One Fine Day

"Spring is short changed in Maine, and even those who are willing to forgive the state for all its shortcomings will acknowledge that. It is not a full season, only a token one, but when a fine spring day arrives it pays off handsomely to those who are trusting and patient. The earth soaks up the warm sunshine, freshly painted lobster buoys hang on lines to dry, the scent of lilac floats in the air, and suddenly the harbors fill with boats and the fields are alive with tractors. It is a joyful reawakening; something stirs in the spirit of man when the storm windows come down and the screens replace them. This exchange, more ritualistic than it appears, celebrates the admittance of the outside world into the home. Summer is just around the corner." -Caskie Stinnet, "Maine, the Four Seasons."

Dancing In The Down East Mud

Under a brilliant sky of blue, at the end of a rocky peninsula, way Down East on the coast of Maine, I slowly began to sink into the mud of Pigeon Hill Bay. My boots slid further and further down, until my knees were about to become part of the soft and muddy beach that I currently occupied. I quickly pulled my feet up from the slimy sandbar and gingerly stepped to the right, then to the left, and then forward, as to avoid staying in one spot for any prolonged amount of time. I had found out what happens when you do that. You literally begin to become one with Pigeon Hill Bay, and the way the mud was acting this afternoon, I could conceivably submerge myself fully if I had such the desire. The funny part about it though, was how much I was enjoying this muddy dance. The wind was whipping all around me, cold and constant for this time of year. Puffy white clouds raced across a blue sky that seemed to stretch forever above me. The frigid waters of the Atlantic Ocean lapped at my feet, but surged strong and steady in the distance. Whitecaps were everywhere, and the wind rippled across the bay's surface. Here I was, alone on a remote beach in the lovely town of Steuben, dancing left and right, to and fro, all to avoid the glorious mud of early spring. Let me tell you, it was quite the experience. I felt as if I was the only person in the world; a world of towering pines and blue water. I was truly and deeply immersed in the coast of Maine, and it is these moments of immersion that I live for! I gladly give in to the wondrous forces of nature when they are all around me, attacking my senses from every angle. I live for the awesome beauty of this coast, this rough and rocky place that surprises, educates and inspires me all at once. And I most certainly appreciate all that this natural world has to offer. It is an offering that should be accepted and it is an offering that must be cherished. To stand all alone on the edge of this coast is to stand alone at the edge of the natural world. There are no cars here, no fast food joints, no obnoxious and loud noises that seem to constantly creep up on our respective environments. All I saw in my vision was the blue of the sky and the blue of the water. I saw the green of the pines and the white of the shells at my feet. The mud smelled like the sea, and the air was so clear, I felt as if my lungs would explode in ecstasy. My heart raced with joy and my body was lifted by a spirit in my soul, a spirit that devoured all that surrounded me with a deep sense of longing and love. I was deep in the mud on a sandy beach, way Down East on the coast of Maine. I was free. I was at ease. I was home.

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

"Robins and some of the hardier birds appear early, when snow is still on the ground but brown earth and last year's withered grass is beginning to show in patches. The gurgling, tinkling sounds of water from melting snow and ice can be heard as the clucking of a robin and his first song uplifts the spirit. But the these sounds are merely harbingers of a spring that is still far away. Winter will lash back again out of the north, bringing snow and freezing weather. And the birds will sit with feathers fluffed up to endure the cold, disconsolate and waiting for a change, wondering, perhaps, what had happened to spring and why they had come so soon. But spring will advance nonetheless, silently and unnoticed. These rearguard actions of winter will be repulsed in the end; the higher sun will assert its dominance through the longer days, and the winds will dry the fallow land wherein a million shoots from the seeds of last year's growth are slowly stirring."

-Eliot Porter, "Summer Island."

Clammin' On The Eggemoggin

Way down at the very end of the Blue Hill Peninsula, just as the Eggemoggin Reach meets Blue Hill Bay, there is a place where spruce clad islands and sparkling blue water surround a small sandy beach. Naskeag Point, in the sleepy boat building town of Brooklin, is a little slice of heaven, Down East on the coast of Maine. Here, on this tiny little peninsula, one can watch the sun set over Eggemoggin Reach, see the town fisherman load up and head out for a day's work, or simply stroll the sandy beach and let the beauty of this place envelop you. I visited Naskeag many times last year, mostly in the summer and fall, but I had never come to the beach in the Spring, when the lobster traps have yet to be put in and the art of clamming is practiced by the locals. This back breaking work, which can only be done with the benefit of a low tide, nets an individual pretty good money, but like most jobs in Down East Maine, the financial reward doesn't come without a physical price. I watched three particular clammers for about an hour this past Monday, and I what I witnessed was hard work, plain and simple. It was a gorgeous sunny day for the middle of March. There was a not a cloud to be found in the sky, and the wind was slack, allowing the full effects of a warming sun to be felt. The temperature hovered around 45. The surrounding islands of Blue Hill Bay and Eggemoggin Reach sat like jewels in the midday sun. The seagulls were out in full force, along with a few of the local dogs, who ran around with their boundless energy, and muddy paws. It was a perfect day to be on the Coast of Maine, and simply a great day to be alive! With the weather being so mild, the clammers were mostly in good spirits. One woman, who looked to be about 50, hunched over and dug with a calm and steady pace, as if to conserve every ounce of energy she had, for the day had just begun, and the tide wouldn't be high for at least another 4 hours. I watched her work, her hands muddy and her hair tied up in a messy bun. She would find a good 3-4 foot area of mud, and then begin to dig forward to back, so that all the mud she was tossing would end up behind her. After spotting a clam, she would pick it up and drop it in her wooden basket, and keep looking for more. She didn't say much, other than to acknowledge my presence. I figured her for a quiet worker, someone who finds a great deal of peace in working by herself and with her own hands. There is something to be said about using your hands to make your living, instead of staring at a computer screen all day and calling hundreds of people on the phone. There is an immediacy to your work when you use your hands, a deep and real connection between you and your livelihood. This connection is forged over the years with hour upon hour of hard work. I wondered to myself how many times this woman had stuck her hands into the cool mud of the Maine Coast. The number must be in the thousands! I left the woman to her own and headed back down the beach to a very cool spot, where a series of large rocks and muddy tidal pools shoot about 75 yards out into the ocean. At low tide, it is possible to walk all the way out to the end of the rocks and gain a stunning 360 degree view of Naskeag Point and the Eggemoggin Reach. It was here, at the very tip of the rocks, that two men were feverishly digging for clams. Unlike the woman, these two men worked fast, and they talked a lot. Barely a second went by before some wise crack or comment would pass between the two. I explained to them that I was a photographer, and that I was fascinated by the process of clamming. I asked question after question, and without missing a beat, they answered every one. One of the most interesting things that I learned was how the clammers searched for appropriate and productive places to dig. "Well, what you gotta do first you see, is look for dem little holes in the mud," one said to me in a gruff but friendly voice. "Once you find the holes, you step around them and kind a' put some pressure on da clams, so they start pissin, to show ya that there' scared." Just like he said, a small fountain of clam piss would shoot out of the holes, once some pressure had been put on the surrounding mud. It was quite odd to watch, but very amusing at the same time. Little spurts would suddenly shoot out from the mud, and the men would quickly hunch down and start digging as fast as they could. I watched the two men fill up three full buckets of clams, before they decided to leave their present spot and move onto another potential dig. I wished them luck, and headed back to the beach, where I snapped my faithful Nikon under the glorious rays of the mid-day sun. On the beach, a few locals were talking in loud voices about the abundance of nails that had apparently been spread in the sand. "Must'a been dem Deer Isle Boys," one said with an obvious sneer. "I know they bin' known to do this kind a' thing before." Curious, but also a little frightened, I approached the men and inquired about the developing situation. They told me that somebody had dumped a bunch of nails all around the beach, but mostly where the fisherman back their trucks up to launch their skiffs. I looked down at the sand, and it was quite obvious that someone had in fact, spread nails in the sand, and small nails they were not! It seemed as if I had walked into another unfolding chapter in yet another Maine lobster war. The men were quite certain that it was the Deer Isle fisherman that had done this horrible thing, and that some retaliation would be needed. "I''ll go over there right now, I dont' give a shit," one said. "Fisherman 'round here won't stand for this kind of thing." The angry man was soon calmed down by a tall and lanky old man, who seemed to have the authority needed to quell an almost inevitable uprising. "Donnie, we don't need ya doing nothin' stupid now ya hear," he reasoned. "But I ain't sayin' it's right what they done." I watched and listened intently for the next ten minutes, as I pretended to be interested in shooting my camera, when in reality, my full attention was on the men and their conversation. It was amazing to watch a bunch of fisherman confront a situation that people usually read about in the papers or see in the movies. These men were sabotaged. No doubt about it! Their rival fishermen from across the Reach in Deer Isle had apparently ruffled their feathers so well, that I knew some form of justice would be served. Maybe a hatchet to a fisherman's boat, maybe a flat tire on their truck, or God forbid, their traps would get cut. Who knew the outcome, but the point had been driven home with a sledgehammer. These men are real, and their lives are at stake every time they go out in the water. The money they make hauling traps is crucial to their ability to carve out a life in the harsh economic climate of Down East Maine. In short, fishing for a living is no easy living, and either is clamming. Yet these same men will be out her on this same stretch of sand seven days a week until they can't do it any more. That, is hard work, and is something to admire. I left the beach and headed north on 175, leaving Brooklin and it's flurry of clamming and fishing activity behind. I headed back towards route 1, but not before stopping over in Bucks Harbor for a sandwich and a cold drink. It was quiet in town, only a few souls made an appearance in the course of an hour. I finished my sandwich and headed back home, leaving the tall pines and rocky shores of Brooksville and Cape Rosier in my rear view mirror. When I reached Camden, I unpacked my things, and walked down to the beach to catch the sunset. The air felt cool on my face, and the ocean began to turn pink with the dying rays of a setting sun.