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.

A Moment in Time

To stand at the edge of the Penobscot Bay in the middle of March, while the cold water rushes over my muck boots, is to stand at the edge of a moving canvass filled with brush strokes of wind, water and light. The boundless blue ocean reaches forever in my vision, as a cool wind touches my face. The brief but brilliant rays of an early spring sun warm my soul and lift my heart. I sit and watch the waves crash into the rocky shore, as the seagulls float by, their wings rendered useless by the abundant sea breeze. The smell of the pine trees wafts by, and the crush of shells is felt beneath my feet. I feel detached from the world, alone in a momentary lapse of worry, a true time of wonder in all that lies in front of me. I came to yesterday afternoon, awoken from the long spell of winter. My senses returned to me as I walked the coast of Penobscot Bay, practically dancing from the thoughts of Spring that washed over me like a raging waterfall. My feet trudged through the mud of Owls Head beach and on to a pile of rocks that protruded out of the bay. I carefully climbed the weathered stones, and sat on the edge of their formation, my feet dangling in the air. I looked upwards at the sky, and at the puffy white clouds that raced across it. It was so beautiful. So filled with promise. So blue! I looked to my left and gazed out at the rows of pine trees that straddled the shore. Birds swooped up and down, left and right, singing out their respective songs. The profound silence of the winter was no more. It was hard to even begin to describe the joy I felt at that moment. When nature awakes from its deep sleep, and the days become longer with light, my mind begins to race with the sweet possibilities of the warmer months. The possibilities are endless, just like the ocean that laps at my feet. Oh, what joy this time of year brings!

Thawing Out

The slow but steady march towards spring continues in Mid-Coast Maine. More and more birds appear every day, their cries and songs filling the cold morning air. The many mountainous mounds of snow, which were beginning to take over certain streets, have now begun to recede, and the ice that clung to so many storefronts and rooftops has slowly started to disappear, leaving large puddles of slush in it's frosty wake. Signs have been posted on closed summer stores, announcing their opening date in a month's time. The sun seems to shine a little brighter, and the wind feels a little milder on your skin. The temperatures are beginning to climb into the low 40's, yet they inevitably retreat back into the teens at night. The sun sets around 6 now, as the afternoon light no longer retreats at 4, like it did in the depths of winter. This is a time of year for optimism, and it was with a great deal of optimism that I took a leisurely stroll down to the harbor to admire one of the first true signs of Spring in coastal Maine: sailboats. That's right, even in early March, you can find a few lonely yawls sitting in the frigid water over at Wayfarer Marine. I walked over to the yard, which is still eerily quiet at this time of year, to inspect a stunning sailboat called the Lone Fox. sixty five feet in length with a brilliant white hull and navy blue trim, this wooden beauty was hard to miss. This tall, sleek and shapely craft seemed signal more than just another sailboat in Camden Harbor, it screamed out that Spring was indeed on it's way. Soon there would be more sailboats, and warmer winds to propel them out into the Penobscot Bay. I spent a good 30 minutes shooting the boat, all while admiring it's clean lines and breathtaking fixtures. It really a was a sight to see! As I left to walk to the other end of the dock, My faithful Nikon at the ready, I saw a tall middle aged man with a Wayfarer sweatshirt approach the boat. I politely asked him if he was working on it, and he replied that it was in fact, his boat. Slightly taken aback but pleasantly surprised, I began to rattle off every question I could think of about the boat. Where was it built? For whom was it built? Where does it sail from, and who exactly are you? Thankfully the gentleman was in no apparent rush and graciously answered each and every one of my questions. His name was Ira and he was from San Fransisco. He had bought the boat a few years back and had moved it down to St. Barth's where it now resides. The boat was built in the 1950's in Scotland for a famous English sailor and aristocrat who had started a famous 'round the world sailing race. I could tell that this man thought that we was the luckiest boat owner in the world, and judging by his precious purchase, I didn't think he was too far off. At the end of our conversation, I joked that it was a shame that he had to leave and go to the tropics, when he could stay and enjoy the many freezing wonders of Penobscot Bay in early spring. "Believe me," he replied, "if I have my way, this boat will be sailing this coast in the near future. It is really something up here." I smiled after he said that, I obviously agreed with him, but I also love to be reminded from other people how beautiful my town is. I feel so lucky to live where I live, and that is only reinforced when someone who lives in St. Barth's becomes a little jealous that he can't spend more time here! As we parted ways, the sun began to set over the center of town, and the puffy white clouds of March inched across the top of Mount Battie. The church steeples of Camden glowed in the late afternoon light, and the sound of water lapping against the docks of the marina filled my ears. Much like the residents of other summer tourist towns such as Vineyard Haven, Nantucket, Newport and Bar Harbor must feel, it is truly something to view your town in the soft light of March, when the streets remain quiet and the crowds are nowhere to be found. There is sense of peace that comes with being here at this time of year, and a deeper sense of appreciation for what you have is most certainly felt. I walked home to my loft, gazing out onto the bay as I climbed my hilly street. North Haven sat in the distance, Islesboro to the left, Blue Hill in the distance. The water was colored pink by the setting sun, and the chill of a March night could now be felt. Patience is a virtue, and Spring it's sweet reward.

That First Little Hint

I could feel it for about an hour yesterday afternoon. I could feel a warm breeze, I could see a shining sun, and I could feel a patch of dirt underneath my feet. Spring was in the air down at the end of the St. George Peninsula, even if it only made a brief appearance. On the first day of March, any Mainer will accept any sort of appearance from that elusive and long awaited season that is Spring. Even if the nights are still frigid and the winds continue to blow hard from the north, the days are slowly getting longer, and the light is slowly getting stronger. Soon the birds will return and their joyous songs will be heard up and down the coast. The floats will go back in the water, and the summer sailboats will again find their moorings. The ice will melt and the snow will vanish. Green grass will rise again, and the sweet smells of spring flowers will fill the air with a heavenly aroma. Yes, this will all happen, but not quite yet. A boy can dream, and dream I will! With a strong breeze sweeping through the town, and the temperatures seemingly reaching as far as they could into the 30's, I spent an afternoon in Port Clyde, desperately searching for the first signs of Spring. What I found was not promising, but it was also not devastating. There were still no real trace of any people lingering outside, but a few hardy souls chipped away at the thick coats of ice that blanketed the town docks. There were no flowers in bloom, but the traps of most of the hardy Lobstermen that breath life into this small village were stacked high and wide down at the end of their respective docks, perfectly positioned to get back in the water. The wind would stop for a moment, and the warmth of the sun would sweep over my covered body. Then as soon as a relative comfort would set in, a stiff gust off the ocean would hit me, shattering all my ill conceived notions of winter's early demise. The Ice Cream store remains closed, and the kayak guides are nowhere to be found. The General store parking lot is still a ball of ice, and one could conceivably play a game of hockey on the town dock. Yet, for a moment, a sweet and sublime fleeting moment, Spring was here. I swear by it! I know we residents of Northern New England still have miles to travel before we can open our windows at night and linger in the soft breezes of summer, but what harm can a little seasonal optimism do. A boy can dream, and dream I will. Spring, that lovely little season of such promise, will soon be here. Somehow, someway, somewhere!

The One That Got Away

Nine days ago, my frustration at not being able to climb Cadillac Mountain was clearly evident in the brash and hurried manner in which I abandoned my summit assault, descended Dorr Mountain and quickly drove off Mount Desert Island and sped home to Camden. I did not sleep very well that night. A few days later on an early morning hike up Ragged Mountain in the Camden Hills, I paused to glance across the Penobscot Bay to the rolling peaks of Acadia. Cadillac rose above the others, snowy and majestic, seemingly mocking me, reminding me that I had lost our last battle. Yesterday, that deep frustration turned to a supreme sense of satisfaction, as I battled 40 mph winds, frigid temperatures, crunchy snow and thick ice to stand at Cadillac's fabled summit, the highest point of land on the Eastern seaboard. In other words, I finally brought the mountain down! I had planned a route this time that steered clear of all obvious impediments. To go up Dorr Mountain, cross it's steep notch and reach Cadillac's summit was virtually impossible, as I had found out last Monday. There was simply too much ice to navigate, and the pitch down the back side of Dorr was so steep that it would give any climber a nasty bout of hesitation. But I was not going to be stopped, I had to step foot on the summit of Acadia's most famous peak, and I had to do it in the middle of winter, when the conditions are at their hardest and the elements at their most extreme. I decided to start at lovely Jordan Pond, where the East Side Trail connects to the Pond Trail, which crosses the Boyd Carriage Road and connects to Cadillac's South Ridge Trail. All in all, it would be a nine mile loop, but it was a loop that would give me the best opportunity to summit. I left Jordan Pond around nine on a crystal clear February day. There was not a cloud in site, but the temperature was 4 below zero, and the wind was whipping through the Park with a ferocity that I had not yet faced all winter. The wind was downright nasty! It slammed into my face and swirled around my body as I began my hike. Only my eyes were not covered, as five layers of fleece and wool hugged my frame like wrapping paper hugged a Christmas present. The snow was crunchy, and the trail had not been broken, so every step I took required a great deal of energy. The trees towered above me and swayed in the morning wind. The sun illuminated the snow, turning the Pond Trail into a grand theater of shadows and shiny ice. I crossed the Carriage Road, the turnoff for the Triad, the trail for Pemetic Mountain, and found myself staring at the entrance of the South Ridge Trail. This was it I thought, time to go get that summit. The South Ridge Trail is an easy hike at first, as you walk through beautiful forests and cross cold, trickling brooks. About a half mile in though, it becomes an absolute monster. Almost out of nowhere, the path turns into a series of steep and treacherous grades, in which I was forced to place one foot well ahead of the other, plant my poles deep into the snow and thrust my body up, all without losing my fragile sense of balance. Try this maneuver thirty times over the course of an hour and you will find out how strong your hamstrings and quads really are! I was strong where I needed to be, and my drive to reach that summit was bordering on the obsessive. The snow turned harder as I carefully made my way up the mountain. The massive amount of ice that covered the trail was becoming more and more apparent with every thrust and lunge I made. Now was not the time for idle thinking. My senses were completely and utterly focused on the task at hand. My mind was clear, and my body was moving with a purpose. I breathed deeply as I continued to attack the Mountain's icy pitches and steep grades. The wind continued to howl all around me, at times whistling past my ear like a tide of raging water. Almost to the top of the last pitch, I secured myself and turned around to take in the stunning view that lay in front of me. The Triad and Pemetic Mountain rose to the north, with the cozy inlets of Seal Harbor and Northeast Harbor tucked in behind them, barely in view. Isle A Haut, Deer Isle and the Camden Hills shimmered under the bright sun to the west. Dorr Mountain sat directly to my left, it's icy Gorge trail looking ever more treacherous than when I had peered down upon it eight days ago. Looking over the Gorge, I was pleasantly surprised at my decision to not attempt it last Monday. From my new angle of sight, I realized that it was more fit for a bobsled run than a traverse at this time of year! Gathering myself, I reached the top of the trail, and made my final ascent over the famous Cadillac Mountain granite towards the icy summit. The wind was relenting as it pushed my body left and right. I was was hiking directly into it, and had but only small boulders to shield me from gusty wrath. Step after step, I put my head down and pushed forward. As I came onto the last stretch of trail, I opened my backpack and quickly changed my wool hats. My previous one was now frozen solid with my sweat! I took my last steps onto the summit and slowly knelt down to kiss the snowy ground. "I got you" I whispered. "I won this battle." After a brief stay on top, I snapped my faithful Nikon and headed down the mountain, my legs aching and my face burning from the stinging wind. I delicately navigated the descent, slipping and sliding most of the way. When I finally reached the bottom of the trail, the wind began to let up, and temperature seemed to soar. The whole way back to Jordan Pond I had a smile on my face. I had reached one of my most important hiking goals, and I felt great! Acadia can give and Acadia can most certainly take away, but on this particular afternoon, It had afforded me with one of the great hiking pleasures of my young life. The smell of the spruce trees, the cold island air that filled my lungs, and the surreal sense of being in my own wilderness had all washed over me in the past 5 hours. What pure unadulterated Joy! Reaching Jordan Pond, my legs were screaming to stop and my face was positively frozen. I snapped my last shots of the day, got in my warm car and headed down to Northeast Harbor for a big fat cup of hot chocolate. Back Home in Camden, I sat down in my favorite chair and watched the sun fade from the sky. I kicked my feet up and threw on an old Muddy Waters Album. I didn't make it ten minutes before I fell into a deep sleep. I woke up about three hours later, a giant smile still covering my face. I had taken the mountain down!