This image appeared yesterday in our monthly column in the Ellsworth American.
To read the column, click here: http://www.5backroad.com/montly-column
It may seem strange, but some native American prairie grasses do very well in Maine winters and look great in all seasons here. Below, you see a variety of Switch Grass (Panicum virgatum) that has survived many harsh winters here. It’s also is called Panic Grass due to its scientific name, certainly not because it’s a coward. This hearty plant is rabbit-proof, deer-resistant, and can withstand salty soil, stiff sea winds, and Maine ice storms. It’s a vibrant green in the spring and summer, rose-tinted then almost orange in fall, and an attractive tan in the winter:
(Brooklin, Maine)
It’s 26 degrees (F) here, as we speak; the sky is impenetrably dull; the fields are a white carpet, Great Cove is a pewter platter, and motes of very fine snow have been drifting by every now and then, perhaps as scouts for an invasion. But, enough of today’s gray; we want to talk about yesterday, which provided a winter contrast.
Yesterday was sunny and relatively warm, with air so clear that this early-rising moon moved slowly in the blue sky like a cosmic beach ball, which the spruce trees seemed to try to catch:
That moon rose at 1:40 p.m. here yesterday and the images above were taken at about 3:30 p.m. Technically, it was a waxing gibbous moon that will continue to wax and become full to us on Friday, January 10. That is, this moon’s illuminated part is getting larger and larger (or waxing, from the Old English for growing). The increasing size of its illuminated part also has gotten to the point where it is more than half the moon, but not yet the full moon (gibbous, from the Latin for hump and hump-backed). (Brooklin, Maine)
We saw fresh signs of Northern American River Otters along the shore of Great Cove on Sunday (January 5). We waited in wince-inducing winds for the weasels’ reappearance, but our waiting was in vain. No regrets, though; we’ll keep looking. In the meantime, we’ll share a few thoughts about these playful creatures as well as a couple of prior winter images of them.
It’s always reassuring to have otters nearby, since they won’t inhabit polluted areas. Although at home on the shore, they have all the latest equipment for hunting and playing in water: webbed feet; undulating tails; self-sealing ears and nostrils; special lungs that allow up to eight-minute underwater hunts; special eyes that increase vision in murky water, and whiskers that are sensitive to underwater vibrations caused by prey or playmates.
Otters often are seen in small, happy-looking groups, which are known by numerous collective names, including bevy; family; lodge; raft, and – our favorite – “a romp of otters.” (Brooklin, Maine)
Yesterday morning, the sun broke through the clouds late and ordered us into the woods, where it was enchanting the new sugar-like snow sprinkled under the evergreen canopy. We obeyed and enjoyed moments such as these:
However, once we had entered the wooded world, we became aware – yet again this winter – of the absence of winter birds that we used to see and hear on most cold days. As with several prior walks this winter, yesterday we neither saw nor heard a single chickadee, nuthatch, or woodpecker. (We did hear a pileated woodpecker laugh at us from a great distance.) We also have been seeing significantly fewer winter song birds at our feeders this winter.
It may be just one of those localized quirks, but expert reports of extraordinary bird losses have got us worrying about our spring birds. We have no Rachel Carson to write another Silent Spring and environmentally sane people seem to be disappearing faster than the birds. (Brooklin, Maine)
Last night we saw the unsightly fall of the last decade’s football dynasty, the New England Patriots. This morning we awoke to discover the cleansing sight of the new decade’s first snowfall in this part of New England, a more delicate moment.
(Brooklin, Maine)
We’re still enjoying (while we can) the bumper crop of wild winterberry fruits this winter. The berries, which appear only on the females of these deciduous holly bushes, still are unharvested, as you can see from this image taken yesterday. Their red galaxies along our gray roadsides are a balm to the winter traveler’s eyes.
Soon, however, the birds will run out of tastier and more nutritious things and gulp down most (or all) of these little orbs, which reportedly are one of the last winter survival meals for more than 40 species of birds. Perhaps that’s why the berries remain so red – they’re easy for desperate birds to find. (Brooklin, Maine)
While walking through a miserable combination of rain and snow last Tuesday (December 31), we heard the unmistakable whump-whump-whump of big wings pumping heavy air. We turned and – almost on top of us – was one of our winter bald eagles flying up a sloping field toward us. We got off one “shot” before the bird was gone. That shot produced a wonderfully abstract image that only we can recognize as a bird’s blurred butt.
However, the experience reminded us of a time on a previous rain-with-snow day when we got lucky and captured the front end of an oncoming wet eagle. We’re posting that earlier image here and making believe that we took it on the last day of the past decade. Don’t tell anyone.
(Brooklin, Maine)
Here we see our favorite two-foot waterfall, running clear and cold yesterday, which was a lovely first day for a new decade.
If we have a typical January this year, our waterfall’s spray will create an ice tent and the falls will hide from our view, but we’ll still hear its winter song from within. (Brooklin, Maine)
With apologies to T.S. Elliot, this is the way the decade ended for us, not with a bang, but this whimper of aggressive rain and timid snow today:
December here was a month that will be remembered mostly for its miserable rainstorms, gorgeous sunsets, and breath-taking moon rises.
As for the rainstorms, one brought down massive trees that destroyed power lines and roiled Naskeag Harbor, but none of our fishing vessels seemed the worse for it.
But not all was wet and gray. December’s low sunlight more than compensated for the precipitation. The month’s colorful sunset and afterglow dramas defied description:.
December also brought us the last full moon of the decade, and it was a good one – a supermoon that arose big, burly, and bronze over Acadia National Park and sailed away as a silver orb that cast a searching light across our dark waters.
The moon had one final trick up her sleeve when she returned to our view in late December as a new crescent moon: she “held the old moon in her arms,” as the astronomers say. That is, she not only reflected the sun brightly in her crescent, the rest of her turned charcoal-blue in reflected light from earth:
Meanwhile, back here on earth, our woods, fields, and streams were going through a December cycle of sunny brightness, light snow that sugar-coated things awhile, then rain that removed the snow better than any plow. This led to engorged streams that raced wildly through the woods.
The marsh ponds also went through a repeating cycle of freezing and thawing, sometimes with snow-covered ice.
December’s mild-then-cold temperatures contributed to the freeze-snow-rain-thaw cycle, seeming to confuse the red squirrels and white-tailed deer, especially the yearling deer who loved to frolic together at dusk in their first snow — when it was there.
Our old wild apple trees didn’t seem to mind December. In fact, some seemed to brazenly defy it by refusing to let go of their apples and doing line dancing when no one was looking.
While summer houses luxuriated in snow baths, wood sheds and the Brooklin General Store got very good use during the month.
The General Store wasn’t the only place where winter wreathes were hung. Brooklin driveways, houses, and barns displayed a wide variety of wreaths in December (many of which won’t be taken down until winter ends).
Of course, the most important parts of December for many were its religious and cultural celebrations of Christmas and Hanukah, reflected in roadside banners on Naskeag Road.
(All images taken in Brooklin, Maine, during December 2019, except the image of the Hanukkah banner, which was taken last December)
It’s not easy to get to Brooklin, Maine, in winter. You’ll drive on coastal Route 175 and, if coming from the north, you’ll pass Herrick Bay, where 175 also is called Bay Road; if coming from the south, you’ll pass parts of Eggemoggin Reach, where the road also is known as Reach Road. Bay and Reach Roads meet at 175’s junction with Naskeag Road, which runs down a peninsula to Naskeag Harbor at the end. That junction is the heart of the Town.
It sounds easier than it is. especially while traveling at night along 175’s dark, winding, and sometimes icy miles. Many porcupines consider the road to be a sacrificial alter and deer have been known to try to fulfill death wishes there. But, at this time of the year, where Bay, Reach, and Naskeag Roads meet, there’s a welcoming oasis of light and Christmas decorations for night travelers.
That’s where our still-open Brooklin General Store is on the eastern side of 175 facing our spot-lighted and decorated Friend Memorial Public Library on the western side. In the cold December night, the Store can look like an Edward Hopper painting and the Library like an institution that belongs in a town that has many more residents than our happy 800 or so people.
(Brooklin, Maine)
Last night at twilight two uncommon and beautiful things happened in our southwestern sky. First, we had what some astronomers call “the old moon in the young moon’s arms.”
That is, the dark portion of the crescent new moon was visible within a blue glow. Leonardo da Vinci was the first to realize that this phenomenon happens when the Earth infrequently comes into a position to reflect sun back onto the moon – earthshine cleaving with moonshine in the twilight. The phenomenon reportedly will happen again on January 28, 2020.
Second, and at the same time last night, Venus and the sculpted new moon posed together for an uncommon portrait.
At this time of year, Venus often is called “The Evening Star” because it is trailing the sun and rises to us brightly in the west soon after the sun goes down. When Venus orbits on the other side of the sun, it rises to us in the east near dawn and is called “The Morning Star.”
Of course, Venus is not a star; it is the second closest planet to the sun and within Earth’s orbit. (Brooklin, Maine)
Dark-Eyed Juncos (Junco hyemalis) are common here in winter, yet they can be confusing. There are five varieties of the bird in this country, ours being the Northeast subspecies known as the “Slate-Colored Junco.”
Scientists consider Juncos to be sparrows, but some birders insist that they’re finches. No one seems to know what “Junco” means in Latin or any other language, except Spanish in which it is the name of a plant that Juncos don’t go near.
Some old-timers call them “Snowbirds” due to their apparent sudden appearance with the first snows of winter. According to one myth, they even cause that snow.
But, many Juncos are here all year in the form of indistinguishable single or double gray blurs that exist on and near the ground. It’s when it snows that Juncos stand out; they also form into more visible feeding flocks in the winter, apparently as a defensive measure during the leafless season – more eyes and ears to spot predators.
(Brooklin, Maine)
Monday morning (December 23) was one of those special winter times to be alone near the sea, where you can try to find reality by remembering that you’re only one little dot in an immensely grand scene. Thus, we went to Great Cove on that achingly clear and bright Monday morning and gazed beyond the islands in Eggemoggin Reach to the horizon of the open Atlantic.
There was enough of a southwesterly breeze to tickle the water, but not enough to scare it into whitecaps. The light, of course, was winter-low. It gained just the right angle to catch the wind-scattered sea surface and turn it into billions of tiny mirrors, each with a different view.
With apologies the Shakespeare: All that glisters may not be gold – sometimes it’s more valuable than gold. (Brooklin, Maine)
Here we see a bronze bird taking off at dawn on the day before Christmas. He’s known to us as Edwin, for reasons that will become apparent, and he dresses up only for the Christmas season.
The “aliveness” in this bird’s rising is a thrill to see in all weather conditions, but especially in low winter light. Thus, this is the time to take a moment and praise the artist who sculpted this statue: Edwin Gamble (1922-2006). He named it “Egret” when he created it in 1966.
Gamble spent many summers in Maine and eventually moved with his family to Topsham, where he was easy to recognize in his red truck that had “ylwlegs” vanity plates. (Birders, of which he was one, had no trouble translating that abbreviation into “yellowlegs” [sandpipers].)
Among other things, Gamble is known as one of the foremost sculptors of shorebirds in abstract action-form. Keep your eye out for his works, which are on display in Maine museums, public places, and a few galleries. (Brooklin, Maine)
We recently took this exceedingly rare image of the Abominable Snowman near the southern junction of Naskeag and Back Roads. We suspect, based on the circumstantial evidence and two stiff eggnogs, that he burgles houses while posing as a Santa’s helper.
Perhaps only those people who are indigenous to the Himalayan Mountains will understand our excitement. The Abominable Snowman (also called The Yeti) has been a god-like legend there for ages. “He” is a portent of great danger to be avoided. (His gender is abominably apparent, since he disdains clothes, but we took our image from a discreet angle.)
Those legends go back a long time. Alexander the Great, after he conquered Yeti territory, reportedly demanded that his soldiers capture the abominable creature and bring it to him for inspection. But, apparently, the creature was too smart for them and they never saw him. But not for us! Consider yourself lucky to have this invaluable image. (Brooklin, Maine)
Whether you’re religious, irreligious, or sometimes both, this is a time to appreciate good music of all dimensions, no matter where your spirit compass is pointing. And, when it comes to offering good choral music, our regional Bagaduce Chorale has been among the best for more than 40 years.
The Chorale, directed by Bronwyn Kortge, gave its always-much-anticipated Christmas Concert yesterday in Bar Harbor and the day before in Blue Hill. The Concert exceeded its high expectations and deserves a bit of praise. The images here are from the performance at the First Congregational Church of Blue Hill.
As has become usual, the Choral was accompanied by the excellent professionals and students of the GEM Orchestra and the ECMI Youth Chorale. For the curious: those acronyms stand for the Gaining Experience Through Mentoring Orchestra and the Ellsworth Community Music Institute Youth Choral. (As with Maine’s many Native American settlers, we think long, hard-to-say, descriptive names are okay.)
Speaking of apt names, here’s Noelle Hanson of Trenton, Maine:
She and the other members of the ECMI Youth Chorale were located to the right of the GEM Orchestra, with the Bagaduce Chorale above them:
A much-deserved standing ovation followed the performance:
(Blue Hill, Maine)
Yesterday we had a beautiful winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year. We also had a bonus as the sun was approaching its annual lowest point in the sky at noon: We had a waning crescent solstice moon that was barely visible in the glare of a bright day that was made brighter by a thin carpet of snow.
In fact, we originally couldn’t find that moon in the bright sky as it sailed over the Atlantic. But then, we heard “Pssst – look there!” A friendly spruce tree pointed it out for us, as you can see from the image above. Once we found it, we put a bigger lens to work:
In pre-Christian times, the winter solstice was celebrated religiously as Yule Time, when the energy of the moon god caused the rebirth of the sun. The word “solstice” is from the Latin for “stopped sun.” (Brooklin, Maine)
Clear, cold, mostly northwest air and a thin layer of glistening snow this week seem to have enhanced the brightness of the few colors in our winter landscape, especially the colors on houses. Perhaps that mutuality was meant to be.
Above, we see a light green door that seems more vibrant now that it’s not competing with the nearby maple leaves. Below, we see what is called “The Red House” here, seemingly shouting “look at me now!”, even though it’s vacant in the winter.
By the way, if you’re worried about the potential danger of slippery snow at home entrances and sharp icicles over front doors, relax. Back and side doors usually are used for friendly winter visits here, and wet boots often are taken off just after entering. (Newton’s third law of conversation states that relaxing in warm socks stimulates good talk. That’s Nancy Newton, not Sir Isaac.) (Brooklin, Maine)