Breaking Trail

I could barely see the trail as I set out in the early morning light. Flynn, my friend Bridget's Border Collie, broke the trail, bounding and sprinting through the snowy woods. He is a great dog! His eyes burn with intensity at any chance to run or retrieve, and his body moves with a silky swiftness that can only be described as graceful. His black and white frame blends with the surrounding winter landscape, and he seems to become one with the woods. It was barely 6:30, but the first rays of pink light were peeking through the spruce trees. I romped through the powdery white snow that blanketed the ground. Each step brought us closer to the ocean. The sound of waves breaking against the rocky shore interrupted the silence of the woods. The trees began to part and the ocean appeared like a shining needle in a haystack. I followed Flynn as he sprinted to the slippery edge. The Penobscot Bay was still, like a 30 mile wide sheet of glass covered its surface. A few birds swooped overhead, but the serenity of the moment was breathtaking. The sky was slowly turning pink. The cold water lapped at my feet as the brave Border Collie entered the Bay, and immediately began to scan its smooth surface. He swam to a large rock, which was barely protruding out of the water. Gracefully, he arched his back and positioned his front legs on the top of the rock, and peered out into the distance. I quickly dropped to my knees, my faithful Nikon at the ready, and snapped away at a furious pace. What a sight it was! A true creature of the outdoors, free of all collars and leashes, bathing himself in the early morning light of a winter sunrise. What a freedom he must have felt, all alone out on that rock. I watched as the sun began to appear over North Haven. Slowly, it rose, like a giant a ball of fire, igniting the bay in a blaze of bursting color. The pink of the early morning was now turning into the blue of an approaching day. The sky was clear, and the clouds continued to lazily drift towards the west. I called Flynn from the freezing water and he leaped onto dry land. Jagged patches of ice clung to his furry skin. We marched back up the path to the road, man and his best friend together as one. I watched as the rising sun slowly illuminated the tops of the towering spruce trees. The morning light was now all around us, showering the coast with a golden hue that lifted the heart and warmed the soul. The new year had begun. Just another day in paradise.

December Days

It was quite bitter this morning. The sun was shining, but it didn't matter. The temperature was hovering around 12 and the heavy snow that was falling 40 miles across the bay in Blue Hill, was scheduled to arrive in Camden somewhere around dinner time. With a day off ahead of me, I walked down to Rockport to see what was going on in the harbor these days. Being the middle of December, the action at Rockport Marine was not on the water, but off the water, where men in flannel shirts and rubber boots slaved away at their respective boats, preparing them for the long winter ahead. One particular lobsterman sat on the gravel and messed around with his propeller. His traps hauled out for the season, he now was turning his focus to his boat and the many repairs that she needs after a long year battling the chilly waters of Penobscot Bay. A few yards away, a group of workers chipped away at the hull of an old sailboat, attempting to remove the old coat of paint before a new one could be applied. It is a strange sight to see 6 sailboats lined up with tarps and shrink wrap covering them. So used to seeing them frolic on the bay, you know realize that even they have to rest and be attended to. A boat requires a lot of work, and most of it goes on when the tourists aren't here to watch it happen. These summer vessels had now become winter storage. Up on Rockports tidy little Main Street, the shops and restaurants were all decked out in their Christmas attire. Wreaths and bows hung from the windows and doors, and candles sat at every window, ready to light up the winter night. The Opera House was closed shut for the week and the Library was planning on closing for the holiday as well. Back down Russel avenue on the way to Camden, I stopped at the Aldermere Farm to see if I could find the cows. These days, they seem to be scattered throughout the property, where they are hard to locate. In the warm months, they are put on display for all to see, but in December, just like the summer tourists and leaf peepers, they have abruptly retreated into their own private spaces. That afternoon, while a light snow was falling, I walked down my street to Laite Beach, where I met a very special dog. Chaucer, a bouncy Golden Retriever puppy, had just turned 4 months and his appetite for playing in the snow was clearly large. A frisbee would be thrown down towards the water and Chaucer would run full bore after it, his hind legs slipping and sliding all over the place. Upon reaching the frisbee, he would attempt to stop but instead would fall over himself, tumbling 10 feet past the Frisbee. He repeated this floppy form of retrieval for the next 30 minutes, much to my and his owners delight. What fun he was having! At one point he simply rolled over onto his back and slid down the hill, snow flying in every direction, his tail waving back and forth. This Golden had it right. In order to enjoy the winter, you must play in the winter, and get outside and enjoy the snow, even if it is 20 degrees and windy out. I said goodbye to this special puppy and walked back to my house. My landlord Mark was in the garage, putting the finishing touches on his new storm doors. Some old blues music was playing in the background and the smell of paint and wood filled the air. The snow continued to fall outside as the afternoon light began to fade. We both decided that a little down time was needed so we headed down Bay View Street to the Waterfront, where he sat by a roaring fire, drinking hot chocolate and shooting the breeze until dinner rolled around. Walking back to my house, I gazed down the street towards the harbor. Almost every store front was lit up with Christmas lights, and candles filled the windows of the old houses that sat perched over the harbor. The twin peaks of Battie and Megunticook loomed large over the town. A cold wind blew snow across the street and clouds raced past a crescent moon above. December is such a beautiful time to be in Maine.

Passing Storms

When you live on the Coast of Maine, you learn to accept the weather for better or for worse. Fog, rain, wind and snow, can all appear in an instant, changing the environment around you into a whole different animal. I have seen fogs in the summer so thick that I could not see the ground from my upstairs window. Last summer, we had a two week stretch where 12 inches of rain fell in the middle of June. I have heard the wind literally whistle past my bedroom window on numerous occasions, and I have seen 26 inches of snow fall in a 24 hour period. Each season can bring it's own particular weather, but as the winter months begin to unfold, the weather intensifies, and your acceptance of it is therefore stretched to certain limits. This past week on the coast has seen 8 inches of snow, 3 inches of rain and a period of heavy, gusty, and damaging wind. What a strange week of weather it was! Right after a fresh coating of snow settled over Camden, a coastal storm brought a steady rain that wiped away any glimpse of white on the ground. The incessant rain was then followed by a blustery Sunday night, when the wind howled and gusted upwards of 60 mph. Trees were knocked down, limbs were scattered across roads, and the Penobsoct Bay rose to 8 feet, its raging waters forming whitecaps in the distance. Monday morning brought an end to the storm, and a foggy morning allowed for a close inspection of what the storm had left behind. Lucia Beach, on the eastern side of St. George Peninsula, sits about 3 miles south of Owls Head and the western entrance to Penobscot Bay. Long a favored retreat for local residents, the beach has a certain remoteness to it, which is further enhanced by its location at the end of a dirt road, which can only be accessed by a back road in South Thomaston. The beach itself is no more than a mile wide, with two rocky headlands guarding the western and eastern boundaries. On the western side of the beach a brilliant forest of spruce and moss can be explored, while the eastern side features giant boulders and rocks where waves crash and surf sprays. The beach itself offers a great view out into the Muscle Ridge Channel and up to the backside of Vinalhaven Island. I was alone this morning, not a soul in sight, as I combed the beach in search of sea glass and washed up debris from the storm. I found all kinds of colored and textured rocks, beach wood that has been blown into shore, and at least two abandoned lobster traps. As I wandered the beach, the fog began to roll in pretty heavy, blanketing the tall pines in a ghostly swirl of mist. The Spruce forest was soaked from the weekend's rain, and the smell of the trees was intoxicating. The moss on the ground was dripping with life and the crash of the ocean's waves could be heard in the distance. I love the feeling of being surrounded by spruce trees, where you can peek through the branches and see the ocean. There is a forest like this on Deer Isle, down in Crockett's Cove, and out on Schoodic Point in Winter Harbor. There is just something about the combination of the ocean and spruce that brings a feeling of calm over me and brings me back to my basic love of nature and her many offerings. As a child, I would roam the spruce filled woods of Mosquito Head in Martinsville, down the road from our summer house. I remember that feeling of being in total isolation with the ocean and with the trees. There was something so natural about it, something so pure. The fog was now what you call "pea soup," thick and I headed back to the beach entrance, picking up sea shells as I walked. Before leaving, I turned towards the ocean and took a deep breath. The towering pines were barely visible and the crash of the waves was now merely a sound in the mist that came and went every ten seconds. Seagulls flew overhead and the foghorn on Owls Head light moaned in the distance. The storm has passed. It was a Maine day indeed!

Salt Of The Earth

The town of Jonesport is the kind of place where the working man is celebrated, and the ocean dictates the everyday pace of life. No more than 40 miles from the Canadian border, way Downeast, Jonesport and neighboring Beals Island exemplify a blue collar work ethic and a dedication to one's craft, which around these parts, tends to be hauling traps. The minute you enter the town, you can smell the fish! All along the Main Street, narrow side streets lead to wooden wharves and decaying docks where rugged looking men break their backs to make an honest living. The roar of diesel engines can be heard almost anywhere you go in town, and the size and speed of these boats cannot be matched anywhere else in the state. A Jonesport lobster boat is a monster of hauling efficiency, and that's the way it has always been. They tend to be bigger in size and are built with a local pride that shows in their impeccable design. Much like Deer Isle's Stonington, or the salty mid coast town of Friendship, stories abound about the frosty glances and not so kind words that these men of the sea will give an outsider. Let me be clear, this is not a tourist town. If you come to Jonesport, be sure to watch your manners, and above all else, obey the speed limit. God help the tourist who speeds down Main Street with out of state plates! Yet, there I was shooting a waterfront lobster pound on Beals Island, when my car got stuck in the icy parking lot. It was 10 degrees out, and a stiff breeze was howling off the Moosabec Reach. I tried and tried to maneuver the car, but nothing seemed to work. Suddenly two men appeared, both dressed in the typical lobstering attire, offering to help. "Get her goin' and I'll push her forward," one of them said in a deep Maine accent. While very promising, his approach did not work. The other one, who was much bigger and seemed a little less friendly, simply motioned to me to drive the car on to a neighboring lawn, where a pile of dirt covered the front section of the snowy lawn. I did just that, and once my tires hit the dirt, the car lurched forward onto safe ground and I was able to escape my prison of frozen pavement. Before I could get out of the car to thank them, both men just turned and walked on down the hill towards the pound. I watched as they both went right back to doing what they had been doing before my embarrassing situation caught their attention. One man was cutting rope to tie up his traps with, and the other simply hopped back onto his idling boat and started back out to sea. It was the perfect example of Downeast hospitality. I was helped, but I was not given the opportunity to thank the help. It would have wasted time anyways, and up here, time off the water, is time lost. About an hour later I found myself back across the reach in Jonesport, where I walked down an old wharf to observe a lobster boat unloading the days catch. I asked the men if I could photograph them, and they obliged. While my lens was focused on the boat, I couldn't help but notice the two men who were standing next to me, chatting with the Lobstermen below. One was rather large, and had glasses on. The other one had a face that was wrinkled and looked like he had been working his ass off at this for years.I chatted him up, asking about the prices and the weather. He told me that Jonesport and Beals Island lobstermen bring in about 2 million pounds of lobster every year. He told me that lobster is what holds the town together. I then asked which months the fishermen usually take off around here. He just smiled, and looked at me. Pausing for a brief moment, he replied, "there are no breaks around here, 'dem boys be out there almost every day of the year if they can." I thanked the men for their time and headed off down the road, searching for another place to snap my faithful Nikon. As I mentioned before, the day was bitter cold, and the stiff breeze off Moosabec Reach was not about to let up anytime soon. My hands were almost numb, but my determination to get the right shot was steadfast, so I kept exploring the town's crusty waterfront. I had visited Jonesport before, when I was 10 or so. I don't remember much, except that it seemed a long way from almost everything. My mother had come to Jonesport as a child with her mother, in what had turned out to be the beginning of an enduring love affair with the Maine Coast. That love affair was passed on to me, and here I was, on a freezing cold December day, photographing the coast and one of the many towns that give it such a unique character. As I drove back to Camden later that afternoon, I felt so relaxed, so at ease with my surroundings. The snow covered pines looked quite lovely in the fading afternoon light, and the small, quaint towns that I passed through lay covered in a fresh covering of December snow. As I cruised through Hancock, I glanced out my window to the left. I almost drove off the road! Across Frenchman Bay, the Mountains of Mount Desert Island towered above the water. What a sight it was to behold. It is such a rugged and beautiful island. Quickly regaining my focus I made good time through Ellsworth, shot down to Bucksport and cruised back home to Camden. The day had passed and silence of a winter night was now here. As I woke the next morning, the sun was shining, but the temperature was plummeting down around zero. I had work to do that afternoon, helping my buddies build a stone wall in Rockport. As I made my way downtown to grab some breakfast, I dug my hands deep into my down vest and tugged my wool hat down as far as it could go. I looked out to the harbor and Penobscot Bay beyond. The water was like glass and the wind was perfectly still. Out towards Curtis Island, I noticed a lone fishing boat steadily churning her way out to sea. The boat and her occupants were in for a long cold day of work, but that back breaking work is what a Maine fisherman has come to accept, and it is what they live by. I know that those hardy boys up in Jonesport were out on such a cold morning, and I know they will be out almost every morning this year. From Camden to Jonesport, all along the coast, these men of the sea are the true workers of this state. They are, above all else, the salt of the earth!