ve yet to feel the need to squeeze that trigger and send someone on their way.

I don’t feel cool and courageous when I have it on me and I rarely pay it any more attention than my knife or hatchet. In fact, it’s concealed, unlike my knife or hatchet.

It’s not a toy, it’s a tool – and yes, I have been in a few other situations in the woods where I was happy I had it – but I never pulled it or alluded to it. I am a responsible gun owner.

A handgun – just like a shirtless old man with a hunting rifle – will escalate the situation – as long as you understand that it’s a last resort, and not a first response then it’s not even part of the conversation.

If Outside Magazine, whom I love and adore, wants to keep publishing one-sided articles that just create fear, maybe they can add something like this to their copy:

There are a lot of people who carry handguns and there are a lot of people who are uneasy around them. Both sides need to respect one another – because that dichotomy isn’t going to change. If you choose to carry, then be responsible. If you choose to be worried, then I recommend you educate yourself on handguns, handgun owners, and maybe even head down to a range and fire off a few rounds.

I would also also recommend to expand into the weeds and add something witty, like:

If you’re worried about someone carrying a handgun then you should REALLY be worried about someone carrying a rifle – as those suckers can clip you from far distances with a greater accuracy.

But that would allude to their being a cadre of a murderous rogues living in the woods, hellbent on bloodshed, and we’re just not there yet. Not on a large scale. Maybe in little nooks and crannies somewhere. Which, again – a handgun would come handy in.

All in all, I would just like to see them create awareness instead of fear.

Anyway.

I could go on. I could get into the animal aspect – and how bear spray really doesn’t work. But I won’t – because it’ll just be a tangent at that point.

Be safe.
Be responsible.
Be prepared.

Be yourself..

RIP Arcades

As a kid growing up in the 80’s and 90’s – arcades were a second home for me. I remember saving up my lunch money and doing odd chores around the house so I could split my bounty between comic books and arcade games – both of which were in the pinnacle of their existence at the time.

I remember once spending a whole day with my friend Marc and his brother – having their father drive us around from comic book shop, to arcade, to the store so we could buy video games, and then out to the casino that night – where we spent the entire night in the arcade.

We had video games everywhere around us.
We had video stores so we could rent video games.

And though I love how technology has advanced to the point where I have all of the aforementioned in my pocket; it doesn’t replace the arcade.

Arcades were a cultural haven. A place to escape and get ensconced. And when you balanced that out against home video game systems – it was a whole thing.

Spending weeknights, after homework, studying combos to unleash on Friday night at the arcade – in Mortal Kombat, Marvel vs. Capcom, Killer Instinct, Primal Rage, Street Fighter, Samurai Showdown… Etc… Etc.. Etc..

The arcades were always dark and loud – with flashing lights and robotic sounds. They smelled like bubblegum, featured greasy buttons, and you had to know just the right spot to hit the coin box to get your quarters to drop so you could get in the mix.

And if you couldn’t get to the mall or the movies – where arcades lived – you could find something at a gas station, Pizza Hut, or a laundromat.

Between that and comic books, it’s a wonder I how I made it as far as I have. Haha. I’m kidding – stop – I had my heads in hands involved in other things – but those were the hobbies of choice.

Now, arcades are niche. There’s a few places that still have the classics rigged up under the loud sounds and blinking lights – but they’re only there to fill in the gaps between reward machines that spit tickets at you so you can win something that’ll end up under the seat of your truck, or under the bed – forgotten before they were gotten.

Now, my skill level is almost non-existent. I used to know how to flow across the game board – how to cut time by just tapping the joystick. Combos. Button tricks. All of it. And sure, a little bit of it comes back as I get into it – but that’s just the kid in me and muscle memory joining forces. I’m no longer a formidable entity in the video game realm. I can’t learn new tricks.

I struggle with Roblox while my two daughters excel.
It’s like I replaced those old skills with new skills and didn’t have room for both in the old memory banks.

And I guess that’s alright. I mean, I probably couldn’t run through a set of combos and defeat my opponent before they even got to throw a jab – but I can drive and do my taxes.

Hahahah.

Times have changed. People have changed.
I miss the bubblegum and greasy buttons…

Hey. Who remembers that INSANE Aerosmith shooter – Revolution X?
How old are those guys now? Wow.

A world before High Definition…
A culture lost.

Spur of the Moment: Turtle Creek (no editing)

Winter birds
sing spring songs
Celebrating
days before
when it was warm…
Like spring
in winter.

The banks of the river
edged in ice.
Frozen boat rocks
creek louder than
the bird song.

It’s still winter.
Very much winters

My thought are warm
but I should have worn gloves.

New England Winter Hobby

It must be a winter thing – actually, it’s obviously a winter thing – but the birds have really got my attention lately, and I don’t see this distraction letting loose until Spring.

And that’s okay…

It’s this time of year where they go from being “birds” to being Junco’s and Titmice – Wren’s and Chickadee’s, all with interesting descriptors before their species. Names that I’ll forget once it warms up, and rediscover again when it starts to freeze next winter.

I enjoy toiling over what kind of food to get them, and as this is a hobby, I don’t mind making the small investment in that food. I don’t mind spending my time making sure the squirrel’s leave that food alone, or standing by my kitchen sink, silently and motionless, waiting for the next winged wonder to land on the feeder, or dangle off of the suet cage so I can try and take a picture.

Most birds don’t mind you taking their picture.

They have no idea what you’re doing – you just need to be fluid in your motions and make sure not to break an imaginary barrier and get any closer to them. If you can follow these unwritten rules, you’ll get some great shots that you can post and share – come back to and faun over in the future.

Birds are simple, but they’re scared. We’ve domesticated them by feeding them, but we’ve also instilled that fear in them. This is no truer than when you try to capture a Cardinal. Even with a barrier between us, they’ll ditch all their efforts if they see you – even the shadow of you.

Even the idea of you…

Sure, you could snap a great picture of one – or any bird – from a great distance with the right camera and lens – but here at the homestead, it’s more about connecting than collecting. Like trying to get both of your kids to smile in a picture on the first day of school, as opposed to taking the whole class picture.

Details.

Update: Shortly after I published this article, I was able to get a, somewhat decent, pictures of a female Cardinal. This is pretty exceptional, considering the context of this article, and it’s overall crux.

Female Cardinal

The Other Woodpeckers

Though I read a ton, I am the kind of person who likes to be surprised.

Case and point – I know I can open a book or Google “Connecticut Woodpeckers” and be given a full, detailed spread about the variety of woodpeckers in the state – but I would rather experience their individuality spontaneously.

I’m used to the Pileated Woodpecker.

For years, I’ve listened to them call out to one another in the woods, and – just recently – I observed one commandeer an old tree out back and rittle it with holes. They’re a rather larger bird, and when you see them – if you see them – you’ll always been impressed by that size when compared to their agility.

But this morning, I was rewarded with two other types of woodpeckers: the Downy Woodpecker, and the Red Bellied Woodpecker.

The Downy Woodpecker

Small and daring, this little bird has zero regard for its surroundings – focused only on the endgame.

It latched on to the suet cage and as it the whole thing started to swing around, this bird wasn’t bothered by the least. It hung on until it was done eating.

The Red Bellied Woodpecker

About the size of a morning dove, this beautiful bird was agile, and moved in calculated, but smooth motions until it saw it was safe to move in for breakfast.

It was very aware of my presence and only advanced as I retreated.

Their presence is in no doubt due to the addition of “high energy” suet that I put out near the seed box. Both food supplies getting some serious action, but – based on the fact that I have never seen a Downy or Red Bellied woodpecker, up close and personal – in real life – makes them the guests of honor for the time being.

I look forward to see who else comes to the table. Birds are a wonderful part of life on Earth – and anywhere else they may exist. Like airplanes, they don’t make sense – how they hang in the air, and maybe that’s what makes them all that more special? I’m not sure, but I know I am in awe of them.

In Dreams…

Storytelling is – and has been – the best form of communication – since.. Forever!

That will never change.

It’s storytelling that has allowed cultures to survive for generations.
Storytelling that brought the news to the masses..

Storytelling is what allows us to thrive.
And it’s in every aspect of communication – fact or fiction, or an amalgamation of both.

It can be flippant or personal, and I have told plenty of both – from all angles and edges – but dreams – dreams have always been the ones that create a connection between the storyteller and their audience.

Sharing your dreams makes you very vulnerable, in the moment – and pit you against time, because dreams eventually evaporate as the real day takes over and your day begins.

When I was growing up, my mom would ask me what I dreamt about when I was sleeping. She did this every day until I moved away to college. She would spend a few minutes of every morning listening to my tales – that I told – complete – with enthusiasm and emotion.

This opportunity to orate built up my storytelling chops, and allowed me to share bits and pieces from the corners of my imagination I had no control over. It was raw and real and I have since passed this tradition on to my daughters.

Every morning, I wake them up – and without fail, at some point, I’ll either ask them about their dreams or they’ll ask to tell me about them.

And they’re just as enthusiastic and emotional as I ever was.

Yesterday, while planning out the day – early in the morning – I was happily disrupted by the trickle of their soft voices. I walked to their room and listened by the door – and they were sharing their dreams with one another.

I cried.
Composed myself.
And joined in to listen.

I heard stories of ghosts and the wonders of driving for the first time from a five year old. Then I was told what life was like as a ballerina in a forest from an eight year old.

It was real. They lived those moments, and ad-libbed in the re-telling…
Creating on the fly to fill in the blanks and sell the story.

It was the best feeling in the world.

In dreams…

Good Listeners

Last night, the girls were asking me what our next pet should be.

My first response was that we’re full up on pets for the time being, but as they worked on me a bit – and erring to my imagination – I said that our next pet should be a fox.

I understand that they’re not domesticated and any and all stories about people owning them as indoor pets have been shared without including the cons of having one as a pet.

That said, I have a long history with foxes.

Some kind of acceptance that was formed through years of wandering in the woods quietly – as to not disturb them. They watch me until I see them – and then they bounce off – but they make sure I’m sure I saw them.

Maybe a bit of a free pass because I grew up on a farm with them running around in the orchard where I was running around? A kid with some kits just being free before any of us knew the horrors of society and reality.

Then there was the night I hit one with my truck coming out of the woods. I was a teenager. I wasn’t paying attention. Neither was her or she. I shared a moment with this poor creature while it lay dying and I crouched crying before I put it out of it’s misery.

I dreamt about that fox off and on for twenty years after.

Either way, back here in the real world – where I have to make responsible decisions about what I get into in my life, and what I put my kids up against, I know that we can’t own a fox as a pet. And, though they’re a bit sullen about the facts, they’re alright with it.

Pulling in the driveway tonight, there was a beautiful fox waiting for me by the edge of the fence. A fence put up by a complete idiot of a neighbor, that is now keeping me from making an idiotic decision and inviting this fox in for Christmas.

I haven’t see a fox in the wild in twenty years. Now, after having considered one in the midst of light conversation last night, there’s one playing out in the yard with my dog.

Like I called upon the stars to deliver one.
As if my imagination had that much influence.

There are no coincidences in life, just occurrences.
And good listeners..

Black Bears & Basement Stairs

I sat down this morning to do a little writing for a friend of mine. A link to the past, and connection to my life in the outdoors – nothing monumental, but I’m not looking for a change of pace. This is just something that fell in my lap, through word of mouth, and as it’s all easy stuff for me to write about – I graciously accepted.

When I write, my head goes off into a million different directions to help me piece together what I’m writing about; making it more authentic and relatable. The key to good writing isn’t writing about what you’re writing about, it’s to keep the reader engaged.

Anyway.
This isn’t a MasterClass…
Let’s move on.

Just now, I trailed off to my Aunt and Uncle’s basement – where we spent many amazing holidays, and random days, relaxing and laughing.

It was thick with nostalgia, even then – when I was a kid. A big finished room – like a second living room, but with so much more. A kitchen, a bathroom – a bedroom behind the bar. And an incredible workshop I was only in a few times in the breadth of my life when I got the chance to be down there.

But where I got stuck – today and as a husky, young explorer of sorts – was on my way down the stairs where there’s a door on the right that leads to some dark room.

I remember there being a red light on in that room and that sent my mind in many different directions – regarding what it could be. A little boy with a big imagination and an aunt who wouldn’t want him snooping around.

The perfect combo for a kid like me…

I may have even opened the door and found out what it was at one point – actually turned on the light and looked around. I think it was a utility closet of some sort, but right now, I can’t remember.

It all makes me think of my Uncle and how I wish he was still here.And now I’m completely off task.

Haha.
Anyway.

Back to pocket saws, tooth patterns, and wandering around in those woods that he told me were filled with black bears..

I never saw one..
But I still believe him.

That Skull and Wreath Combo

I take a ton of pictures.

Sometimes I’ll take a picture and let it simmer – so that when I return to it, if I return to it, it has a different meaning.

Such is the case with this picture – taken randomly as I was walking up to the driveway from the house.

It has no meaning, whatsoever, but it feels deep and dark so it inspired something deep and dark.


“… And those with gnashing teeth”

And all the frights of Festivus,
circled ‘round the lot of us..
As smoke filled up our noses….
And fire lit up our eyes…

And on the horizon,
was the reason why
all the magic was
ever written…

Then glitter fell from the sky
While howls in the distance
reminded us why
we were still alive…

And of course,
as chills ran up our spines,
we refused to go back inside..

Waiting for those with gnashing teeth…