Whenever I think "park," my mind conjures up dog-walkers, frisbee-flingers and sunbathers — none of which excite me or offer reason enough to enjoy a beautiful day at the mercy of crowds when work can be done and fun be had in a suitably sunny room indoors.

Congress Park was different, probably because Americade's crowds mixed with the usual denizens from Empire State College. But there was more; from the semi-circular sign at the park's gate, the archways beyond it, to the extraordinary efforts obviously made to preserve over the years the park's original stylings, Congress Park was downright classy.

As was the day.

Paul immediately became fixated with an enclosed merry-go-round just inside the gates, and Ed followed him. I didn't find it the most inspiring, and was a little embarrassed by Paul's walking right in the doors when it was fairly apparent that those without children belonged outside them. So I walked off on my own. As I understand it, Paul was shortly thereafter asked to take his place among the childless — in a manner of speaking. I wandered my way alone down a tree-lined path.

I heard bagpipes.

And made a beeline for them. Then I heard a well-manned cadence playing. The accompaniment was rhythmic and consonant but not a performance: the drums would stop and the bagpipes would continue. Then the bagpipes would gradually die away, as if large sections simply stopped playing while others kept on. Then all the music stopped, moments before the drums rattled again.

I kept walking, moving faster. I could see a sizable crowd across a street, loosely congregated around a pavilion. As I came closer and the music continued, I could make out small groups of bagpipers playing together — only amongst themselves. Each group was practicing its own song, blessed to harmony by their instruments being stuck in one key.

Finally among them, I knew what I was watching: a local bagpiper troop of thirty or so men and women of all ages, out practicing on a Saturday.

From the ruddy looks of some of them, the hobby was a traditional one.

People turned their heads to look as they came and went, but a number equal to the bagpipers, including myself, simply stopped to watch and listen to the musical conversation.

I moved in close to capture the fountain (seen in the picture above to the far right).

Ed and Paul weren't unimpressed by the bagpipers when they caught up with me; nor were they entranced, like I was. Ed moved off to a fish pool and I, taking in the melodious forest around me one last time, followed.

I recall the moment in which I took this photograph: seeing fish, thinking bagpipes.

It was at the pool that the three of us mutually and mutely communicated satisfaction with our park exploration, so we moved off and took a paved fairway that took us in the direction from where we'd come. A quick search in a botany book might identify the three large-leafed, silk-flowered trees, yet though I don't know what they were, their beauty was unarguable.

Clover. Pastoral, understated, delightful.

Ducks are drawn to Congress Park not only for its ponds but for its moat-encircled fortresses in which to raise young. I salute Mr. Mallard over there on the left of the second picture, apparently slipping out the back door for a pint.

The glories of carrying a camera when a simple-yet-stunning visual catches you, and that camera being digital so you can make sure, on the spot, that the third exposure succeeded.

Before leaving Congress Park and weaving our way through narrow, college-town streets to Ed's car, we rested in the shade of an incredibly broad tree. Neither one of the pictures I took describe its enormity.

We left Saratoga Springs as the afternoon began to wane, resting at Ed's for a bit before heading out in the evening for some sushi.

(Albany Excursion Parts I, II and IV.)

I sleep well virtually anywhere: in cars, on the floor, on benches, on couches. When I visited my friend Paul in Athens for his senior photography show in the spring of 2002, he gave me his bedroom couch — what could otherwise be described as a faithfully rectangular, plaid mass of cushion. For one lying down, it functioned like an adjustable bed, which couches aren't supposed to do, but for three nights it was the best roughing-it sleep I've ever had.

The couch in Ed's entertainment room is a close second; every night during the three visits made over the past two years, I've closed my eyes, shifted a bit and awakened six to eight hours later. (Then run down the apartment's thirty foot hallway to the bathroom before I burst.) Wonderful.

The morning after Friday's grand adventure was no different. I was up by eight-twenty; Paul had already gone running and within fifteen minutes, the two of us walked a hundred feet down the road to a corner Stewart's store, purchased a coffee each and unholstered our respective cameras, shooting every inch of Ed's front lawn and porch.

The weather was as clear-blue and mild as the day before — perfect for shooting but even more fitting for those twenty or thirty minutes Paul and I spent while Ed snored inside, just flitting around and catching the light this way and that. Thinking back, it, like the entire Saturday, is a coveted memory of mine.

Ed's porch railing. I'm certain I've seen the first image on several hundred thousand greeting cards.

Taking this photograph, I was struck by a thought, one that returned as I compiled the picture for this collection: how many bushes, trees, leaves and edges of the porch can I capture without repeating myself? Unless the landscape is altered for my next visit, Paul and I covered just about everything. For a brief moment I felt a little wistful, reaching for that moment in time again before I realized we could simply grab a coffee and troll about the neighborhood — and never run out of scenes.

Eventually, Ed opened his front door, blinked at us a few times, gave us his patented why-in-the-hell-did-you-wake-up-three-hours-earlier-than-I-wanted-to look, smiled, and went back inside. Paul followed. I took a few more pictures before reentering the apartment myself.

We all got ready, ate breakfast — no, I ate breakfast, Ed and Paul pecked — and piled into Ed's car for a trip to nearby Saratoga Springs.

Saratoga Springs is the home of the eponymous racing track, apparently quite a draw for common and well-heeled horse-racing fans alike. That June weekend, it was also the site of biker's convention Americade 2004. No sooner did Ed turn off of the highway than traffic embraced us. Crowds, motorcycles and American flags were everywhere. A good half-hour later, Ed found a comfortable parking space well away from the throng and we headed into town.

Before sitting down for lunch in a little Indian restaurant, we three walked up and down a few streets. I took this picture as the mounted policeman trotted by, intending to frame the horse with the motorcycles, and the biker lady and child who were quite conscious of me behind them. Shuffling through images later, I discovered what an incredible peek into the day's bustle the photograph was.

The number and richness of each vignette seems as planned and placed as on a master work from any post-Renaissance painting. Suddenly, the crowd isn't one: it's a family, or a chance meeting, or a weekly lunch date with an old friend, or a funny story to be told for years to come.

Who are these people? — a question one never really takes time to ask while weaving through them on the sidewalk, face grimly forward. We may never know, but now we can tilt our heads and wonder.

After an unintentionally hearty lunch of spicy Indian cuisine — long story but suffice to say, be more precise when ordering food and gesturing to your colleagues — Paul, Ed and I strolled through the crowds again, stopped inside a toy store and then made our way east to Congress Park.

(Albany Excursion Parts I, III, and IV.)

Autumn's here. Pass it on.

SCIENCE CLASS: Refresher course here.

Last night's sky was busily working something through and, naturally, did it with grace.

Living about five minutes from an airport is well worth the associated noise.

Because two breathtaking rises are better than one.

This photograph I took this morning. The Valley forest's fog is a gift of spring and summer — my two favored seasons — but with the Olympus, this autumn will be for me the most anticipated in a long time.

Homecoming continues. I spied this trailer Wednesday night: what are carnival rides without power? And what's power when it doesn't come directly from the Hammer of Thor?

This August has been the mildest (read: comfortable) I can remember, and possibly the coolest on record. What began as a sultry, vivacious summer (yes, "summer" and not "woman") has gone benign, with not more than five thundershowers (no, not even storms) over the past sixty days or so. But you can't argue with pleasant weather, especially when you have Saturday afternoons that look like this:

Care of the greatest investment I ever made. Much more beautiful than Colorado. But then we don't have zombies.

A wonderful Fourth weekend — with weather to match. Here's to hoping yours was as delightful.

The morning of June 11th was one all-too-typical of Cleveland in summer: cloudy, a bit muggy, soggy. Dagobah. I oblige nature to help the grass along. I like a rainy day. But travel isn't travel when it's not under a blue canopy. The low pressure front was an east-to-west affair, fortunately, and weather radar showed it breaking off abruptly over Erie, Pennsylvania. That meant Paul and I would cross into sunny skies during the first third of our trip. Taking a picture of the Albany Excursion Vehicle — my darling PT Cruiser with aftermarket, mullioned wood grain, affectionately known as Dolly — I noted that beauty made some use of the wetness before I wished it to go the hell away, pronto.

A few minutes later I arrived at Chez Paul. And parked in the street.

The PT Cruiser can be forgiven for its Dodge Neon guts because its interior is as respectively convenient, modular and downright roomy as the Dodge Minivan and Chrysler Town & Country. I've only used most of the extended rear space once, and even then I had cubic feet to spare. Paul was packing some heavy camera equipment and even then we didn't make a dent.

Jaws set, a silent mockery of the devil, pain and death before the great odyssey begins. We look awfully tough in this picture...

...because this is how the one before it turned out.

Life imitates art. The ATM, spiriting away the stolen plans, brought them to a promising young accountant who would successfully restructure the galaxy's balance sheet.

We merged with Interstate 90 East and pushed out through Cleveland, driving through buckets of Northeast Ohio's finest.

Half an hour later, beyond Greater Cleveland, Paul and I stopped at Mentor, a favorite pit stop from my tradition of trips to Syracuse with my father and sister. We topped off the tank and rolled across the street to pick up a coffee, orange juice and a couple of hash brown sticks at McDonald's; then returned to I-90, not to stop again until Angola, New York.

The rain came down progressively lighter as the ceiling began to rise, the clouds beginning to show folds and creases. A painting on the back of that RV in the bottom picture was hilarious and I asked Paul to take a snapshot for memories. Thanks to my windshield wiper, we'll never remember what it was.

Into Pennsylvania we crossed...

And then the Empire State.

On cue, the clouds began to tear and recede. Paul offered to take a shot of the striation...

...And now I find myself with a timely business opportunity. Copies of this printed out at eight by ten inches on attractive fiber paper with yellow turned up: who says it ain't Saturn? You? Okay — what's your cut? And keep your mouth shut.

And there, large as life: the New York Thruway.

Angola. They did — very much so, as soon as the transaction had been authorized.

As if it were choreographed, sunshine painted the landscape, the air warmed up to the high sixties and the car's windows went down — seventy-five miles per hour or no. From here until Albany, Paul and I enjoyed perfect driving weather.

We stopped for lunch at a rest stop right outside of Syracuse. The big-rigs looked sharp lined up so after Paul and I had finished and took a moment out for a peach and an apple back in the car, I took a picture. Paul followed suit, his photograph on the bottom.

Minutes later I noticed some excellent taste in personal transportation parking beside us. As before, I tried a shot (at top) and then Paul (at bottom).

The day played nice and stayed beautiful.

Bound for Albany. I believe Depeche Mode's Construction Time Again was playing. My choice, of course.

If at first you don't succeed, trinitrotoluene.

Around Utica, a growl and flash of black brought a biker gang at Dolly's seven, flanking us on the left slowly and methodically. The point man, Santa Claus as a black leather-clad Hell's Angel, rode alone and some fifteen feet ahead of the pack; behind him, the brothers came in echelon, one pair after another. Every one of the riders looked tougher than anything; the leader could probably peel paint by so much as clearing his throat.

How tough is tough? Ask this fellow and his friends. They wrote the book.

And away they went.

Eight hours after we'd started, we pulled up to Ed's house. Paul made a phone call home. I got out to stretch, enjoy the view and rap on Ed's front door.

The hatchback was open for us to unload but we chatted instead.

Paul and Ed. Funnily enough, Paul's birthday is the same as mine, Ed's ten days earlier in the month. The three of us went inside and caught up a little more before heading out to the local Mangia for dinner, helping ourselves to all manner of exotic oven-fired pizzas.

After dinner we dawdled a bit in Western Avenue's Stuyvesant Plaza. Walking along, Ed stopped us dead in our tracks, turning to face a toy shop's storefront window. A stuffed Aardvark had caught Ed's attention and he, a collector of such things, took the three of us inside. Of course, we didn't need much coaxing. Paul and I immediately descended on some plastic viking gear. He snatched up the helmet and I, upon being told by a couple of thoroughly jaded teenage clerks that they were fresh out of the caps, grabbed the helmet's accompanying plastic sword. We gave the place a quick tour, played around with some outstanding, expensive Folkmanis puppets and left. Paul quickly put on his helmet. I tore my sword from its package, discovered belt slits through the scabbard and fit the thing to my waist. Ed pretended he didn't know us. We came home, Ed and Paul hit the beer, I the root beer, and we shot the breeze.

Everybody got a turn with the cap. Ed's housemate wandered in and out for a few laughs. Things became a little sillier.

We stumbled across some truths. Democrats, for instance, need stuffed animals.

Independents prefer Transformers.

Republicans wait until nobody's looking, then jump right out of character. Storm Shadow.

At eleven or so, Ed brought out his unopened copy of Bill Murray's Lost in Translation and the three of us helped ourselves to an inaugural viewing. Ed had mentioned the movie in a phone conversation some weeks before; I was expecting something much darker than the smart, poignant but mostly harmless film that Lost was. Enjoyable. Scarlett Johansson was delightful to watch, if a little rustic. Murray's deadpan was priceless, and half the fun was figuring out which lines were scripted and which were straight off the top of his head.

After the movie we played a little bit of favored timewaster Timesplitters 2, then called it a night. We had a busy day ahead.

(Albany Excursion Parts II and III and IV.)