Hunters Moon

Slowly but surely, I am learning to love November. The eleventh month, filled with cold nights and stark landscapes, acts as a reality check to all who live in the northern regions of this country. Winter is just outside your door, and the knocking gets louder as every day passes. The wool and the fleece come out in all shapes and sizes, and the sneakers that got you through summer no longer seem able to deal with the wet and hard ground that you walk on. Now is the time for boots, and heavy wool socks to fill them. Yet, for all its blustery breezes and the rain soaked afternoons, November can show itself to be quite the beauty when it wants. The air is so clear and crisp, that the surrounding smells of the trees and the salt water from the ocean seem to command the air. The distant views out onto the bay are clearer than they were in July. On a hike up Bald Rock Mountain last Sunday, the summit revealed a striking panorama of ocean, islands, and rolling hills. I could see 26 miles out to Matinicus, and up the coast to the twin peaks of Mount Desert Island. The Penobscot Bay is stunning from the edge of the land, but when viewed from 1300 feet above, it is really something else! Then there was the November moon, the glorious, golden, regal moon. Oh where shall I begin! The way it lights up the night sky, providing a ghostly glow to all things. The way it illuminates a dark room full of windows or dances and shimmers on the ocean. To watch the full moon rise over Penobscot Bay on a cold and clear November evening is a sight that fills my soul with a sweet satisfaction and appreciation of the natural world and all her wonders. How can this golden circle appear so brilliantly over the blue water and rise so effortlessly into the pink sky of dusk? I am amazed every time. The rise of a full moon is a monthly appointment that I simply do not miss. The weather may interfere from time to time, but if all systems are go, and the clouds decide to take the night off, my night will always begin with this breathtaking show. I can't explain the pull of the moon on my soul. Call it spiritual, call it whimsical, or call it downright silly, I don't care. My eyes have seen few sights to rival a rising full moon, and I have seen many sights! Maybe it was my childhood. My parents reading Robert Mckloskey's "Time of Wonder," to me. The hurricane that so rudely interupts Sal and Jane's Island summer is swiftly followed by a full moon that watches over them and their island as they drift off to sleep. I always remember thinking how that moon was some sort of safety pin that held the world together. All else could be lost, but if that Full Moon rose in all her golden glory, the order of things would be restored and life would go on. My bedroom is surrounded by windows and skylights, and as I drift off to sleep most nights, the stars are the last thing I see before I shut my eyes. On the full Moon nights, when the wooden floors of my loft are all aglow and the moonlight shines on my walls, I feel as if I were on that very same island in "Time of Wonder," where everything was right with the world. Those who know me well, know my steadfast appreciation for nature and the wonders of the natural world. To be outside on a beautiful November day in the mid-coast of Maine, is to be surrounded by so much of natures beauty. The natural world envelops this place that I call home, and I am grateful for that.

Quiet Grandeur

Trekking through Acadia National Park in the middle of November is like walking the halls of an empty museum. You are left all but alone to discover the beauty of this spectacular parcel of land on Mount Desert Island. The summer crowds have vanished. The packs of hikers have disappeared. The incessant clicks and rings of camera phones have been silenced. All that reamins are the locals and the occasional visitor who also knows of the best time of year to visit Acadia. The period of late fall through early spring allows one to fully capture the true essence of the park without the numerous distractions that swarm around its numerous hills, lakes and shores in summertime. On a warm Sunday afternoon, a few weeks from Thanksgiving, the trail to Acadia Mountain was silent. The windswept leaves of autumn blanketed the ground, the bubbling brooks flowed and the sun peeked through the dense canopy of maple, spruce and birch trees. Each step up the mountain, each lunge from boulder to boulder was done with a splendid sense of isolation. This wild forest was mine to behold. As the summit appeared off in the distance, I stopped, took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The smell of the trees was intoxicating. The feel of the cool air was invigorating. The audible absence of the real world was immeasurable. The day was perfect! I could have bottled it up and sold it for a great sum. The top of Acadia Mountain is a special place. Here, perched up above Somes Sound, you are afforded a grand view of the Maine coast. To the east the Camden Hills rise up in a rugged row of rolling ridges. The Islands of Penobscot Bay, North Haven, Vinalhaven, Islesboro sit like green jewels on sparkling blue canvass. Blue Hill Bay and the scattered inlets and coves of Deer Isle and Isle a Haut shimmer in the afternoon sun. To the south, the Cranberry Islands guard the entrance to majestic Northeast Harbor, her cottages and sweeping lawns lining the shores beneath you. To the west, the Peaks of Cadillac, Norumbega, Dorr and Champlain Mountains tower above Somes Sound. In the distance the islands of outer Frenchman Bay, Duck, Great Duck, Baker, Sutton, Greening and Mount Desert Rock protruded out of the water, their rugged shores barely visible in the distant light. Oh what a view! I sat back, reclined on a large rock, with all this quiet grandeur in front of me. It was enough to make the heart soar and the mind rest with ease. It reassures one to see how the raw power of the unspoiled natural world still can captivate and take hold of an individual who searches long and hard for it. My search eventually led my down the mountain where the descent was a bittersweet one. The world moves on unfortunately, and time cannot be made to stand still. I quickly crusied around the sound, headed for a late lunch Northeast Harbor. The afternoon light was beginning to fade as I walked the shores of this deep and protected port. The sailboats had mostly gone onto to shore for the winter, shrink wrap now covering their hulls. Lobster boats lay tucked tightly together on the docks, seemingly trying to prove to mother nature that safety does indeed lie in numbers. I called once again on my faithful Nikon and attempted to capture the harbor and it's surrounding hills, which believe me, never get old to look at. I have visited Northeast at least twenty times now, and each time I visit, I am struck by the sheer beauty of this place. It is no wonder why so many of America's most privaleged and powerful people have called it home over the last 100 years. My final destination for the day, and for most of my trips to Acadia was Sand Beach, down on Newport Cove. To watch the sun set over this stretch of sand is to witness a cascade of colors and crashing surf. Both knees firmly planted in the cool sand, I focused my camera on the fast approaching waves. I watched intenlty as they broke at the base of the beach and then raced up the sand towards me. After reaching it's end, the icy cold water would then retreat rapidly back into the trashing ocean, leaving behind a golden color on the sand that further glowed with the colors of the setting sun. I watched this pattern repeat itself, each time trying to capture that certain color left by the retreating wave. Satisfied that I had fully achieved my intended objective, I rose and walked back towards the end of the beach, where Newport Cove funnels into a clear stream of water that flows into the ocean. A half moon was rising to the east and the sun was now slipping into the sea. In the distance, a woman tossed a tennis ball to her chocolate lab, who snatched it out the air and ran full gallop into the crashing surf. The roar of the ocean was constant, and the scent of the air was sweet. The quiet grandeur of my surroundings had fully washed over me. I was completely at peace with this thing we call life. If I could only make time stand still!

A Different Kind Of Commute

Commuting to work takes many forms these days. Some people take the train or the subway, some take the car or taxi, and some walk the crowded sidewalks of their city streets. In many of the fishing villages throughout the Maine coast, a dinghy or skiff is the best way to get to work. Who needs a road, when the ocean will do! For all of those people who spend their mornings stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, or find themselves stuffed in a subway car like a pack of sardines, the Maine lobster man offers his sincere apologies. For as you slog through another traffic jam or busy city avenue, he quietly rows out in the morning calm to his office, which usually takes the shape of a 30-40 foot boat. When the traps have been hauled and the work day has ended, the Lobster man and his partner in crustacean crime, the sternman, hop back onto that skiff or dinghy and row back to shore, no stoplights or crossing guards telling them when or where to go. Such is the life of the sea! On an unusually warm November afternoon, when the cool fall winds let go for once and the temperatures nudged 60, I made my way down route 131 to Port Clyde. I Had a few things to pick up at the summerhouse, but my true intention was to do Otis Redding proud, and sit on the dock of the bay, with no intention other than to just watch the tide and the boats roll away. I sat there, my faithful Nikon in hand, as the sun shimmered off Muscongus Bay and illuminated Port Clyde, which at this time of year, resembles a ghost town, the way I like it. Not a summer crowd to be found, just fisherman and locals, all going about their daily rounds, as if nothing else could be more important. One lobster boat would roll in, while one fishing boat would roll out. One Boat would unload it's catch, while another would speed off to ply the cold blue waters of Muscongus Bay. Around 3, my friends John and Matt came in from another day of hauling, visibly relieved to have the next few days off. I bought them a couple of cold ones, and we three shot the breeze while the afternoon slowly faded into dusk. "Taking the wife out of town for the birthday," John said, as a wide grin spread over his weathered face. "Rather be playing golf though, Jesus she's gonna be a beauty this weekend." It was true, the weatherman had called for a sunny few days with with temps in the 50's. For this time of year, it might as well have felt like a heat wave! Matt had plans to see his girlfriend up in Augusta, but admitted that he was too tired to make the drive. Hauling traps is damn hard work, make no mistake about it. "I'm going to sit on my couch for the next few days," Matt said, sucking down the last of his suds. "Patriots better fucking git it done." We all agreed and parted ways. I stuck around town to watch the sun fade over the bay, which by this time of the day, was dead still and rapidly turning pink. I walked out to the end of an old wharf on the western side of the harbor. Hupper and Caldwell islands sat off in the distance, their green pines standing tall and proud against the silky sky. A crescent moon hung over the harbor as the sun made it's final appearance for the day. Dusk settled over town and a certain stillness spread over the water. I took my last shots of the day, battling the ever fading light. As I drove back home to Camden, 131 was dark. The temperature was back in the 40's, and the wind had picked up, gently pushing the pine trees back and forth and I raced past them. That brief but intoxicating spell of warmth was over the time being. The night was cold now, and the stars lit up the sky. In a few hours when the morning light would arrive, those hardy men of the sea, the fishermen, will climb back on to their dingies and skiffs, and make that short trip out to their office for another day of hauling, all while enjoying a rather different kind of commute .

Talk Of The Town

Somes Sound splits Mt. Desert Island in half, much as a knife would spilt an apple in two pieces. To the east of the seven mile long sound, the majority of land for Acadia National Park can be found, along with it's tourist base, Bar Harbor. The two summer colony's of Northeast and Seal Harbor, with their shingle style cottages, quiet main streets, and classic yacht clubs also sit east of the sound. In short, most anything on the eastern side of the island is likely to draw the tourist trade, and the hustle and bustle that arrives for three months every summer. Yet to the west of the sound, one can explore the more rural side of the island, where fisherman outnumber summer people and Lobster boats control the harbors. Southwest Harbor, positioned perfectly at the western entrance to Somes Sound, has it's share of summer folk, but tends to be a little grittier than it's neighbor Northeast Harbor across the way. Southwest's downtown has it's nice restaurants and bookstores, but it also has a bevy of old hardware stores and marine and tackle shops, where rugged lobster men jump out of their pick up trucks and haul their supplies down to their boats. Further down the road, the town of Bass Harbor has a working feel to it, which is reinforced by the truly amazing amount of lobster traps that line the shores of this tight harbor. On a brisk early November morning, with the wind chill values dipping into the low thirties, I spotted a dusty old wharf where a middle aged man was quickly unloading traps from his truck onto the dock and then carrying them down to the end where at least a hundred more traps sat, stacked on top of one another like a brick wall. I asked If I could poke around and shoot the morning scene. He didn't even look up, just muttered, "don't fall in, it's a cold one out there today, got something blowing in pretty good." I took his advice and carefully navigated the trap strewn dock. Like going through a maze of yellow metal, I walked between the lines of traps until I reached the very end of the wharf. In front of me, the chilly waters of Bass Harbor tossed and turned with every gust of the howling wind. The majestic mountains of Acadia rose in the distance and the clouds enveloped the sky, which was gray, gray, gray. Everything on this morning hinted at Winter and the dark and gloomy colors that only she can provide. To the east of Bass Harbor, Acadia National Park beckons in all it's glory with the twin hiking trails of Ship Harbor and Seawall. The Ship Harbor trail winds through a thicket of pine and spruce trees where a broad opening seemingly thrusts you onto the craggy shore's edge, where the waves come rushing in on the rocks like a hungry bear about to devour it's prey. The sheer power of these waves is in a word, awesome. The sound they make as they crash into the shore is like a canon firing, the foamy white spray they spew just barely reaching your cold face. This is the Atlantic Ocean! No breakwaters or islands to slow the charge of the rushing water, only jagged rocks to meet the ocean's final fling. I sit, huddled up, transfixed at the sight of it all! This is the bold coast of Maine, the true measure of the land and it's strength against the ocean and all her raging power. The rain, spotty in the morning, began to fall harder and the afternoon turned downright frigid. On the drive home to Camden, the Penobscot Bay appeared restless as white caps and waves dominated the view. Blue Hill lay shrouded in fog. Storm clouds brewed over Islesboro and the Camden hills played a game of hide and seek with the clouds. Back in town, I stopped to grab some dinner. Talk was of the weather and when the sun would shine again. "Not till Thursday," I heard in the background as I reached for a cup of chicken noodle soup. "Gotta pretty good one coming through tonight I hear." Funny I thought to my self, the weather, in this cruel month of November, still dominates the conversation wherever you go. Life in Northern New England moves on, as Winter slowly marches forward, her arrival a mere formality now.