In the Right Place: Corny

It rained from dawn into the night yesterday, a slow rain that nursed the aching, dry landscape. The rain stopped early enough to allow us to see the full moon rising behind the trees on the ridge to the east, coming like a needed friend. It soon rose high into the thinly-clouded sky, and all was right again:

In the United States, the September full moon traditionally is called the Corn Moon or variations thereof, such as the Corn Harvest Moon and Corn Maker Moon. These and other traditional names apparently were the descriptors given by our Northeastern Native Americans and early European settlers of the time of the year that the moon rose, as collected by the Farmer’s Almanac.

If we lived in Africa, Australia, China, or India, we probably would have called last night’s moon a Blood Moon. A total lunar eclipse occurred on their side of the planet, reportedly turning the moon red for more than an hour. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, at about 12:30 a.m. September 8, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Windjammer Watch XIV

Here you see the 118-foot schooner GRACE BAILEY resting in Great Cove Thursday like a contented hen surrounded by her chicks. It might look like she’s putting up sails, but she’s apparently just letting her sails go slack to lessen vessel movement in the shifting breezes. (Note the wind in her U.S. flag and private signal [name] flag.)

This is GRACE’s fifth visit to the Cove this cruising season that I’ve seen, and it probably won’t be her last. She was on a six-night adventure with music, according to her schedule. She’s a grand old lady that bespeaks her first name. Launched in 1882, GRACE now hails from Camden, Maine. Here’s a closer look at her in repose:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 4, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Being Crabby Today

Herring and ring-billed gulls often make foot or flight patrols over the intertidal zone’s rockweed to find inept crabs that think they’re hidden in the moist blades.

The birds pull their prey out of the heaps of vegetation and swing, peck, and tear the crabs apart, then gulp their innards down with gusto. The crustaceans writhe and try to pinch the gull, but to no avail; once detected, they’re usually doomed.

The gull shown above apparently has found an Atlantic rock crab (Cancer irroratus), which is almost universally called a peekytoe crab in Maine. This primarily intertidal and shallow water crab reportedly received its nickname decades ago from the owner of a Portland, Maine, seafood company that promoted hand-picked rock crab leg meat as a delicious specialty. Which it certainly is.

However, we’re told that the “peekytoe” promotional name was derived from the use of “picked,” which is Maine slang for “pointed” or “picketed” as well as the usual word for the act of removing or disassembling (as in to “pick an apple” or “to pick apart” something). To that was added “toe,” which for Maine crabbers reportedly can mean a short crab leg.

Peekytoe crab and Jonah crab (Cancer borealis) are the two species of edible crab most harvested in Maine. Jonahs are trapped offshore in deeper waters than the peekytoes. They reportedly are named after the unfortunate Biblical prophet Jonah, but with lobsters in mind, not crabs. Jonah crabs enter lobster traps on the sea bottoms and eat the bait, which is bad luck for a lobster fisherman.

In very deep waters off Maine there are descriptively named red crabs (Chaceon quinquidens), which are edible, but not harvested as much as peekytoes and Jonahs. Apropos of Jonah’s problems, we also have two descriptively named invasive foreign crabs along the Maine coast that most people don’t eat, but that sea gulls love: European green crabs (Carcinus maenas) and Asian shore crabs (Hemigrapsus sanguineus).

There also are the virtually prehistoric American horseshoe crabs (Limulus polyphemus), but that’s a different, inedible story. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 3 and 4, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Windjammer Watch XIII

Here you see the big-bodied schooner HERITAGE in Great Cove Wednesday morning. She had just boarded passengers who were visiting the WoodenBoat School campus:

Her tarps are up and her sails aren’t because she’s being pushed by CLARK KENT, her yawl boat, to Babson Island in the Cove. (The schooner has no internal motor.) Her passengers likely are looking forward to a beach lunch.

The 145-foot HERITAGE is now the largest coastal cruiser that visits the Cove regularly. The larger VICTORY CHIMES (170’) has been retired, and I hear that she’s enjoying life as a waterfront bar and restaurant. According to HERITAGE’s schedule, she was on a six-night exploration of the Maine coast. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 3, 2025.)

In the Right Place: A Great Experience

Among other wildlife greats, there are “great white sharks,” “great blue herons,” and “great black wasps.”  Here’s one of the latter, apparently a 1.5-inch female, working the daisy fleabane on Tuesday. Her slightly less great mate – male GBWs are smaller – was working the neighboring flowers:

Great blacks (Sphex pensylvanicus) are native to Maine and fairly common throughout the nation. They’re “solitary” wasps in that they typically don’t live in colonies or nests.

A pair usually will dig a burrow for their larvae and feed them there. These are impressive and virtually always helpful insects. They’re pollinators as well as predators of pest insects, which they paralyze and bring back to their larvae as live food.

I’ve never known them to be aggressive to, or even interested in, humans that don’t try to provoke them significantly. Curiously, the literature says that only the females can sting, but I’ve never tested that finding personally. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 2, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Waterfront Watch

Here you see LITTLE BEAR in Great Cove yesterday. She reportedly was launched in Scotland. She’s built for luxury cruising, but obviously is a steel-hulled replica of a North Sea fishing trawler. That ketch sailing rig can be especially helpful for stability in a rolling sea. She now apparently hails from Rockport, Maine. Detailed information about her has been hard to uncover.

I’m assuming from her looks and Scottish launching site that LITTLE BEAR’s name is not inspired by furry mammal cubs or hairy dolls named after Teddy Roosevelt. I suspect that she was named after Ursa Minor ("Little Bear" in Latin), which is the Little Dipper star constellation. Historically, that constellation has been important for sea navigation. Its brightest star, Polaris (“of the Pole”), is the North Star, which hangs out nearly directly above the North Pole and historically has been a general indicator of where North is. 

The Little Bear constellation can be found by using the two "pointer" stars in the Ursa Major (“Great Bear”) constellation to locate the North Star, which is the rear light on the Little Dipper's starry tail. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 2, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Bright Nose Department

Here you see part of the Brooklin Boat Yard pier and docking float on Sunday’s glorious afternoon. I have to wonder how many lines and angles, especially right angles, live in this little space? How many measurements went into forming and relating these differing sized and shaped planes, not to mention nails, screws, and bolts?

It made me shudder in remembrance of my brain-sizzling trials with geometry and trigonometry; but then, I focused on the happy little green-trimmed, yellow skiff cheerfully sticking her bright nose into the monochromatic orderliness. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 31, 2025.)

August Postcards From Down East Maine

August here in Vacationland can be the ultimate experience for lovers of outdoor activities. This year, however, it was a mixed blessing. We had more beautiful days than usual — cool, sunny, big blue sky days — which was wonderful. But that meant less rain; which meant comtinued severe drought here on the coast. Nonetheless, this August was one of the most beautiful that we’ve had.

As usual, we begin our “Wish You Were Here” Postcards with the four iconic scenes that we monitor monthly in these Postcards. They’re the view across Blue Hill and Jericho Bays to Mount Desert Island; the Harbor House in Brooklin’s Naskeag Harbor; the old red boat house in Blue Hill’s Conary Cove, and a long view of the small mountain called Blue Hill, with a bonus image of that Hill from Blue Hill Bay:

The wooded trails were dry, even where they were moss-covered. Nonetheless, walking along a dappled trail among tall trees with bird song and the scent of balsam fir and spruce in the air is one of the real — in the literal sense — pleasures of life for some of us.

The ponds were lower and the stream flows lighter. The mouth of Patten Stream at low tide was rock-strewn. But wildlife in and around the waters was abundant.

As you see above and will see below, our field grasses and sedges were browning and fall wildflowers of yellow, white and purple were pervasive. Some fallow fields received their fall mowing in August, others will be mowed in Spetember or even October.

On the fauna front, our white-tailed deer and wild turkeys strolled in August’s long grasses. Common yellow throat warblers hid among alder leaves, while our herring gulls seemed to have wanted to be seen. Dragon flies landed lightly here and there and bees and butterflies were everywhere. (But, curiously, I saw only a few monarch caterpillars.) Painted turtles and toads made what might be their last appearances of the year.

Flora-wise, August was spectacular, although the dryness caused some early berry production and color changing. As for the trees, the standouts included the mountain ashes berrying-out, plum trees turning purple early, sugar maples also turning, and hydrangia trees giving it everything they had.

The viburnum bushes turned red early and the beach roses (Rosa rugosa) produced hips while many continued to flower through August.

Standout August wildflowers included Queen Anne’s lace; butter-and-eggs; primrose and tansy; bull (spear) thistle and fleabane; black-eyed susans; fragrant water lilies; sea lavender; star flower leaves turning silver, and Indian (ghost) pipes that looked like porcelain, and golden rod.

In the gardens, there was spectacular beauty where the watering hose or sprinkler could reach. Among the best were liatris (blazing star); butterfly weed; gladiolas; clematis vine; tiger lilies, and the last of the poppies.

The waterfront always is a big part of Down East Maine. We begin there with views of Brooklin’s picturesque harbors: the mostly working waterfront at Naskeag Harbor; the mostly pleasure boating Center Harbor (which includes the revowned Brooklin Boat Yard), and the sometimes-harbor of Great Cove, which fills up with fascinating vessels for major events, such as the August Eggemoggin Reach Regata.

Naskeag Harbor

Center Harbor

Brooklin Boat Yard at Center Harbor

Great Cove Before the Regata

During the Regata

Great Cove attracts some fascinating vessels, including the sleek GRAYLIN, a sardine carrier converted into a luxury yacht; FRAYA, a chunky, sea-going catamaran, and many classic windjammers that take tourists on multi-day journeys along the Down East coast.

Schooner Grace Bailey (Upper Right)

Angelique

American Eagle

Stephen Taber

On the working waterfront, the fishing vessels seem to have been having a reasonably good lobster season. The lopbster boats are quite varied, reflecting the ways and means of their captains/owners. Here are a few of the August regulars in Naskeag Harbor:

On the educational waterfront, the world-famous WoodenBoat School is in session at Great Cove all summer, teaching how to build and sail small boats, as well as other marine-oriented subjects. The Cove is alive with WBS sailboats during August:

Finally, there was the August full moon. It is most commonly called the Sturgeon Full Moon, the name given it by Native Americans who fished for those fish in August. She rose red over Jericho Bay, became white after slipping through our atmosphere, probed Naskeag Harbor with a glitter path, and later slimmed down to a crescent and began to grow again. She was about half full last night:

(All images in this post were taken in Down East Maine during August of 2025.)

In the Right Place: Shy and Audacious

Here you see a dying star. Or, more accurately, the leaves of a dying star flower plant, one of our many shy spring wildflowers whose beauty is obscured by their commonality. After the plant loses its delicate white flowers in early summer and is performing its farewell responsibilities in the early fall, it can turn various shades of color and then lose all color, but – for a few days – almost glow in ghostlike hues:

On the other hand, there is no obscuring the beauty of audacious gladiolas in the light of high summer and early fall. They are neither common nor shy at any time in their life. Some already are shedding their shriveling flowers in careless fall disarray.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 16 (gladiola) and 26-27 (starflower), 2025.)

In the Right Place: A Matter of Life and Death

Here you see a vibrant young female monarch butterfly sipping nectar this week from a bull thistle. She may be part of the migrating generation here that soon will attempt to fly thousands of miles to Monarchland in Mexico. Below, you’ll see a worn out, dying male monarch on desiccated yarrow flowerheads. He was born here and will die here as one of the interim generations; his progeny may be part of the migrating generation.

According to the literature, most adult monarchs, born in the spring and summer here, live for about two to five weeks. However, the final generation, born in late summer, are the long-distance migrants and apparently can live for up to eight or nine months to complete their journey to their overwintering sites. It’s an amazing cycle that I don’t think has been fully understood yet.

This summer, I’ve seen many monarchs, especially males. But, I’ve seen very few monarch caterpillars compared to prior years. Both common (wild) milkweed and cultured milkweeds were in abundance and ready for those little striped butterfly larvae to chew their toxic leaves to shreds and grow into regal butterflies. Here’s a fritiillary on Asclepias tuberosa, a cultured milkweed also known as butterfly weed:

Maybe it’s just me not being in the right place at the right time. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 27 (male) and 28 (female), 2025.)

In the Right Place: Born Again

I was pleased to see one of my favorite vessels in repose in Great Cove yesterday morning. The yacht GRAYLING is a slim, sleek, mysterious-looking beauty with a rough past and a born-again life now. Her success is due in significant part to two of Brooklin’s finest, according to what I’ve read and heard.

GRAYLING was built in 1915 in East Booth Bay, Maine, as a double-ender to net mackerel and herring off the coast there. She did that grueling work for five years. When canned sardines became popular, she was sold to a high-volume commercial fishing operation up on Maine’s northeast coast and was demoted to the tedious, non-fishing job of sardine carrier; she’d pick up sardines from smaller fishing boats and truck them to a cannery. Back and forth; back and forth.

Then the sardine industry in Maine went bust and GRAYLING languished and deteriorated in the 1980s. By the 1990’s, she apparently was almost a wreck up for sale. The simple version of a complicated story is that she caught the eye of Brooklin’s Maynard Bray, a maritime engineer and marine historian. He and Brooklin boatbuilder and designer Doug Hylan thought that she would make a great yacht for someone who wanted a vessel with plenty of character.

They eventually helped convince Ted Okie to buy the boat and have it thoroughly restored and appropriately modified by Hylan and others at Brooklin’s Benjamin River Marine boatyard. It would give pleasure to guests instead of trucking sardines – and those guests would not be packed tightly together.

She was relaunched in 1997 here as the beautiful motorized ketch that you see here, almost 65 feet long overall, with only a 12 ½ -foot beam (widest part). She eventually was resold and now reportedly is owned by Michael Glasfield of Mystic, Connecticut, where she home-ports in nearby Noank at the mouth of the Mystic River.

By the way, a grayling is a fish found in cold, freshwater; it has a distinctive, large red dorsal fin (especially males) and pewter colored scales. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 29, 2024.) See also the image in the Comment space.

In the Right Place: Mystical Growths Department

American mountain ash trees here are now bursting with berries, harbingers of an early fall. This native tree (Sorbus American) is sometimes called a rowan tree due to early colonizers confusing it with a similar European tree in the Sorbus family (Sorbus aucuparia). Thus, it’s best called it an American rowan, if that term is used.

It’s also called by some, especially our Canadian neighbors, a dogberry tree. There are two vastly different reported theories as to why they’re called that: either because the tree’s berries “are not fit for a dog” or because the name is a corruption of “dag,” meaning dagger. The tree’s hard wood was used to make daggers, as well as mystical charms and divining rods.

In Wales, the tree reportedly is called "criafol" ("the lamenting fruit tree"), apparently due to an ancient belief that its wood was used to form the cross of Christ. In fact, the trees have been associated with numerous myths in Europe and among our early colonizers, many of whom planted them near their homes to ward of witches and other evil spirits.

Despite their reputation, the tree’s berries are eaten by always-needy wildlife and have been consumed by humans for many years in the form of jams, jellies, and fermented alcoholic beverages such as mead and cordials. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 27, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Nothing’s Ever Perfect

Yesterday was what historically would be considered to be a perfect summer’s day – temperatures in the tingly 60s, breezy, and a big blue sky decorated by squirts of whipped creamy cumulous clouds. Here you see the clouds scudding over Mount Desert Island:

Here’s the view down Back Road with its woods and fields (this field already “fall-mowed”):

But all is not right in Vacationland. We need gray veils of nimbostratus clouds and their continuous, saturating rains, or maybe even the thunderheads of cumulonimbus clouds that produce significant storms. Given the dry state of our ground, however, I’d prefer several days of slow, steady rain. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 27, 2025.)

In the Right Place: No Butts About It

A few flowers remain on our Rosa rugosa bushes, as you see, while the plants’ rose hips are now flourishing. The preferred pronunciation of the plant’s scientific name is “ROW-sa RUE-go-sa.“ Rosa, derives from the Latin for rose and rugosa, means wrinkled, referring to the plants’ leaves. It has many common names, including Beach Rose, Beach Tomato, Sea or Seaside Tomato, Shrub Rose. Wild Rose, Rugosa Rose, and Japanese Rose.

These plants were imported from Asia to retard erosion along our seashores, which they are good at. Unfortunately, they didn’t understand that they were supposed to stay on selected beach edges and they negatively impacted important dunes, birds’ nests and turtle egg laying, while also invading inland and creating unwanted thickets that have to be removed by bulldozers. They’re listed as invasive plants of special concern in Maine and sales of them are banned here.

Nonetheless, they’re here in abundance and their hips are an excellent source of vitamin C and other antioxidants. These seed pods can be used to make jams, jellies, syrups, and other products. Rose hips reportedly were used in World War II, when citrus fruits became scarce in England, to prevent scurvy, especially in children.

By the way, the use of word “hips” to describe rose seed pods is not because early biologists thought that these objects looked like the rear view of big-butted people. Historians think that the word likely is derived from the Old English word “hiope,” meaning the seed pod of a wild rose. Which is what they are, no butts about it. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 25, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Turkey Tabulating

Maine is now participating in a wild turkey survey being conducted in many states in which the birds reside and are hunted. The idea is to help state biologists understand better annual turkey reproduction, which contributes to better wildlife management. They want to know how many male Toms, female Janes, and young poults you see during August of 2025. A link is below.

We’ve been seeing a fair number of groups of mom and aunt turkeys  shepherding their collected poults on the trails and in the fields, not to mention crossing roads and creating traffic hazards.

One trick for you bird photographers to play on the older females when they see you and herd their poults into the high field grasses and hunker down unseeable: Step into the area where they had entered the fields and silently wait with camera poised. Soon the jowly head of the leader of the pack will slowly rise like a periscope in enemy waters and swivel around. Click!

(Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 22, 2025.) To participate in the Maine Wild Turkey Survey, use this link:

https://survey123.arcgis.com/share/3fbc73751cea40618e305faf01c05abe

In the Right Place: Look But Don’t Touch

The tides here recently seem to be stronger and higher than usual, perhaps the insidious work of the late hurricane Erin. The fast waters have been tossing the sea lavender in Great Cove’s intertidal zone around like trees in a hurricane. Once the plants are submerged, however, they bejewel the bottom in the clear water:

Sea lavender, (Limonium carolinianum) is unusual in that it has evolved glands in its leaves to excrete excess salt, allowing it to survive in saltwater. It’s not in the true lavender family, but it does have delicate lavender-blue flowers that attract pollinaters (when above the water) and people (when around the water). That’s part of its problem.

Sea lavender, a Maine native, can be made into beautiful dry decorative arrangements that need no care. The public collects it and many shops sell it. But it’s a plant that takes a long time to mature and its collection for home decoration has threatened it. The state has listed it among the plants to “Leave Growing – Do Not Disturb”. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 23, 2025.)

In the Right Place: A Dry Run

Our ponds are shrinking, our streams are drying out, our bushes and grasses are browning, and our woods are fire hazards. A continuing lack of rainfall has brought “Severe Drought” to Down East Maine and no significant relief is in sight, according to the latest U.S. Drought Monitor:

Yet, recent days here on the coast have been beautifully clear and relatively cool – a vulnerable paradise. Last week, however, temperatures throughout Maine were above normal, with Caribou (in the northeastern corner of the state) reportedly suffering multiple 90-degree days. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine on August 22, 2025.)

In the Right Place: Darkened Days

One of the magic tricks that August does here every now and then is to briefly and unexpectedly pull the clouds over the sun on a breathless day and create eclipse-like light. The waters become like reflective black ice and the spruce and balsam fir trees along the shore become dark shadows.

Here you see such a dramatic moment happening in Naskeag Harbor on Wednesday afternoon. What made it extra-special was a small, white catboat slowly and soundlessly entering and leaving the still, dark scene -- gliding smoothly about as fast as the second hand on a clock.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 20, 2025.) Anticipating Questions: My guess is that the boat is a 14-foot fiberglass Handy Cat (“HC”), a Merle Hallett design.

In the Right Place: That’s One Hill of a Mountain

Here, in the distance, you can see the south face of what was originally and officially designated “Blue Hill” by the area’s European settlers.  It’s the 934-foot-high landform that inspired the names of the Town of Blue Hill and Blue Hill Bay below it, as well as the whole Blue Hill Peninsula on which it looms.

Until the 1970’s, the official geological consensus reportedly was that a landform had to be over 1000 feet high to be considered a “mountain” rather than a “hill.” But there apparently no longer is such a height criterion or any official classifying agency. Apparently, local traditions and perceptions are now the criteria by which area residents are to decide whether a high landform is a hill or mountain.

Consequently, there has been a slightly confusing compromise here on the Blue Hill Peninsula by some people who promote the area. They have identified the high landform that you see here as “Blue Hill Mountain” in their descriptions and maps. That seems to me to be self-contradictory. (It’s a bit like calling your blue water-going vessel a “blue boat ship” or your son “a boy man.”)

The Native Americans who originally lived in the area reportedly called this high, sometimes bluish landform “Awanadjo,” which we’re told means “small, misty mountain.” Now, they knew how to make a mountain out of a blue hill! (Image taken in Blue Hill, Maine, on August 16, 2025.)

In the Right Place: The Ouch Flower

Queen Anne’s lace is invading the browning fields as high summer starts to show signs of early fall. Individual flowers often look like celestial galaxies:

The usual fields of flowers, however, often look like the parachute drop behind Normandy beaches in World War II:

The plant’s scientific name, Daucus carota, hints at one of three other interesting common names for QAL. The first is “wild carrot” because it’s related to the domestic vegetable. The second is “bird’s nest flower” because its flowerhead stems sweep upward when growing out and look like a nest. And third, “bishop’s lace,” apparently because of its resemblance to the lace often worn (at least ages ago) by bishops performing religious rites.

But Queen Anne’s lace is its most popular name, a reference to the wife of King James I, who unified England and Scotland and has a Bible named after him instead of a flower. His pitiable wife Anne died in 1619 after having had at least 17 pregnancies in as many years and only one surviving child, according to the texts.

The various legends as to why this flower was named after Anne include the Queen usually wearing a lace headdress and her love of sewing lace. The most famous legend follows from the white flowers sometimes having a small red or purple floret at their center to attract pollinators. That spot is said to represent a drop of Anne’s blood that fell when she pricked her finger with a needle while sewing fine lace. I like to think that she shouted a very unroyal “Ouch!”

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 18 and 19, 2025.)