For a few weeks Notch Hill was filled with railway paraphernalia. Old tracks, plates and spikes layed about in great heaps.
The piles of metal echoed the shapes in the landscape. Clouds rolled down the mountains. What little light there was reflected off the metal creating textures and graphic lines, the stuff of photography. Further up the track at the Tappen-Notch Hill crossing the sun cast metallic light on a frozen pond at the end of the day.
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