JOURNAL
It rained angrily here last night, and it was still raining when these images of our bog were taken this morning. But, the anger was not there in the bog; something soothing had replaced it.
Maybe it was smelling a bit of balsam fir while seeing raindrop circles repeatedly appearing, ballooning, and disappearing on reflective waters.
Maybe it was just because bogs soothe everything; that’s their job. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine on March 25, 2022.)
This trove of “jewels” is at the bottom of a mossy-banked stream. The small amount of dappled sunlight reaching the pebbles was being re-dappled and bubbled by the fast-moving waters. The water, itself, is dark, apparently due to the tannin being released from last fall’s sunken leaves.
Despite higher precipitation over the past few months, soil moisture and stream flows in western Maine have not improved as of March 22, according to today’s U.S. Drought Monitor. In fact, areas of drought and abnormal dryness there have expanded a bit over last week, according to the report.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 22, 2022.)
Here we experience a typical, but nice, moment in Naskeag Harbor on Friday. Fog is approaching slowly from out in Eggemoggin Reach; the sun is blinking light here and there; there’s no wind to speak of, except the occasional slight breeze that is little more than a baby’s breath. Hard-working Captain Morgan rests, her mooring line slack. She seemingly waits unconcerned, at peace with a changing world.
Note that Morgan is rigged for scallop fishing, but that mast, boom, and on-deck shelling hut soon will disappear. March is the last month for scallop dragging (dredging) in Maine. If all goes well, she’ll be fishing for lobsters by June. (Image taken on March 18, 2022.)
These migrating Canada Geese were having no problem icebreaking in a local pond yesterday. The Canada Goose is the only wild goose species that breeds, winters, and migrates through Maine. (Other geese just migrate through.)
Canada Geese have a tragic history here, but have become increasing plentiful due to a State revival that “has been a bit too successful,” according to the late New England ornithologist Peter D. Vickery (Birds of Maine).
During pre-colonial times, Canada Geese were plentiful and bred successfully in Maine. However, they were killed off by the 1800s due to nearly constant hunting for food, sport, and feathers. They also were trapped, wing-clipped and penned for eggs, and tied down as live decoys for hunting their kind.
They were reintroduced in Maine by wildlife officials in a program beginning in the 1960s and have now increased to record levels in all seasons. Climate warming has resulted in increasing numbers of these geese overwintering and producing young that become non-migratory. These young, full-time resident geese don’t develop the instinct or skills necessary for high-altitude migration.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 21, 2022.)
State of the Woods Report for yesterday afternoon, the first day of spring: virtually all of the ice is out, the ground is spongy in places, and the birds have not yet begun to sing.
However, the silence is broken here and there by the gurgling glissandos of well-fed streams.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 20, 2022.)
Today is the first day of spring and she’s wearing a chilly fog this morning in Down East Maine. However, today also is the day of the Grand Opening of the National Cherry Blossom Festival in warmer and sunnier Washington, D.C., an event that belongs to all of us.
Having been headquartered in D.C. for many years, I always think of the cherry blossoms at this time of year. The popular reappearance of such beauty is reassuring, especially during cruel and uncertain times.
The National Park Service has predicted that this year’s blossoms, which are already appearing, will peak during the period March 22 through 25. So, you have time see them peak, if you hurry. For those who can’t travel to the Tidal Basin this month, I’m posting below a few Leighton Archive images of previous Washington cherry tree blossoms:
Here, bivouacking on the top of a maple stump yesterday, is a company of British soldiers that only those with very keen eyes will notice. It’s the tiny fungus called British soldier lichen (Cladonia cristellata). Its name derives from the British military uniforms of yore that alarmed early Americans. (“The Redcoats are coming!”)
BSL stalks grow to about ¼ an inch and the red caps are slightly larger than pinheads. Yet, this native lichen is nibbled by white-tailed deer, wild turkeys, and other browsing salad lovers.
As you may know, lichens are two symbiotic organisms in one entity: fungi and algae. Basically, most of the body is a fungus that brings in water and minerals; the remaining alga makes sugar from sunlight. Because their dominant components are fungi, lichens are classified as fungi. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 18, 2022.)
This unsigned and undated 10-foot-high window in the First Congregational Church of Blue Hill is a work by Mary E. Tillinghast (1867-1912), one of the first female American stained-glass masters.
That’s the conclusion of researcher Val Libby in her fascinating article in the current Ellsworth American. You might want to read the piece to learn more about Tillinghast, especially since March is Women’s History Month. (Image taken in Blue Hill, Maine, on February 16, 2022.)
I wish you all a Happy St. Patrick’s Day and look forward to seeing a lot of the “wearing of the green” today. However, as someone who is interested in plants, I also want to share two peeves that “get my Irish up” about “shamrocks.”
The first peeve is that we’re seeing an increasing number of four-leaf clovers depicted as shamrocks. Look closely at this image of a “shamrock”-studded bow now on our Friend Memorial Library:
There also are these “shamrocks” on the local road poster:
Four-leaf clovers are genetic and/or environmental deviates. The traditional plant shown in Irish coinage and other official depictions has three leaves or, perhaps more accurately, has a leaf divided into three lobes. The unsubstantiated (but widely believed) legend about St. Patrick tells of him using the shamrock as a preaching metaphor for the Christian Holy Trinity.
The second peeve is the advertisements for “true” and “real” shamrocks, with or without an “Irish” adjective. There is no single species of plant that is the real deal when it comes to shamrocks. No one really knows what a shamrock is, according to a well-researched article in Smithsonian Magazine by Bess Lovejoy. Most of the following information comes from that article.
The name “shamrock” apparently is a derivative of the Gaelic “seam óg,” meaning “little clover.” But, there are numerous actual “clover” (Trifolium) species and other non-clover species that are sold as shamrocks.
To determine what Irish people considered to be real shamrocks, a taxonomist in the Irish National Botanic Gardens used the national press to ask the Irish people to send him samples of plants that they considered to be “real” shamrocks.
Of the resulting 243 samples sent to the scientist, 46 percent were yellow clover (Trifolium dubium), 35 percent were white clover (T. repens), 7 percent were black medick (Medicago lupulina), 5 percent were wood sorrel (Oxalis acetosella), and 4 percent were red clover (T. pratense). (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 16, 2022.)
I saw my first woodcock of the year yesterday; in fact, I almost killed him. (Sex assumed.) The little fellow was crossing Naskeag Road and I didn’t see him until the last second. I slammed on the brakes, and he kept doing that slow, head-slinging woodcock shuffle until he disappeared into the woods on the other side.
Officially, these birds are named American woodcocks (Scolopax minor), but their shape and activities have caused them to be known also as timberdoodles, mudsnipes, and bogsuckers.
Nonetheless, the woodcock’s physique is functional. The overly-long beak is an earthworm probe; the small head and large eyes allow sight all around when feeding and aid in nocturnal flights, and the plump, stubby body makes the bird almost impossible to see when it squats in dusky ground cover.
At dusk and sometimes dawn, the males court by doing a bizarre “sky dance.” They ascend in fast concentric circles while making buzzing, cicada-like sounds, reaching heights of hundreds of feet; Then, they make fast, helicoptic descents to their female fans who have come to watch the show and find a mate. (Leighton Archive image taken in Brooklin, Maine.)
Here’s a progress report on the Amen Farm barn, a landmark since 1850 that was razed by its new owners and is in the process of an extraordinary reconstruction by local craftsmen and others.
As you can see from the above image taken Sunday, the new barn will retain a sense of the old red one that advertised the farm with huge white signage – that is, we’ll be reminded of the old barn when the barn’s original-looking sliding door is closed. However, when that door is slid to the right, it becomes clear that no more goats and chickens will going in and out of that structure, as in the old days:
The structure has been expanded and contains large glass doors for an apparent “great room” of some type; people will be able to go in and out and enjoy the site’s views from both sides of the building. Other obvious upgrades include clapboard siding (instead of shakes), a metal roof (instead of asphalt shingles), and different small window configurations.
Although the new foundation will be obvious from the outside, the full basement that it contains will not. Nor will the exercise room, sauna, steam shower, wine cellar, and storage area that reportedly are being built in that basement. That storage area there probably is not for grain. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 13 [door closed] and 14 [door open], 2022.)
Yesterday, I happened to see two remarkable trees here that seemed to be experiencing opposing states of mind. This one is a righteously proud White Spruce (Picea glauca) on the WoodenBoat Campus.
It stands at full attention after having overcome an event that caused the doubling deformation of its trunk during its youth. My very rough guess is that it is 120 feet or more tall and well over 100 years old.
The other specimen is this frantically weeping beech (Fagus sylvatica, 'Pendula') at Amen Farm, which, I’m told, was planted there at Amen Farm about 1950:
Its grief seems inconsolable; perhaps because it thinks that it has gotten a bad haircut. As with many weeping beeches, this tree is wider than it is tall. My very rough estimate is that it is about 80 feet wide and 45 feet tall. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 13, 2022.)
Well, we sprang ourselves forward, clockwise, last night to get more sun; but, Mother Nature sprang us back, weatherwise, to give us more cold, snow, and brow-zinging winds.
Here you see the North Field and Great Cove at 8:15 Daylight Saving Time today. The temperature was 23 degrees (F) with a windchill of 9 degrees and the west-northwest winds were 16 miles per hour with gusts of 45. The snow did enter the woods:
It looks like we got less than an inch of powdery snow, but we’re getting plenty of sun. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 13, 2022.)
This is Naskeag Harbor on Wednesday. For the familiar visitor, there’s always plenty to see and think about here.
It’s one of those gray March days that is neither winter nor spring or, perhaps, a little of each. It’s chilly, but there’s no wind to speak of. There are a few patches of snow clutching the ground and the tide is rising perceptively. The captain-owner of Fishing Vessel Tarrfish apparently has decided to sleep in early today rather than chase scallops. It’s part of the freedom within a more independent life.
The summer residence on Harbor Island remains unoccupied, but some of the details on that familiar house always catch the eye. Today, its arched attic window and steep roof make me wonder whether it was influenced in part by the American Carpenter Gothic style movement of the late 1800s. That’s when house builders got steam-powered saws and started creating quaint homes with Gothic details made of wood instead of stone.
You may remember that also is the style that influenced Grant Wood to paint his famous “American Gothic” masterpiece in 1930. That’s the painting of a farming couple in front of their Carpenter Gothic house, which has a Gothic-arched upper window and steep roof. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 9, 2022.)
This Leighton archive image of a male wood duck appeared yesterday in my monthly column in the Ellsworth American.
To read the column, which contains interesting facts about wood ducks, click here: http://www.5backroad.com/montly-column
Tuesday was a good day to go to Amen Ridge and watch the cloud races. As you see, the clouds were racing up Blue Hill Bay and over Mt. Cadillac in Acadia National Park, moving in a northerly direction (to your left) on this perfect derby day. It was clear and warm with temperatures that almost reached 50 degrees (F) and the snow had melted from most of the open fields.
These are stratocumulus clouds, the mixed breed that is part stratus (“spread out”) cloud and part cumulus (“heaped”) cloud. Their dual heritage makes them a type of “twain” (archaic for “two”) cloud. They’re low racers that usually fly between 2,500 and 6,500 feet above the Earth. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 8, 2022.)
This is the last month for scallop dragging in Maine. That season began in December and its last day will be in March, but will vary by fishing zone. The season for hand-harvesting scallops by divers began in November and will end on a day in March or April, depending on zone. We hear that the season has been a good one.
Above, we see the scallop fishing vessel Captain Morgan in choppy Naskeag Harbor yesterday. Nearby was the scalloper Tarrfish, shown below:.
Dear Abbie: also was at her morring yesterday:
All of the vessels are rigged for trawling their dredges (usually called “drags”) to scoop up the mollusks. However, David Tarr also dives off his Tarrfish for “divers’ scallops.” (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 8, 2022.)
Spring was in the air yesterday, but ice was on the ground. A rainy warm front arrived with temperatures reaching almost 50 degrees (F). It cleared off much of the snow, but left many treacherous ice puddles in the woods and bogs.
I even saw one incautious white-tailed deer half-slip and skid.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 7, 2022.)
If you see a small piece of bark falling off the top of a tree and then – just before it hits the ground – you see the bark swooping up and attaching itself to the base of another tree, you’re not seeing gravity defied. You’re seeing an elusive little bird that, unfortunately, is named the brown creeper. This full-time resident here is less than six inches long and is camouflaged to look like tree bark. And, it doesn’t creep up on victims.
This bird hops spritely up a furrowed tree trunk in barber-pole-like spirals. When it gets near the top, it flutters to the base of another tree to begin the process again. It’s hunting for insects and larvae hidden in the bark, but it’s not a woodpecker; it’s more of a “woodpryer.”
The brown creeper uses its stiff tail and long-nailed feet to position itself securely on a tree trunk and then pries its prey out of crevices with its curved beak. The nails on its feet, especially the rear nails, are exceptionally long and sharp to grab the bark firmly.
(Leighton Archive images taken in Brooklin, Maine, shown here.)
The snow in the mostly untrammeled woods here yesterday was soft, wet, and difficult to walk through in places. However, that snow also was beautifully sculpted and intriguingly shadowed.
While my boots slowly plowed through this white “March mush,” a silly question popped into my mind about dog sleds – does the shouted “Mush!” command to get the dogs and sled going relate to them making mush of the snow? A little research revealed some unexpected information about early colonial America.
Winter dog sleds were used by the French in their North American snowy territories before they lost the land (now mostly Canada) to Britain in the Seven Years War (aka French and Indian War). Those French settlors often used the command “Marche!” to get the dogs going. That unaccented French verb translates into English as “Walk!” and it is pronounced in French approximately as “MAHsh!”
After the British took over the French territories, many of them adopted the French use of dog sleds in winter, but their English accents mangled the French start command into a literal “Mush!”
It also turns out that dog sledders don’t use the command “Mush!” anymore, except perhaps for tourists. It’s too indistinct. They say things such as “Let’s go!” and “OK!”
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 5, 2022.)
