In the Right Place: Drought Report

Here you see one of our favorite ponds on Tuesday; it’s been losing water for more than a week due to very poor streamflows and lack of needed soaking rains. The remnant low pressure system of Hurricane Ian did not produce significant rain here.

Today’s U.S. Drought Monitor report shows Maine’s abnormal dryness and moderate drought areas worsened (expanded) slightly during the monitored week ending October 4:

Long-term dryness and low water levels dating back to last winter need massive amounts of rain to overcome, and we’re not getting it. (Photograph taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 3, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Mumbling

Here you see Chrysanthemums soaking up yesterday’s sun. These “Mums” are the ancient symbols for joy and happiness that many of us are now trying to spread in planters and vases on porches and along walkways.

The flowers originated in China, but their name derives from the Greek words for gold and flower. In China, their leaves are steamed as vegetables and their buds are boiled into a reportedly very healthy tea that has a high content of vitamins A and C.

In Japan, a stylized Chrysanthemum flower is the royal crest of the Emperor; it appears on Japanese passports. In a cruel, ironic twist on the joy that this flower represents, that stylized crest was featured on the prows of Japanese battleships and on other Japanese weapons during World War II.

(Images taken in Surry Garden and Brooklin, Maine, on October 4, 2022.)

In the Right Place: The Clouded Future

Below you see what appears to be a somewhat worn Clouded Sulphur butterfly on a wild aster yesterday. This little yellow butterfly (Colias philodice), also called a Common Sulphur, is probably enjoying its last days on earth. It derives its name from the yellow chemical sulfur (spelled sulphur in British English). It and other butterflies that are yellow (like butter) may also be the origin of the term “butterfly.”

The literature indicates that the female Clouded Sulphurs probably have laid their eggs by now and that the caterpillars should have emerged from them or be emerging. These caterpillars reportedly will hibernate over the winter until the spring. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 3, 2022.)

In the Right Place: On the Dark Side

I was lucky to notice this well-camouflaged fellow Saturday and a bit surprised to see him out and about on a chilly early morning in the mid-40’s (F). (Sex assumed.)

He’s apparently a Maritime Garter Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis pallidulus), a darker subspecies of the Common Garden Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis). Maritimes are found mostly in northeastern New England and across that border in Southeastern Canada. As with all Garter Snakes, their markings can vary wildly.

During the cold months, our snakes typically burrow underground, where they achieve a state of torpor in which their breathing, heart rates, and metabolism slow considerably. Most scientists don’t consider this state to be a true “hibernation” of total “sleep”; they consider it a state of “brumation” in which the snakes may rise on warm days and forage for a while. They are vulnerable on such forays due to sluggishness and a tendency to bask on the sun-heated roads.

Apropos of that vulnerability, here’s an important warning from Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife: “Despite their long evolutionary history and varied survival adaptations, Maine’s reptiles are threatened by habitat loss and fragmentation, road mortality, and overcollection for the pet trade. Southern Maine’s landscape is rapidly developing, and active habitat protection will be critical for the preservation of our reptilian species.”

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 1, 2022.) See also the image in the first Comment space.

In the Right Place: A Hog by Any Other Name

Here you see master mower Richard Black performing his annual cutting of our approximately nine acres of fields yesterday. It’s difficult work due to some severe slopes and other terrain irregularities, and can be very challenging when the soil is wet.

Non-agricultural fields here usually are mowed in the fall to assure that the summer habitats of multitudes of birds, insects, reptiles, and other animals are no longer occupied by growing families.

The cutting is necessary to prevent quick-growing raspberry bushes, conifer trees, and other larger plants from reappearing and changing the density of the land. Many of us have created and maintained fallow fields because they are disappearing in the United States, putting stress on many species that breed and live in such habitats.

For you equipment buffs: Richard is riding his Massey Fergusen 2850E workhorse and pulling a Woods single-spindle rotary cutter. That type of cutter (or “mower”) commonly (and incorrectly) is called a “bush hog.”

A “Bush Hog®” is a brand name that applies to only one company’s type of field and brush-cutting machines. (The Bush Hog company advertises that, when it first demonstrated its novel product in 1951, an amazed farmer said: “That thing eats bushes like a hog.”) See also the image in the first Comment space. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 1, 2022.)

September Postcards From Maine

September here this year is best remembered for its sun and clouds, especially when we received a double dose of them in our ponds.

There were a significant number of fog days, and rain days, and rainy-fog days. But, even these could be enjoyed with a little ingenuity and endurance. The much-needed days of rain and mists healed (at least temporarily) the effects of our summer drought, bringing a lushness to the woods and rejuvenating our streams from their summer dry state.

The rain was well-received by our wildlife. Juvenile Ospreys simply let themselves be soaked in the rain, waiting for the sun so that they could begin their fall migration, which starts in September for most of them.

Part of that migration included Greater Yellowleg sandpipers wading along our coast and Common Yellowthroat warblers hiding in the apple trees (look closely); both of these birds apparently were passing through on their way south from Canada.

In the meantime, our resident White-Tailed Deer started growing their thicker and darker winter coats during the month and resident American Toads and Painted Turtles made what is probably their last appearances before their long winter’s sleep.

One of the spectacular highlights of the month always is the annual September Sail-In of windjammers to the WoodenBoat School campus on Great Cove. This year, however, the coastal cruisers had to brave both fog and rain sailing in to hold a party and overnight in the Cove.

However, the next day was sunny and the windjammers were breathtaking as they sailed out of the Cove in the early morning light.

Few sailboats are windjammers, of course. Great Cove is where the WoodenBoat School’s fleet of small sailboats are “classrooms.” But, poignantly, the last sailing classes end in September and so does the summer for these smaller boats. It’s then that the process begins of taking them from the water and washing and storing them for the winter.

Not all is fun and games in the waters here. Our lobstermen (male and female) usually are busy “hauling” [lobster traps from the water] in September. But not this year. Among other problems, the prices paid to fishermen have been unrealistically low compared to expenses, causing many of them to leave their boats idle for a few days during each week. Some fisherman even closed their season in September.

However, on the fruit front, our “wild” (abandoned) Apple Trees’ crop this year seems to be a good one. September is when many people here begin to pick the wild apples and press them into cider.

There are many other fruits hanging in September here, including the Northern Mountain Ash Tree’s orange fruit and the red Crab Apples and High-Bush American Cranberries. The tomato-like hips of the Beach Rose also peak in September.

September wildflowers tend to be whites and golds, including Daisey Fleabane and Goldenrod. However, the blue fall Asters are always stand-outs.

The rains of this September made it a good month for fungi, including colorful waxycaps emerging from the soil and polypores bracketed on tree trunks.

Among the first plants to start showing fall colors in the September woods are the Cinnamon Ferns, although the leaves of a few stressed Maple Trees turned red during the month, as you see above and below. In the ponds, the Arrow Arum leaves began to yellow in September and, in the gardens, many Viburnum leaves turned scarlet.

Finally, September is the first of the fall months, when there are golden low lights to enhance an apėritif at the Brooklin Inn and magical moon risings over Great Cove.

(All images shown here were taken in Down East Maine during September 2022.)

///

///

//

//

//

///

//

///

In the Right Place: Striking Gold

Our colder nights have given the Cinnamon Ferns the signal to start their metallic metamorphosis into gold and copper, as you can see from this image taken yesterday:

This Fern, Osmundastrum cinnamomeum, is one of the first plants in the woods to show fall colors.

Records indicate that Native Americans, notably the Abnaki and Menominee, ate various parts of Cinnamon Fern, especially the tender spring fiddleheads from which the fronds emerge. You’ll find reports that this fern is safe for humans to eat and reports that it is toxic (including carcinogenic). I wouldn’t eat any part of it if I were you.

Apparently, there also are doubts about the historic medical benefits of this plant. (Native Americans reportedly used Cinnamon Fern to treat rheumatism, headaches, chills, and colds.) On the other hand, the Ferns are commercially harvested for their bristly root crowns of osmunda fiber, which is a popular potting medium for orchids. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 29, 2022.

In the Right Place: Drought Report

Here you see an almost-full local pond yesterday, which illustrates a significant improvement in our dryness condition.

This local improvement is consistent with an overall improvement in the Northeast Weather Region generally, according to today’s U.S. Drought Monitor. Here’s today’s USDM map of Maine:

Most of the Northeast received an inch of rain or more for the monitored week ending September 27, with some regions experiencing more than two inches. This improved streamflows, ground water, soil moisture, and Standardized Precipitation Index values in the Region, according to the USDM. (Photograph taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 28. 2022.)

In the Right Place: Psyched Out

Here’s a short video of one of my favorite little streams. You may have seen it in my posts, but you likely never heard it (unless you are a neighbor). Make sure that your speakers are on when viewing this, because the sound of a “babbling brook” is the point of this post.

Research indicates that the sounds of a babbling brook and a few other “natural” sounds (e.g., ocean waves coming ashore, rain, some bird songs) are “mind-altering” to many humans – they have been seen to reduce stress, induce calm, and lower our body’s fight-or-flight instinct with a nonthreatening attraction.

Such sounds reportedly have been used, among other places, in hospitals to reduce stress and promote healing, in at-home treatments to aid sleep and reduce discomfort, and in workplaces to see if they improve employees’ moods and productivity.

There seem to be a number of theories as to why humans respond positively to babbling brooks and other sounds of nature. Some think that our response is a behavioral reaction that has been baked into us since we’ve evolved. Others think that focusing on the sounds is a form of meditation that alters the neural wave patterns in our overstimulated brains. And there are more complicated theories.

However, thinking about this research seems counter-productive when you have an opportunity to try to focus completely on a stream’s delicate song and momentarily let go of the worries our pathetic psyches force us to carry about. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 27, 2022.) Click on it.

In the Right Place: Health and Contentment

Our White-Tailed Deer seem very healthy and, indeed, content as winter approaches They’re eating vigorously now to fatten up for the winter; and, their svelte, cold-weather coats are growing in well, as you see from this image taken yesterday:

White-Tails become superbly adapted for winter; they reportedly can survive in temperatures down to 30 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. How do they do it? There are a number of organic and lifestyle reasons reported in the literature, including the following ones.
As mentioned, the deer eat voraciously (and lick their lips) in the fall to increase their fat storage; they reportedly can store enough fat to lose up to 30 percent of their weight during the winter. They also “run hot”: Their body temperatures average about 104 degrees, compared to our 98-99.

Their darker, gray-brown winter coats provide better winter camouflage, but they have a more important task: They minimize loss of that internal body heat in cold weather.
The winter coats absorb heat from the sun to warm the deer. They're layered with hollow guard hairs over furry undercoats, which the deer can adjust with their muscles for maximum insulation to keep that heat.
(When you see a deer in snow later this year, look at its back – the snow there usually doesn’t melt because the animal’s high body temperature is so well insulated from the outside.)
As for lifestyle, White-Tails reduce their activity during the winter. They move more during the warmer daylight hours and rest more at night to conserve energy. In very bad weather, they often seek collective refuge in a protected “deer yard”– an area in the woods with natural wind barriers, food, and (if possible) a nearby clearing with a southern exposure for taking in sunlight.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 6 [last image] and 26, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Emergence

When looking for the emergence of colorful and interesting fall foliage, keep in mind that fall is starting to reach our ponds.

The Arrow Arum (Peltandra virginica) is starting to turn into its peculiar yellow-green hue and the Fragrant Water Lily pads (Nymphea odorata) are darkening into reds and browns.

Both soon will “peak” and sink. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 23 [pond] and 25 [leaf and pads], 2022.)

In the Right Place: Remembering the Smiles

WoodenBoat School’s 2022 year ended Friday. We’ll miss seeing all those eager “students” learning more about things that they love to do or have always wanted to do – building with their hands, or sailing or kayaking along the gorgeous coast, or practicing a related art or craft.  It’s a place of many smiles.

The usually-open doors to the classrooms in the Boat Shop were closed tightly yesterday. Some of the School’s fleet of small boats are already stored in their winter quarters. Others soon will be.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 24, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Waterfront Report

Here you see a still life in Naskeag Harbor yesterday. That’s the convenience raft that sells bait and fuel to lobster fishermen and buys lobsters from them; behind it is one of our fishing fleet . Both are not working.

This has been a very difficult season for our lobster fishermen (male and female). It started in June with unrealistically low prices paid to the fishermen compared to their costs. Now, one veteran captain reported yesterday that, “The price has gone up a little, but it’s too little, too late. The majority of the lobsters were caught from mid-June to mid-August. The price made it impossible to make any money.”

He said that he thought that “most everyone is only hauling [going out and hauling traps up] a couple of days a week,” rather than the traditional five- or six-day work week.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 23, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Greatness

I spent a pleasant 30 minutes Wednesday just watching this little beauty fish in Great Cove. She often waded into the incoming tide up to her chest and once swam; she also would probe the mud in shallow water and gobble unseen delicacies. (Sex assumed.)

Often, she would run around schools of small fish, then herd them into a circle like a sheepdog and stab at her prey. She was at best 10 percent successful with the fish, but that apparently was good enough for her; she seemed to be enjoying herself.

She’s called a Greater Yellowlegs sandpiper (Tringa melanoleuca), which begs the question “Greater than what?” Why, of course, she’s greater than the Lesser Yellowlegs sandpiper (Tringa flavipes), which looks like her, but is about four inches shorter and has a bill that is only about the length of its head.

Both the Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs are best known for their skinny, yellow legs that seem to stream down into the water when they’re still. Unfortunately, this appearance has resulted in them being given the most repulsive collective name in the animal kingdom: a group of Greaters and/or Lessers is called “an incontinence of Yellowlegs.” (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 21, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Close Enough

IHere you see the dark and light of a Maine sunset over Great Cove, as viewed from the woods on a fine day.

However, today is a cold, foggy, rainy – in short, miserable – day. It’s not a nice way to welcome the Fall Equinox and celebrate the beginning of earlier sunsets and later sunrises.  But today’s equinox is on my mind.

There seem to be a few, small misunderstandings about the Equinox. The word “equinox” is derived from the Latin words “aequi,” meaning “equal,” and “nox,” meaning “night.” Many reference works still say that the Spring Equinox and the Fall Equinox are the two days in a year in which the day and night are of precisely equal length, 12 hours each. That’s what early astronomers thought.

However, more refined research has shown that the original calculations were incorrect. The amount of day and night at the designated equinoxes varies slightly over the years due to changes in the Earth’s shape and movements and the Sun’s activities, among other things. (These differences are very important in some scientific planning, especially space-related ventures, but they are of little consequence to most people – the day-night “equality” measurement is “close-enough” for social planning.)

Moreover, an equinox is not a day, it’s an instant. It’s when the Sun shines directly over the equator resulting in nearly the same amounts of day and night occurring in most (not all) of the world. (In the North and South Poles, the Sun stays on the horizon all day.)

Thus, this year’s Fall Equinox will arrive here in Maine at 9:04 (some say 9:03) p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. After that, the days gradually will grow shorter until the Spring Equinox reverses the process. (Leighton Archive Images taken in Brooklin, Maine.) Click on image to enlarge it.

In the Right Place: Pessimism

Several recent rainstorms have transformed our spring-fed streams from dry ditches into the gurgling joys that they were in the springs and summers of years gone by, as you see from this image taken yesterday:

The question is whether and/or how the drought and abnormally dry conditions of spring and summer in Down East Maine will affect our fall colors.

Severe drought during the growing season is one of the reported causes of deciduous tree leaves changing colors prematurely or even cancelling the color show and just turning brown and falling. Moderate drought reportedly has the opposite effect: It tends to delay the onset of fall coloration.

The best conditions for fall leaf coloration apparently occur when our spring and summer have abundant rain and our autumn comes in dry and cool, with sunny warm days and chilly (but not freezing) nights. Stated another way, we have not had optimal conditions for a lasting and brilliantly colored fall.

While we wait to see, we hope that our streams remain flowing.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 20, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Odds and Ends

As a change of pace, let’s look at this Maine coastal scene that probably would not be of any interest to Winslow Homer or Andrew Wyeth. It’s part of the odds and ends that are lying around the WoodenBoat School’s boatshed while boats and equipment were being taken out of the water this week for winter storage.

The contraption on the left is a kayak carrier in which six to eight kayaks can be inserted onto holding prongs covered with protective foam that is held in place by duct tape. To this trailer’s right is a solo rowing boat and a solo kayak.

Here’s what the kayak carrier looked like in July:

That kayak carrier also is used to transport other long, thin marine materials, including sailboat masts., as you can see in this image taken yesterday:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on July 11 and September 18 and 19, 2022.)

In the Right Place: What's in a Name?

Here we see one of the most enigmatically-named native September wildflowers, with its dew-dappled flower petals closed in this morning’s early chill.

Yesterday afternoon’s cluster of the plant shows its open, aster-like flowers:

The plant’s unusual common name is “pearly everlasting,” which derives from the plant’s leaf-like bracts – they are grayish and remain fresh-looking long after the flowers wilt, making them a favorite for dried flower arrangements. The plant’s scientific name is Anaphalis margaritacea, derived in part from “margarita, the Latin word for “pearl.”

In the spring, pearly everlasting is the host plant for the caterpillars of two of our most attractive ladies: the painted lady (Vanessa cardui) and American lady (Vanessa virginiensis) butterflies. It also has historic medicinal uses: Native Americans used the plant’s bracts for sore poultices and steamed or smoked them as inhalants for rheumatism and colds.

Gardeners use pearly everlasting carefully. Its creeping root system (rhizomes) can crowd out neighbors. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 18 and 19, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Last of the Rednecks

I saw this fellow Thursday in an area between a small pond and a large one, headed toward the large one. He posed for me in return for my giving him a hand-held ride to the pond of his choice.

It’s now the time of year when this hitchhiker and our other Eastern painted turtles (Chrysemys picta picta) are feeling the occasional deep chill, getting less basking light, and having difficulties finding a decent meal. Some already have moved south and others are thinking seriously about it. In the case of most wild painted turtles, moving south means tucking into the muck at the bottom of a body of fresh water and relaxing until spring.

The winter activity of wild (and even pet) painted turtles and other turtle species often sparks a controversy over whether they “hibernate,” a word derived from the Latin “hiberna,” meaning “winter quarters.” Whether PTs hibernate depends on which definition you use.

Most scientists seem to prefer to consider hibernation to be a state of total inactivity (often referred to as a type of total “sleep”) during a time of much lower body temperature.

The metabolism of turtles in their winter quarters here slows down greatly, but research shows that they don’t go to “sleep” entirely and they’ll occasionally eat.  Scientists call what turtles and other reptiles do in their winter quarters “brumation” (“brew-MAY-shun”), a word derived from the Latin “brûma,” meaning “winter solstice.” (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September15, 2022.)

In the Right Place: Big Fungi Do Cry

Here's a good example of how some mushrooms and plants “weep.” (Look closely, especially in the shadows.) This is a double red-belted polypore (Fomitopsis pinicola) on what appears to be a dead white spruce tree.

The various polypore fungi commonly are called “shelf” or “bracket” fungi/mushrooms because they attach themselves like shelfs or brackets to (usually dead) trees, which they slowly consume. These fungi not only have no stalks, they have no gills; they have many (“poly”) pores on their undersides through which they spread their seeds. In this case, one of the red-belts is growing directly above the other, which may be bad planning.

Of course, these red-belts are not crying tear drops; they’re apparently excreting mostly excess water caused by an increased metabolism for rapid growth. The weeping process is called guttation (“gut-TAY-shun”), from the Latin gutta, to drop.

Apparently, as the mushroom breaks down its food and grows, it breathes out carbon dioxide and water vapor, but we usually don’t see them. Under certain conditions, that water vapor will condense into visible water droplets that may also contain other substances that need to be excreted.

Something similar happens to humans: We breathe out carbon dioxide and water vaper, but only see the vapor when it crystalizes on cold days. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on September 12, 2022.) See also the image in the first Comment space.