October Light

October is a bittersweet passage of time. The last balmy breezes of summer have disappeared, replaced by cold winds that swirl off the ocean and sweep down the streets of town. The sun, once alive at 8, now sets at 6 and rises past 7. Waking up early brings no light, just a quiet darkness that hangs overt the morning like a dreary mist. Winter is on its way. The leaves have fallen, the birds are flying south, and the summer houses are boarded up. Yet, in all it's fading glory, October is a month full of brilliant light. It is a light that can be seen on a sunny afternoon in Blue Hill, a light that commences a stirring sunrise over the Penobscot Bay, or a light that leads to a quiet dusk over Marshall Point Light and the sleepy town of Port Clyde. October is a month where the afternoons can drift by slowly, a lazy sense of wonder surrounding the fields, mountains and beaches, or it can be a month where 50 mph winds gust and stinging sheets of rain pound on your windows day and night. In town, the stores stay open, but the summer crowds have dispersed. You see the same familiar faces now, not hordes of families, cell phones at their ears, window shopping down Elm street. School Buses have replaced out of state plates and all but a few sailboats remain at their moorings. The other day on a radio station I listen to they had a contest, where the first prize was 10 cord of wood! That valuable prize served as a friendly reminder that I do live in Northern New England, where the winter months hold sway over each and every year. The oil trucks seem to be on every corner and baseball caps have given way to wool and fleece hats. On a morning walk towards Rockport, I can still feel a slight sense of warmth as a ray of sunlight finds it's way through a leaf ridden tree, but just as soon as that ray of sunlight hits me, it is gone, taken over by a gray cloud. That ray will return periodically throughout the day, but it no longer has the staying power that it once had in the dog days of July and August. An old teacher of mine used to joke that all boys, and men for that matter, hate change. I still like to think of myself as a boy, even at 27. I do hate change, but I know that change is going to happen no matter how hard you fight against it, especially in the when it comes to weather. If I really wanted to fight against it, I would have moved to Florida by now! There are no moving vans in my future, and the light, that special October light, will return next year. The bitter will be sweet once again.

Blustery Back Roads

Exploring the back roads of Deer Isle is somewhat like hopping across a rock strewn brook. Enveloped by water on all sides, you must carefully navigate from one dry piece of land to another, and each piece of land ahead of you is different than the previous one. On butterfly shaped Deer Isle, you seem to be constantly surrounded by water. The Penobscot Bay to the west, Merchants Row and Jericho Bay to the south, and the Eggemoggin Reach to the east and north, all lay claim to a portion of the island's jagged and rocky shoreline. You have to cross the Reach to get to Little Deer Isle, where you then have to take a winding causeway over a small section of East Penobscot Bay to enter Deer Isle proper. Confusing as it may be, the sight of all these beautiful bodies of salt water wrapped around one island is quite a thrill! Take a right at Northwest Harbor and wind down a back road out of Sunset Village and the Penobscot Bay greets you with its spruce covered islands and distant views of the Camden Hills. A short ride down Dunham Point Road leads you to cozy and tranquil Sylvester Cove, home to the Deer Isle Yacht Club. The moorings may be empty at this time of the year, but the thought of another glorious summer of sailing can never be too off for those who are lucky enough to reside here. Due south of Sylvester, sits Crockett Cove, a working harbor with tons of character and tons of lobster traps. I meandered down to an old wharf that seemed to be falling into the sea. A beautiful, but weathered sailboat sat at the edge of the shore, it's hull half in the water and it's sail taken down. A symbolic sight if I ever saw one. Here on the last full week of October, on a windswept afternoon that never had a prayer of seeing 50 degrees, was toy of summer waiting to be put away for the winter. The sailboat, like many Maine residents, had had it's fun in the sun, and was now preparing for what lay ahead: Winter and all her icy trappings. Across the Island on the east side, on the southern edge of the Reach, you will find one of the most remote and beautiful villages in coastal Maine. Sunshine, which protrudes out into the ocean and is blanketed by a dazzling amount of coves and inlets, defines the term working waterfront. Back roads lead to dirt roads, which lead to lobster pounds and decaying wooden wharves. Lobsterboats produce a golden outline under the late afternoon sun, their hulls rocking up and down, while the dark green spruce trees sway violently behind them. The wind in Sunshine must have been getting close to 40 mph, and the evidence came from the ocean, as a constant procession of white caps marched towards the rocks and slammed into the shore with great force, sending forth a foamy, white spray into the fall air. This parade-like pattern would be repeated throughout the day as the winds never really died down, giving this particular fall afternoon a feeling of a winter afternoon. All that was missing was snow. One particular back road in Sunset led me to a spit of land where a wooden wharf sat to the right side of the point and a long field of swaying grass occupied the left side. I happily trounced through the field, the sweet smell of the sea all around me, until I reached a small inlet with quite a view! In the distance the twin peaks of Mount Desert Island rose over Blue Hill Bay, their rocky slopes shimmering with the colors of fall. Spruce covered islands, some small, some quite large, covered the water, swarms of seagulls hovering above each one. The water at my feet was light blue, with a hint of green that seemed to swirl as the wind raked over it's rippling surface. Brilliant blue colored sea shells lay scattered across the grainy white sand. A few large boulders towered over smaller rocks, which sat covered with barnacles. The seaweed moved back and forth with the wind, and the sun lit up a cloudless blue sky. Once again, at the end of some rocky point of land, downeast on the coast of Maine, I had found my solitude. My faithful camera and my love of the coast had guided me once again. The only sounds were the whipping of the wind and the splashing of the incoming tide. There were no car engines, or boat engines roaoring in the distance. No casual conversations to be overheard. Just pure bliss, with a side of solitude, all served up off a dusty back road on beautiful Deer Isle.

Fall On The Farm

There are so many beautiful places to view the colors of fall along the Maine coast. The Aldermere Farm in Rockport, is a special place to begin with, but come fall, the farm becomes a magical place, where one can get lost in a world of falling leaves, rolling fields and rocky beaches. Home to a special breed of cows called Belted Galloways, the Aldermere farm is part of the Maine Coast Heritage Trust, a fantastic organization started by David and Peggy Rockefeller, which aims to protect and preserve beautiful and wild pieces of land along the coast. The 136 acre property, formerly the summer home of Albert Chatfield, was bequeathed to the trust in 1999, and is now open to the public. The Belted Galloways, famous for their white striped belly's, originally hail from Scotland. They were brought to the farm to breed because of the similar climates that can be found along both the Scottish and Maine coasts. The cows are used to wet and cold weather, which is prevalent in Maine for at least half the year. I live a mile down the road from the farm, and walk by the beautiful property most mornings. There are a number of trails that wind through the property, with one particular trail leading down to a rock strewn stretch of coast that looks out onto the Penobscot Bay and the islands of Vinalhaven, North Haven and Deer Isle. To sit on the jagged rocks at the end of the trail on a sunny morning, while the incoming tide of the bay laps at your feet is quite an experience to be had. In the last three weeks, the farm has exploded in it's fall colors, as the leaves have turned orange, red, and yellow. A few days ago I took a stroll down the ocean path and found a majestic maple tree in a grassy area at the edge of the Bay. I sat back and listened to the wind as it whistled through the pine trees. I watched the late afternoon sun dance along the edge of the rocks as it shimmered off Penobscot Bay and illuminated North Haven and far off Blue Hill with a golden hue that could only be described as dream-like. A few birds swooped and soared over the water as a lonely sailboat headed for a safe anchorage in Rockport harbor. In such a moment of serenity, I couldn't help but thinking of Winter and how this quiet landscape will soon be transformed into a snowy scene of powerful gusts and biting cold. In New England, the seasons change with such force that the departure of one means the next is never too far off. With that knowledge in hand, these late October moments demand the utmost attention!