JOURNAL
The annual mooring gear outdoor art exhibit has appeared on the WoodenBoat School Campus.
This functional abstract expressionism – so free, yet neat – counterbalances the School’s annual marine architecture encasement, in which artful vessels are enclosed for the winter in a post-and-panel shelter:
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine on October 4, 2023.)
Winterberry fruits seem to have come out early and bountifully this year. Some of our shrubs look as if they have been blasted by red shot. Maybe it’s because of our relatively wet and warm spring and summer. When the leaves disappear, winterberry’s red blush on the gray landscape will be a pick-me-up.
Winterberry (Ilex verticillata) is native to Maine and grows wild here in acidic soils, especially those that are damp or wet, such as roadside embankments and marsh edges. The plant’s berries are among the last to be eaten by birds in the winter, apparently because they are less nutritious than the other foods that are consumed first.
However, the winterberry fruits are reported to be the ultimate survival foods for late-wintering American robins, bluebirds, brown thrashers, cardinals, catbirds, cedar waxwings, grosbeaks, and thrushes, among other birds. Mice and raccoons also reportedly gobble the berries in winter. For humans, it’s another story: The uncooked berries apparently are toxic to some of us and dogs, cats, and horses. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 4 and 6, 2023.)
Here we see the good schooner American Eagle as the first light reached her in Great Cove yesterday morning, where she overnighted.
She sailed out with a fair wind at about 11 a.m. yesterday. She’s on a four-night fall color trip, according to her schedule. She probably will have been the last coastal cruiser that we see this year.
The Eagle is a 90-foot, high-riding schooner out of Rockland, Maine. She was launched in 1930 as the Andrew & Rosalie, the last fishing schooner built in Gloucester, Massachusetts. In 1941, during World War II, she was patriotically renamed American Eagle.
She fished until 1983 and then went through difficult times until she was totally renovated in 1986 as a tourist coastal cruiser. She has since become a National Historic Landmark. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 4, 2023.)
The pads of fragrant water lilies live quiet summer lives in the shadows of their plants’ beautiful floating flowers, and then they die lonely deaths in the fall, weeks after the flowers have gone.
Some pads just darken quickly and slip submissively into the murky depths at this time of year. But others silently protest, curling and twisting on the surface and eventually turning into colorful abstractions that lie just below the water’s surface for days, shrinking but not sinking.
They become more interesting than they ever were; but, eventually, even they slip away like our memories of summer’s good times. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 3, 2023.)
Here you see an adult male White-Faced Meadowhawk Dragonfly during his last days on earth. (This species [Sympetrum obtrusum] is not known to migrate, according to reports.)
Only the males of this species have red bodies and only the adult males look like they were hit in the face with a cream pie. That is, as with some other animals, the common name for this dragonfly only describes the more dramatic mature male.
The red juvenile male has no white on the face and all the females of the species are yellowish-green all over. Yet, both sexes and all ages are called White-Faced Meadowhawks. (Something’s amiss in the naming here, like “mankind” including women and children and “ladybug” including males and young, but I digress.)
All of these dragonflies are small, usually getting to no more than 1.5 inches in length, but they’re among the most ferocious creatures in the animal kingdom relative to size – they’ll catch, kill, and eat almost any soft-bodied insect that will mostly fit into their mouths (including mosquitoes, black flies, midges, and flying ants), and they’ll eat hundreds of them daily. They’re good to have around, no matter what they’re called.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 1 and 2, 2023.)
October is the time to see the ancient architecture of old apple trees as the dropping leaves reveal the trees’ secrets. We monitor this clutch of beauties at the WoodenBoat School year-round, but they are at their most interesting now, seemingly line dancing over a crest. (Or is it contra dancing?)
Nearby, the queen of the group has been allowed to celebrate as she wishes and cast large shadows:
Based on the history of their land, it would appear that these trees are at least 100 years old or near that point. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 1, 2023.)
September is our most poignant month. It’s when we have to let go of summer, the time of year that may be Maine’s reason for being. When the overture to fall is good, and this September it mostly was, we first feel the change in the crispier, clearer air, and seemingly see deeper into the daylight. Unless, of course, we’re experiencing Maine’s famous September fog, which can make us see deeper into ourselves.
This year, there was a special exception to the September blue-sky-or-fog-choice. Atlantic Storm Lee, a hurricane wannabe, lurched up the east coast doing damage wherever she went. At one point, she was headed directly at us and storm clouds collected here. But, she veered off and we felt only the effects of her swishing skirts — pounding rain and fairly high winds that blew down a few trees. However, she didn’t do large-scale damage here.
On the positive side, Lee’s rains and a fairly wet summer kept our wooded streams flowing strongly, our ponds high, and our woods lush.
This September featured two special events involving the classics. That is, we received a “Roll-In” of 20 vehicles from the Down East Model T Ford Club of America and a “Sail-In” of nine coastal cruisers from the Main Windjammer Association. The Sail-In occurred on a foggy-rainy day and some of these windjammers visited Great Cove at other times of the month.
On the working waterfront, our lobster fishing was in what one veteran fisherman called “The September slump,” which is when catches are light and there are a significant number of foggy days.
On the educational waterfront, part of the poignancy of September is that classes at the famed WoodenBoat School here end in the last few days of the month and their fleet of small boats — the small classrooms for learning the fundamentals of seamanship — are pulled from the water for storage. During the month, however, the sight of these small boats darting around Great Cove and even moored there in fog and sun always was a reassuring reminder that it was still summer.
September wildlife highlights involve migrants and residents. The month’s departures of the migratory birds and insects that play a large part in making our summer into SUMMER is another element of the month’s poignancy. We’ve most likely seen the last of this year’s regal monarch butterflies, their brightly striped caterpillars, and their chrysalis hatcheries. The month’s last generation of monarchs is on the way to Southern California and Mexico.
Similarly, most of the ospreys and their new families that were raised in Maine have begun their dangerous flights south, some destined for as far as South America. Here you see the last image taken of June, the youngest and most timid of the three ospreys that we watched being raised nearby. She kept returning to her birth nest and begging for food until almost the end of the month before (we hope) her instincts overcame her fear and she flew south.
As for our resident wildlife, the velvety antlers of our white-tailed deer appeared in September, the wild turkeys assembled larger roving congregations, and our local male pileated woodpecker staked out his territory again with some serious pounding that had woodchips flying.
Finally, the flora: September is when the wild blackberries ripen and become the perfect snack on a crisp day. Many of our wild (abandoned) apple trees lost their leaves during the month, making their tart, ripening fruit stand out on the old, gnarled limbs. Also dramatic in September are the ripened Northern Ash Tree berries that old-timers say predict a harsh winter.
However, what got our attention as September’s days dwindled down were the previews of what must come: the prematurely reddened maple leaves that start to fall singularly every now and then and the cinnamon fern that becomes a bold bronze memorial before it curls and dies away.
(Images taken in Down East Maine during September 2023.)
Yesterday, when this image was taken, was the last day of WoodenBoat School classes for 2023. Another sad reminder of how quickly good times pass.
Above, you see, from an unusual southern perspective, the WBS BoatShop building, which is over 100 years old and still has its original slate roof. (It was primarily a huge stable on an estate.) This view discloses the kind of unique trash that the WBS boatbuilding classes generate. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 29, 2023.)
Yesterday morning was mostly overcast and there was little wind, but we had three coastal cruisers enchanting Great Cove: “Angelique” and “Lewis R. French,” both of which overnighted from the previous evening, and “Mary Day,” which stopped by for a visit just before mid-day. We’ll show “Angelique” and “Lewis” in this post and maybe get to “Mary” in a day or so.
“Angelique’s” red tanbark sails and unusual profile are unmistakable to Cove watchers. Launched in 1980, she’s 130 feet long overall and the only Maine windjammer that is configured as a gaff-rigged topsail ketch.
This is “Angelique’s” fifth visit here that I’ve seen in the four summer months and she may be back before her season ends on October 7.
The 101-foot “Lewis R. French’s” well-sheared gray hull and schooner configuration also are familiar to us. She’s one of the oldest cruisers in the fleet, having been launched in 1871. She needed a push from her yawl boat to get going in yesterday’s light air.
This is the third time that I’ve seen her visit this year and her season also ends on October 7.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 28, 2023.)
It’s overcast early this morning, but there’s still a chance that the clouds will break today. That’s okay; we’ve just had a four-day spate of sparkling Maine weather – big blue skies, wincingly-full sun, temperatures at the thrill point. Those days mostly have dried up the pooled water and mud in the woods from many prior rains.
In the mixed wood portion of the forests, the leaves of a few of the deciduous trees are starting to turn color and there usually are one or two early-sailing leaves to track on erratic journeys to destiny. Things are looking good. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 27, 2023.)
It’s time that we take a look at one of the specimen trees that I monitor here regularly. This is the iconic Weeping Beech at Amen Farm. I’m told that it was planted there about 1950 and it still seems very healthy.
Judging by tree-weeping standards, its grief seems inconsolable. Some might say it’s because it’s gotten a bad haircut; they don’t like that horizontal under clearance pruning technique. However, the tree has sported it for many years without apparent incident. As with many weeping beeches (Fagus sylvatica, 'Pendula'), this tree is wider than it is tall. My very rough estimate is that it is about 80 feet wide and 45 feet tall. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 22, 2023.)
I had the pleasure yesterday of watching this young male Pileated Woodpecker at work. As usual with this species, he was not delicate about what he was doing, which was hunting for insects in dead conifer tree trunks.
As you see, he worked in a haze of self-created sawdust (“peckdust”?), and often stripped off long lengths of wood and tossed them aside as if they were paper packaging.
Pileateds are Maine’s largest woodpeckers at almost 17 inches and, if the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker is extinct, Pileateds are the Nation’s largest woodpeckers. They’re residents (nonmigratory) here. They’re easy to identify by their size and pointed red feathered caps (crests), which often are flexed up on end when the birds get intense:
The male’s red cap is a full one, worn pulled down to his beak, while the female has a smaller, almost beany-like, cap worn at the back of her head. (The male also has red-feathered war paint streaming back from his beak, making him look fearsome.) The cap is the characterizing feature of the birds and the reason it has a Latinized name.
“Pileated” is derived from the Latin words for conical felt caps. Thus, this bird is a capped or crested bird. (By the way, the similar word “pileum” is the name for the area on any bird from the top of its head to its nape.) There is a debate, however, as to how to pronounce “pileated.”
The world seems to be divided between pie- eaters and pill-takers when it comes to pileated. That is, some say “PIE-lee-Ay-tid” and some say “PILL-ee-Ay-tid.” Both pronunciations seem to be well-accepted by birders, but English teachers will say that the pie people are technically correct. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 25, 2023.)
Here you see two handmade boats for sale at the WoodenBoat School last week. At one time, I simply would have called these two vessels “rowboats,” although they are quite different. However, I’ve learned that boatbuilders here prefer greater specificity when it comes to describing their creations.
The red boat in the image is listed by WBS as a19.5’ “Chamberlain Gunning Dory.” That is, it’s a big dory based on a design by respected boatbuilder William Chamberlain. He reportedly wanted to create a strong, sea-going boat, but one that was light enough to be hauled up on the rocky shores of sea islands by duck hunters. This one also has a sailing package.
A “dory,” generally speaking, is a small, shallow-draft rowing (aka “pulling”) boat with high sides, a flat bottom and two pointed ends. The red boat is a dory, the unpainted one isn’t quite a dory. That unpainted vessel is listed as a “John Karbott Semi-Dory Skiff.” That is, its design is by John Karbott, also a respected boatbuilder, but the boat is a skiff, which would be shorter than most dories, have lower sides relative to oarsmen, and a rectangular stern.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 22, 2023.)
The wetlands are now places to ponder the natural deaths of plants that we’ve enjoyed all summer. The green cattail blades are stiffening and spotting and turning yellow, brown, and gray; they’ll die obstinately standing. The petals of the white fragrant water lilies silently slid into the water and disappeared a while ago, but their “pads” remain and are breaking out in multicolored rashes, tearing, and dissolving.
The arrow arum, the corps de ballet of the ponds, deserve special attention, as always. These plants are named after the large arrowhead-shaped leaves at the end of their long stalks. Those leaves try to fly in the wind like paper airplanes and cause the plants to dance in unison.
But, as the arrow arum stems weaken with old age, the weight of their large leaves bends them closer and closer to the water until the water gently takes the leaves:
Then, as the leaves sink, the plant stems curve gracefully like swans feeding:
More specifically, arrow arum (Peltandra virginica) grows to be about three feet in length and its leaves can be up to 18 inches in length and about 6 inches wide. Its spring pods contain large, green seeds that wood ducks and black ducks love. Some Native Americans cooked these seeds and ate them like peas. Arrow arum also is known as green arrow, tuckahoe, and duck corn.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 20, 21, and 23, 2023.)
Things have been calm in Naskeag Harbor. Here you see a bored Judith Ann having a little fun by hovering above the water while no one was watching. (Well …, maybe she’s just resting on her keel, which is in shadows).
Below, you’ll see Running Blind, a distributor’s service vessel, alone at the convenience raft in the center of the Harbor:
When asked yesterday how the lobster season was going, a veteran captain replied: “Pretty slow. We're in the ‘September slump’ right now.” Let’s hope things pick up now that fall is officially here. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 12 and 22, 2023.)
Horse Chestnut Tree leaves are doing their fall furling now, revealing their seed/fruit “capsules,” which look a bit like the ancient spiked ball-and-chain weapon aptly called a flail.
The Horse Chestnut Tree (Aesculus hippocastanum), although fairly common here, is a European introduction named under the questionable belief that its seeds are good for panting and congested horses.
Confusingly, this import often is called a Buckeye Tree, but we have native Buckeye Trees of the genus Aesculus. Both of these chestnut tree species have nutlike seeds that look like a deer’s (buck’s or doe’s) eye. (For Big 10 fans: Ohio State University sports teams are known as “Buckeyes” because Ohio was named the Buckeye State due to the prevalence of its Buckeye Trees when the territory was settled in the late 1700s.)
To add caution to confusion, there also are American Chestnut Trees (Castanea dentata) in a different family that look similar and produce sweet, edible seeds. By the way, don’t try to eat a Horse Chestnut seed; it’s toxic to humans. As for edibility, if there’s doubt, throw the chestnut out or give it to a panting horse. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 19 and 20, 2023.)
I bet that most people who have not been here would be puzzled by the object in this image:
Despite its bright colors, it’s actually a poignant sight for some of us. It’s also an imaginative “misuse” of a piece of equipment.
The piece of equipment is a red kayak trailer with colorful plastic foam wrapped around its racks to protect the kayaks. Here it is in proper use last year:
Leighton Archive Image
But, instead of the usual cargo of six or eight kayaks, there are sailboat masts, booms, and other removable boat parts being loaded onto the trailer for later transportation to storage. That’s where the sadness comes in.
The WoodenBoat School is winding down this year’s classes and gradually bringing in its small boats. They get washed and stripped down, and soon will be tucked under cover for the winter.:
It’s all part of the pathos of letting go of summer here. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 19, 2023, unless indicated otherwise.)
American Mountain Ash Trees are now bursting with their outrageously orange berries. These trees (Sorbus aucuparia) are the subjects of considerable mystery and misconception.
For one thing, Mountain Ash Trees aren’t especially fond of mountains and they’re not ash trees; they’re members of the rose family. (Their name reportedly derives from the Old English word “aesc,” meaning “spear,” because the wood of their English cousins was used for spear and arrow shafts.)
Speaking of English cousins, the American trees also are called Rowan Trees because our settlers from the British Isles mistakenly thought that they were the same as the similar European Rowan Trees.
Nonetheless, Canada gets the prize for the most interesting alternative name for their American Mountain Ashes: “Dogberry Trees.” (The reported Old English etymology here dates to the 1550s, when the bitter Rowan Tree fruit reportedly was considered inferior – “only fit for a dog.”)
The Celts (and some of America’s colonists) thought Rowan trees warded off witches and had other magical properties. But, it’s a traditional Ojibwa Tribe legend about the trees that gives us pause, as we look at our multitudes of orange orbs. The legend is that, if there are many Mountain Ash berries in late summer and fall, the winter is sure to be very, very harsh.
It doesn’t help much to know that the ancient Ojibwa couldn’t conceive of people who were so selfish as to create global warming that makes winter predictions impossible. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 19, 2023.) See also the image in the first Comment space.
Fall dragonflies are very active here lately when their flights aren’t cancelled due to rain. They arguably are the world’s best flyers. Their four wings can work independently or in tandem. They can fly fast or slowly; up or down; forward, backward, or side-to-side; not to mention that they also can hover in place. The relative lift, load-bearing capacity, speed, and maneuverability that they get from their unique wings seem to be unmatched.
White-Faced Meadowhawk (Sympetrum obtrusum)
The structure, composition, and interplay of those wings are being studied by researchers who are associated with developing “micro air vehicles” (MAVs) for military and other uses. MAVs are tiny “unmanned aerial vehicles” (UAVs, such as drones). There are reports of current workable MAVs that are less than 2 inches in length.
Dragonfly wings are composed primarily of veins and membranes. They have complex designs that contribute to the insect’s flying abilities in ways that are yet to be fully understood. The vein structure is held together by a very thin film of a starch-like substance called chitin (“KITE-in”), which often is glassy looking.
Seaside Dragonlet (Erythrodiplax berenice
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 14, 2023.)
Yesterday was sunny, as you see, but today it’s raining again as this is being written. We don’t need more rain.
Atlantic Storm Lee not only filled up our ponds to the brim, as you see here, it filled some of our bog areas, making them unusually wet for the fall season:
Our streams also are flowing strongly:
What this precipitation and moistness means for fall leaf coloration is being debated, with no consensus. We’ll have to do what we always do – we’ll wait and see. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 17, 2023.)
