JOURNAL
Here we have images of the sunset afterglow over Great Cove at about 4:30 p.m. on Wednesday (January 29) :
A half an hour later, the waxing crescent moon climbing fast over that spot as the sky darkened.
It was clear, cold, and Venus, the Evening “Star,” tried to steal the show. (Brooklin, Maine)
We’ve had January cold weather for the past few days, which doesn’t make it easy for those who harvest scallops or green sea urchins. Here we see some of these stalwarts out in Naskeag Harbor on Tuesday (January 28), dragging for the seaweed-eating urchins.
The orange reproductive innards of urchins (gonads called “uni”) are delicacies in Japan and other parts of Asia, to which Maine processors air-freight the fresh creatures whole or their processed uni.
The commercial urchin-dragging season here ends in late February or mid-March, depending on zone. Harvesting urchins here also is done by raking, trapping, and diving. The urchin-dragging regulations require, among other things, that the drag net be no more than five and one-half feet wide and that the urchins taken be no larger than three inches and no smaller than two and one-sixteenth inches. Here we see a crew member measuring urchins to see if they’re legal:
(Brooklin, Maine)
I’m certain from her actions that this young white-tailed deer was not aware of me while she was deciding whether to come fully out of the woods on Sunday (January 26). I was well hidden about 150 feet away and the wind was coming from behind her.
Thus, I wasn’t worried about her extraordinary sense of smell. (Research indicates that her nose has up to 297 million scent receptors, compared to a dog’s 220 million and our pitiful five million.) I also wasn’t too concerned about her seeing me if I remained still. Deer don’t have extraordinary eyesight during the day and they can’t focus well to the side with only one eye. However, I arguably was within her hearing range. Although white-tails don’t have extraordinary hearing, they are programmed to alert when hearing a sound that is not natural to their environments.
Thus, when my camera “clicked” in taking the first image here, she alerted and turned her widened eyes, flaring nostrils, and revolving ears all in my direction.:
I don’t think that she saw me as I took the second shot, but she heard it and, trusting her instincts, melted back into the woods. (Brooklin, Maine)
Sometimes, the difference between the intrigue and joy of abstraction and the grit and sweat of reality is merely a matter of framing. Here, we see eye-catching gear from last year’s lobster season.
Below, we see the gear as it really was Sunday (January 26), on a weather-beaten raft in foggy Naskeag Harbor.
The raft likely will be hauled up and stored with others in the pier parking lot there until being put back into the water in June. (Brooklin, Maine)
Yesterday morning came to us shrouded in mild rain and fog. It enclosed us in a soft, dream-like world, where we could see the snow before us being washed away, but couldn’t see the herring gulls that were crying 100 yards offshore.
There was a dreariness in which beloved things could be imagined as being tested by human reactions: the desperation of the Cemetery’s old Camperdown Elm, as she tries to shelter her assigned souls; the loneliness of the abandoned shed on Brooklin Boat Yard’s pier, as it watches Chatto Island disappear….
(Brooklin, Maine)
Here we see a hen and two drake Mallards making themselves conspicuous in Blue Hill Bay on Wednesday (January 22). Perhaps they sense that the hunting season for them ended in the first week of the month.
Curiously, a group of Mallards on land or in the water is called a “flock,” but when they take flight, they’re called a “sord” of Mallards. (Note: some nature articles incorrectly call multiple Mallards a “sord” when they’re in “flock” mode and vice-versa. It’s helpful to realize that “Sord” is derived from the Middle English word “sorde,” to rise up.) Below, in an image from a prior year, we see a sorde of Mallards about to land and become a flock:
Nonetheless, when it comes to flying, Mallards are no slouches. They’ve been clocked at 70 miles per hour and can explode out of the water in virtually vertical flight. (Brooklin, Maine)
Snow is melting fast, streams are overflowing their banks, and ice-entombed rain chains are dripping like leaky faucets. It feels good, but this is not usual for January. The cold and ice of early in the week was what is usual for January.
Since then, we’ve been having a winter warming wave – the high yesterday was almost 40 degrees (F) and the day before it was above 40. As we speak early this morning, it’s already 37. The historical average temperatures for this week have been less than 30 degrees, according to local records.
Meanwhile, precipitation this month has been well below average, which may mean that, when the rain comes, it will lead our Town’s boat builders to wonder what type of planking is best for arks. (Brooklin, Maine)
January 24, 2020
One of the best times to view New England stone walls is January when they’re framed in snow, according to “Exploring Stone Walls,” a field guide by Robert Thorson. Here, you’re viewing a local stone wall, as it was snow-framed yesterday, January 23.
This wall was constructed about 30 years ago over the remnants of an ancient stone wall designed to pen in sheep. It’s now a traditional “double wall,” consisting of two parallel rows of large stones with smaller stones and gravel between. “Single walls” also were built in neat, single-stone rows by fastidious farmers. More frequently, farmers created less artistic stone walls called “dumped” or “tossed” walls. These were all “drystone” (no mortar) field walls, usually built from cleared stone for agricultural purposes. More artistic “laid” walls, wet or dry, often were built nearer the house for attractiveness.
The oldest documented stone wall in New England was constructed by English settlers in 1607, north of what is now greater Portland, Maine, according to another book by Thorson, “Stone by Stone: The Magnificent History of New England’s Stone Walls,” a source for much of the material here. (Brooklin, Maine).
Here we see a low sun lighting a low tide yesterday afternoon at Naskeag Harbor. It was the kind of day that could bring contentment to January – cold, but of the freshening kind; snow-strewn in places, but not slushy or very dirty snow; disappearing light, but golden not pewter light.
The vacant, snow-clad house on Harbor Island seems to be waiting patiently for its summer residents to return when its grass will be green and its flowers in bloom. The Fishing Vessel Dear Abbie:, wearing her scalloping equipment now, also waits at her mooring, but more like a hunting dog that is eager to leap into action.
(Brooklin, Maine)
In the Right Place: Second
While walking in the woods Sunday morning (January 19), I became quite confident from the state of the overnight snow on the path and the early hour that I was the first two-legged mammal to go that way that day. Then, I saw ski tracks coming out of a side trail that went where I was going!
In about a quarter of a mile, his or her ski tracks went right where I had to go left. It’s not so bad coming out second to The Phantom Skier. (Brooklin, Maine)
Our second significant snowfall of the new decade came mostly during yesterday’s wee hours and was ready for plowing in the early day’s light.
The snow was wetter than its predecessor and, in places, the wind was able to whisk it into what looked like slathers of whipped cream – an oddly pleasing sight when served with rustling cattails around a marsh pond.
(Brooklin, Maine)
Yesterday, we wandered through Thursday’s dark but purifying snowstorm; today, we wander through the cold and clear day after, Friday (January 17).
As we see above, dawn had some gold in it as it slipped into the North Field and began to light the spruces at the far edge. On the other, eastern, side of Naskeag Peninsula, Acadia National Park stood in relief across Blue Hill Bay. Mount Cadillac usually mostly deep green, was powdered white..
Each snow storm has its special features. In this one, we think it was how the spruces and balsam firs seemed to be daubed thickly with a palette knife to add voluptuous textures to their overlapping layers.
Snow-dabbled winterberry shrubs competed with each other and with old apple trees for best in show, abstract art division:
The purity of that bright, snow-accented day brought out the character of houses, barns, and even institutions:
The deer started to arrive in the honeyed light of late afternoon, their heavy winter coats glowing. They waited until after dusk to socialize in the field where we began this little journey.
(All images above were taken on January 17, 2020, in Brooklin, Maine.)
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The first plow-worthy snowfall of the new decade occurred Thursday (January 16) and we ventured forth into it during the morning. It snowed the entire time that we were out, sometimes a fine powder and sometimes the chunky variety, as these images would show, if enlarged. By the end of day, we got almost four inches of snow at our house.
The Town of Brooklin carried on as usual. The General Store seemed to be doing a good business; people were walking in and out of the Library as if nothing had happened; most of the fishing vessels were out of Naskeag Harbor, and the residents of the Brooklin Cemetery got some good insulation.
It was in the woods and fields — where there were no people — that the storm created some serious beauty. The snow became a sticky meringue icing on the spruce and fir.
The old, rugged apple and crab apple trees gained racing stripes. Those that had yet to let go of their apples often took on some of the qualities of Japanese Sumi-e painting.
Country lanes and paths had no traffic early in the morning. The purity and grace of their lines for once trumped their functionality.
There was little color, but winterberry and ornamental grasses provided daubs of red and rich browns here and there.
The woods, streams, and marshes were silent and virtually monochromatic, except for water-polished granite and trail blazes.
The human touch became more apparent in the half-light and included wood fences and log piles; a classic bench and stone wall under a frosted Katsura tree; lobster traps in the side lot, and Revolution Red paint jobs:
In the sun of the prior day, the Fuller Family road banner seemed out of place. But, as the snow came down on it Thursday, it proved prophetic.
The wildlife came out at dusk and went about their business of surviving as best they could.
(All images taken on January 16, 2020, in Brooklin, Maine.)
One of our locally prized red spruces died an inglorious death earlier in the week. Pounding rain, high winds, and ground-thawing temperatures got it rocking uncontrollably; one of its sways went too far and the 85-footer blew down, ripping an almost 20-foot-diameter root plate from the ground. It splayed in an ungraceful, seemingly embarrassing, position across a trail used by local hikers and wildlife.
Although we have thousands of big spruce and firs here, seeing one go always is saddening. Red Spruces are very slow growing. They often reach a length of 130 feet and, sometimes, 150 feet. This red spruce probably was a sapling in the 1930s and still was a youngster when it went down. The species can live for 250 to 450 years, depending on conditions, according to experts.
Fortunately, Kyle Chick and his assistant from Blue Hill Tree Service & Arboriculture were working nearby; they came by Wednesday (January 15) and opened a passage in the trail, during which the tree’s large root plate sprang back into its original position.
Here’s an image of the opened trail yesterday as the snow started falling:
(Brooklin, Maine)
We’re under a winter storm warning and experiencing a significant snow fall as we speak, which makes us glad that we took our annual Tahitian vacation yesterday. We went to the usual tropical place -- our upstairs landing – and saw the first and second Hibiscus blooms of the new decade exploding simultaneously in exotic colors there. It was sunny and the temperature outside was a balmy 37 degrees (F).
Yesterday was the first time that two Hibiscus blooms appeared at the same time on this productive plant. The blooms will remain for a day or so, then close and be replaced by others that are already in bud.
Historically, these attention-getting flowers were used by Tahitian women as romantic signals: If they wore a blossom behind their left ear, they were in a relationship; if one was behind their right ear, they were looking for a relationship. (Brooklin, Maine)
Here we have one of our little neighbors sunbathing on his wood pile yesterday morning when the temperature was 23 degrees (F) and the windchill 14. Our Red Squirrels seem to be flourishing this winter, perhaps because the winter has been mild, so far.
Seeing this healthy scamp yesterday conjured the folklore fable of “The Squirrel and the Grasshopper” about the virtue of planning ahead (a later variant of Aesop’s “The Grasshopper and the Ant”):
“The squirrel works hard in the withering heat all summer long, building and improving his house and laying up supplies for the winter.
“The grasshopper thinks he’s a fool and laughs and dances and plays the summer away.
“Come winter, the squirrel is warm and well fed. The shivering grasshopper has no food or shelter, so he dies out in the cold.”
(Brooklin, Maine)
We’re hearing more sea duck hunting (boom-boom-boom) from the waters off the nearby islands as we get closer to that hunting season’s end on January 18. We usually don’t see the hunters until they return ashore, as is happening in this image of a duck hunting boat pulling into Naskeag Point yesterday to be trailered home.
Not everyone here is comfortable with shooting sea ducks (and other wild things), of course. However, most of us seem to recognize that it’s part of the unique character of Maine, an activity that has been ingrained in the culture of many of our coastal people since well before the Colonial Revolution. (Intertidal zone access to the King’s, State’s, and private property for sea water “fowling,” fishing, and navigation has been a continuous public right here since at least 1641.)
Nonetheless, sea duck hunting is highly regulated here. Sea ducks are defined as only Scoters, Eiders, and Long-Tailed Ducks. Among other current restrictions, individual licensed hunters may take no more than five such birds per hunting day, a period beginning half an hour before sunrise and ending at sunset. Of the allowable five birds, no more than four of any species may be taken. Hunters also must use nontoxic shot that will not sicken birds if they ingest the shot while feeding later in the area. (Brooklin, Maine)
One of the best times to imagine the spirit of a special tree is on a cold and gray winter’s day, when the sun is only a slight brightness within a dingy sky. Here, on such a day last week, we’re looking through the crown of a local crabapple tree that reportedly is over 100 years old.
We can sense the strength it took for her to stand and grow in one place for so long – so many spring rains and blossom births; summer climbing children and drilling insects; fall leaf-turnings and lettings go; winter winds and icings and broken branches. She bends and ducks and gnarls her way through a tough, solitary life. We like to imagine that her many twists are where she once laughed or sighed or cried to herself. (Brooklin, Maine)
This is an image of Babson Island yesterday at about 3:30 p.m., a few minutes before it disappeared. The temperature was a remarkable 50 degrees (F) then, but the increasing wind already was up to 16 miles per hour with gusts of 28 – early warnings sweeping up the field to us.
We can see the storm clouds forming into squadrons. A few hours later, they delivered a ferocious bombardment of wind and rain that lasted all night. (Such meteorological viciousness seems to be an increasing retaliation as we continue to befoul our own atmosphere.)
As we speak this morning, however, the declining temperature is down to a more seasonal 37 degrees and the wind is dying. It’s raining, but nothing like the forces unleashed last night.
(Brooklin, Maine)
It was cloudy, rainy, foggy, and windy last night. Stated another way: We didn’t see the first full moon of the decade. Legend has it that the January full moon is to be called The Wolf Full Moon, because it comes at a time when cold and hungry wolves howl at the moon. Come to think of it, we also didn’t hear any wolves, or even coyotes, last night.
However, in our disappointment, we did drink enough wine to create our own legend with a little help from PhotoShop®: As you see, the January full moon is when the Man-in-the-Moon turns into Wolf Man. (Well, we also don’t have any good images of real wolves, so this actually is Malamute Man and a prior moon.)
According to our new legend, during January’s full moon, the Wolf God, Harry, appears in a gold and jeweled coat and howls that he’s more beautiful than the moon. See the image in the first Comment space. (Uh, since we don’t have any images of real wolves, we’re using this Christmas light wolf baying at a prior moon. [Why anyone would want a Christmas light wolf is part of someone else’s strange legend, we suppose.])
We’re not confident that we’ll see a moon or a wolf tonight, but the odds are better than even that we’ll see a decent cabernet sauvignon. (Brooklin, Maine)
