In Frederick I met Tim Beachley. His shop, much like others I have seen, was well outfitted and relatively comfortable. By putting money that he has made from jobs over the past eight years to tools and equipment, he's been able to work around having to get a loan for equipment and then having to find work to supplement his payments.
Even though he's only been smithing for eight years, his work is off the charts. He got into blacksmithing after taking a welding class and wanting to do more than work with well polished and machined metal. One thing led to another and he started to attend his local blacksmithing guild meetings and started putting out well-crafted work in no time.
One of the things that he has excelled at is creating dragon's heads. He's put them on the ends of fire pokers, fire-place brooms and shovels, bottle openers, door handles and now he has created a smoke stack for a grill that will be auctioned off at the next meeting of his local ABANA affiliate.
He started out with pipe, narrowed it at one end for the head and then started forging. His piece probably includes just as much welding as it does forged work. I believe he said that he had to punch out two hundred scales, which were eventually welded on. For the eyes of the dragon he used ball bearings inside of a few sheets of welded metal. He explained to me the way he created the definition on the lower jaw, but it is escaping me at the moment.
After talking for a long while and looking over his portfolio, we parted and I set on my way. My next destination was a hostel, but on the way a sign displaying, "Gettysburg 8 Miles" ultimately changed my course.
After parking at the old visitor's center I walked over a knoll and looked over the battlefield. The sun, low in the sky behind a curtain of clouds, managed to break through, illuminating the fields of Gettysburg in a lighting befitting of pastures where our ancestors fought and fell to one anothers' gun and sword. Walking over the cold, crunching grass of Cemetery Ridge I could only think of the lives of the Union men who were once there. Where I walked men fought; where I walked men died; where I walked men bled into the ground and grass, the same grass that grows today.
The wind was strong in the valley and as you looked out towards the mountains it would hit you like a wall of rushing soldiers. The magnitude of the thoughts and feelings I had was equalled by the breadth and depth of the landscape, the wind and monuments standing at once together and totally alone.
I left the fields of Gettysburg, wound my way through the Pine Grove Furnace State Park to where I find myself tonight.
Even though he's only been smithing for eight years, his work is off the charts. He got into blacksmithing after taking a welding class and wanting to do more than work with well polished and machined metal. One thing led to another and he started to attend his local blacksmithing guild meetings and started putting out well-crafted work in no time.
One of the things that he has excelled at is creating dragon's heads. He's put them on the ends of fire pokers, fire-place brooms and shovels, bottle openers, door handles and now he has created a smoke stack for a grill that will be auctioned off at the next meeting of his local ABANA affiliate.
He started out with pipe, narrowed it at one end for the head and then started forging. His piece probably includes just as much welding as it does forged work. I believe he said that he had to punch out two hundred scales, which were eventually welded on. For the eyes of the dragon he used ball bearings inside of a few sheets of welded metal. He explained to me the way he created the definition on the lower jaw, but it is escaping me at the moment.
After talking for a long while and looking over his portfolio, we parted and I set on my way. My next destination was a hostel, but on the way a sign displaying, "Gettysburg 8 Miles" ultimately changed my course.
After parking at the old visitor's center I walked over a knoll and looked over the battlefield. The sun, low in the sky behind a curtain of clouds, managed to break through, illuminating the fields of Gettysburg in a lighting befitting of pastures where our ancestors fought and fell to one anothers' gun and sword. Walking over the cold, crunching grass of Cemetery Ridge I could only think of the lives of the Union men who were once there. Where I walked men fought; where I walked men died; where I walked men bled into the ground and grass, the same grass that grows today.
The wind was strong in the valley and as you looked out towards the mountains it would hit you like a wall of rushing soldiers. The magnitude of the thoughts and feelings I had was equalled by the breadth and depth of the landscape, the wind and monuments standing at once together and totally alone.
I left the fields of Gettysburg, wound my way through the Pine Grove Furnace State Park to where I find myself tonight.
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