JOURNAL
It’s been foggy here for the past few mornings, hiding the fishing vessels in Naskeag Harbor and giving the woods a pleasing smokiness.
A good fog seems to create its own domineering dimension on the water, yet it has difficulty subjugating the piercing woods:
(Images taken on October 25 [dock] and 26 [woods], 2022.)
On seeing this almost-hidden sight in the shadowy woods Sunday, I immediately said to myself “hairy female.” I then had the pleasure of wondering what people who don’t use weird birder shorthand would think if I were to suddenly murmur “hairy female” in their company.
This, of course, is a female hairy woodpecker. “Hairies” get their name from their longer, stiff feathers that run down their backs somewhat like a ponytail hairdo. Here’s a Leighton Archive image of the red-daubed male:
If that bird that I saw Sunday were about three inches shorter with a slightly less pronounced bill, I probably would have thought “downy female,” meaning a female downy woodpecker. “Downies” are almost identical miniatures of “hairies”; however, the “downies’” ponytails appear to be softer and more kempt than those on their larger cousins. (Images taken October 23, 2022 [female] and August 23, 2014 [male].)
Here you see an American Red Squirrel growling at me Saturday after going through his entire repertoire of angry condemnations -- barking, hissing, rattling, screeching, and snorting, among others. (Sex assumed.)
I had entered his territory and was receiving the same cursing any invader would receive. In fact, if I had been another red squirrel or chipmunk, I probably also would have been chased and bitten, if caught.
Pound-for-pound, the territorial courage and antisocial behavior of these seven-ounce cuties probably is not exceeded by any other wild mammal. Except for mating and the raising of squirrel “kittens” by females, red squirrels are territorial loners of the most antisocial type.
Unfortunately, red squirrels sometimes also can be audacious: They sometimes decide to declare human territory as theirs. They enter homes and other structures, use insulation for nests, and sometimes chew electrical wires to the danger point. When this happens, humans (another extremely territorial and often-angry species) consider them as pests and kill them with the blessing of the government.
Maine and many other states offer online information on how to control red squirrels around homes and allow hunters to shoot the animals in the woods in any season and in any number. Maybe that’s why red squirrels curse us when we dare to enter their home territory. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 22, 2022.)
This lily pad is dying. It will be the slow death that all of its kind endure. The reflections of the trees and bushes that surround its pond seem to be reaching out sympathetically to help ease the way.
The pad has rolled over and is mostly under the water that it has sailed stoutly upon all summer. It soon will lose what little buoyancy it has and slowly sink to recycle itself into the murky bottom of its small world.
This lily pad is one of many that occupied the pond this summer, all now dying as dictated by their individual fate clocks. They are the highly-adapted leaves of our native fragrant water lilies (Nymphea odorata). The flowering lilies are all long-gone; soon, so will these pads. And then, during the winter, we’ll have trouble remembering the ponds’ summer flotillas of vibrant green lily pads and why they are so important.
Among other things, lily pads gather sunlight and perform the photosynthesis of it that is needed to feed the plant. They also provide shade and hiding places to shelter fish and invertebrates and help keep their pond temperatures from reaching a point where unwelcome growth would occur. One of their most visible attributes is providing hunting platforms for frogs and birds, especially red-winged blackbirds:
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 22, 2022 [pad] and June 22, 2018 [bird].)
Here you see the pleasing lines of the Fishing Vessel Judith Ann as she was tied fast to the Town Dock in Naskeag Harbor yesterday:
Perhaps she needed some tender loving care. Perhaps, as with other lobster boats, she had brought in some of her lobster traps as part of an attempt to cut expenses during this difficult year for lobster fishermen. There was a trailer load of lobster traps nearby Judith Ann yesterday:
Part of the fishermen’s problem is having to adjust to the breathtaking drops in lobster prices paid to them this season compared to those paid last season. Last year, prices hit historic highs of about $8.00 per pound, according to industry reports. As of October 17 this year, the reported price was $4.00 per pound for the “shedders” now being trapped. (Shedders are lobsters that have shed their old shells to grow and are within new, softer shells.)
The average lobster price to Maine fishermen in 2018 was $4.05 per pound, which would be $4.78 when adjusted for today’s inflation, according to industry reports. And there is the big rub: While today’s lobster prices to fishermen are down, the fuel, bait, equipment, and other costs of fishing have increased. Moreover, lobster prices at retail and in restaurants remain high, thereby dampening the demand for this “luxury” food. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 21, 2022.)
Fresh water is one of Maine’s most valuable natural resources and below you see – for the first time in a long time -- one of our ponds yesterday finally full of this precious asset. It’s evidence of very good news that was reported in yesterday’s U.S. Drought Monitor.
The Monitor reported that abnormal dryness in Maine was found only in 3.51% of the State and drought was nonexistent as of October 18, the end of the monitoring week:
That’s the best it’s been all of this year and much better than a year ago, when there was abnormal dryness in 35.24% of Maine, moderate drought in 15.50%, and severe drought in 6.56%, according to the Monitor. Stating this news another way: As of October 18, almost all (96.49%) of Maine was “normal,” as compared to only 64.76% of the State being normal a year ago. Nonetheless, as you can see on the map, there still are a few small areas of abnormal dryness.
These latest results reflect the monitored week’s significant rain during which New England experienced widespread 1- to 2-inch rainfall surpluses, with more than 4-inch surpluses in central and western Maine, according to the Monitor. (Photograph taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 20, 2022.)
If the late Jackson Pollock were put in charge of stowing mooring gear, he might create something like this abstract-expressionistic “masterpiece” at the WoodenBoat School:
However, instead of creative dripping, he’d have to do creative draping – and some very heavy lifting.
(Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 19, 2022.)
Last night, we had another needed rainstorm accompanied by more unneeded high winds. Thus, our wooded brooks now flow stronger, and our fall-colored leaves have dropped faster.
Yet, many leaves remain green in their trees here. I wonder if this is unusual, perhaps the result of a warmer Autumn than usual. Here’s an image taken today of a maple that still has totally green leaves:
After a summer of dried-up streambeds, it’s especially pleasing to come again upon brooks that look and sound like brooks. And now there is the added attraction of watching the fallen leaves in them seemingly enjoying their last, great ride.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 18 and 19 [green maple], 2022.)
We had pounding rain and significant wind gusts last night and this morning. We need the rain, but could do without the wind. Many of the trees that were in full, colorful leaf last week are now showing their bones. Below you can compare two maple trees and a katsura tree as they were last Wednesday with their disheveled appearance this rainy morning:
Yet, we still have maples and other trees that remain full of green leaves. Perhaps we’ll be having a prolonged fall this year; perhaps a series of frosts or ice-rain will do these trees harm. I’ll conveniently blame the uncertainty on Climate Change, but I’ve seen this before. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 12 and 18, 2022.)
Sometimes in October, the wafting fog and misty breezes join forces over ponds to bejewel the dying and disappearing lily pads.
Perhaps we could think of it as providing some final glamor to the plain pads that served the interests of flowering beauty. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 15, 2022.)
The fog is heavy early this Sunday morning, as it has been for most mornings in October so far. I can see only the nearest edge of our sloping North Field, where a crowd of Silver Grass appears to be straining to see Great Cove and its islands below the field.
The woods are darkened by the fog; but, here and there, old maple trees create gold gateways into the dim spruce and balsam fir beyond. It’s an apparent invitation to enter a mysterious adventure, an invitation that I’ll accept soon.
Fog is a common fall phenomenon here on Maine’s Down East Coast. This type of fog apparently often forms when lower temperatures and breezes come ashore to meet air that is moisture-saturated or almost saturated. The process often starts on an Autumn night. If the air’s moisture stays the same and the temperature drops and continues to cool, ultimately that moisture will be released as “radiation fog,” a type of fog caused by the radiated cooling. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 15, 2022.)
Here you see a huge Burning Bush shrub (Euonymous alatus), a native of Asia that was introduced into the United States in the mid-19th Century. The plant became extraordinarily popular in New England, where it also is known as Winged Spindle due to the shape of its stemmed leaves.
However, in the 1970s, concerned regulators documented significant problems caused by the shrubs, especially untended plants. Left alone, the shrubs would invade natural areas and kill native plants.
The result of the widespread findings was that Burning Bush was determined to be an extremely invasive species and its importation was banned by Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Vermont, among other states, according to the reports.
Nonetheless, preexisting plants here remain popular among many gardeners and landscape designers, especially for use as colorful privacy hedges. Here’s another bush on the same property as the one shown above:
As you see, the bushes are at the edge of a major highway, blocking residential views from – and of – traffic.(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 12, 2022.)
It’s raining and the wind is gusting as I write. Yellow and red and brown leaves are fleeing swaying trees. Their colors are being weaved and reweaved by the wind into complex ground carpets. Yet, this is only the beginning of the end; the leaves on most trees remain green and likely won’t color up until next week.
The images here were taken yesterday before the rain, but after the plush carpets had already begun to form this week along wooded trails.
These layers of leaves play a necessary and important role in the preservation and protection of our flora and fauna. They’re homes for amphibians and hosts of macroinvertebrates that are both sources of food for birds and agents of the leaves’ decomposition. Soon, in a cycle of life, the soil will absorb nutrients from the leaves that will help feed their mother trees and other flora.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 13, 2022.)
This image of a pumpkin appears today in my monthly column in the Ellsworth American.
To read the column, which has some interesting facts about what is being done with this native fruit, click here: http://www.5backroad.com/montly-column
Where do good little summer boats go in winter? If they’re lucky, they and their colleagues will get tucked into a convivial boatshed that has character. Others will find themselves in a barn, garage, commercial storage, or (poor things) in a back yard under a tarp or wrapped in plastic. Around here, the luckiest little summer boats get tucked into the boatsheds at the WoodenBoat School and Brooklin Boat Yard, both of which have a welcoming character and a view.
Above, you see the partially filled WBS shed yesterday. The BBY shed, which appeared almost full yesterday, is shown below:
That BBY shed is old and conventional, with large double doors at either end and side windows that let in the afternoon light; the doors will be closed when it gets cold. The WBS shed is a panel-and-post structure with small windows at the ends and roof skylights that let in the sun:
When filled, the WBS shed’s windowless panels will seal the boats in, except for a small entry way in the back, which will be used by humans and, sometimes, a maritime-minded racoon who sleeps in the rafters on cold nights. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 11, 2022.)
Dawn and sunrise on a clear, frosty morning can perform magic tricks. Here you see the first light to reach us yesterday, as sunbeams began poking over the ridge that is our eastern horizon. One of them mischievously lighted this Red Maple Tree like a torch.
“Dawn,” I learned recently, is when the sun is six degrees below the horizon, according to the National Institute of Standards. That’s when the sun casts enough light into the atmosphere to create a “twilight,” a word from Middle English for “second light” or “half-light.” “Sunrise” is when a physical part of the sun first becomes visible to us in the morning.
The sun is lowest relative to us in the morning and evening, when its light has to travel through more of the earth’s impure atmosphere to reach our eyes. That trip to us filters out much of the intense blue and ultraviolet color in the sunlight’s rainbow spectrum. We then see more of its yellow and red hues, colors that are said to be “softer” and “warmer.” In this case, maybe “hot” would be a better description.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 10, 2022.)
Look at this image quickly (say, two seconds) and look away as if you were walking in the woods yesterday morning:
Now, look at this enlargement of the above image:
If you noticed that Eastern American Toad (Anaxyrus americanus) during your first impression, you’ve got very good eye-brain coordination. Nickname yourself Hawkeye.
Scientists are trying to determine how human and other animals’ eyes and brains coordinate to quickly recognize some partially hidden things from their backgrounds, such as a friend only partly glimpsed in a crowd, or a stop sign when only a small angle of red is seen behind a bush. The answer has medical (e.g., Alzheimer’s-related) and military (e.g., pattern recognition) implications.
But, for those of us who simply want to walk in the woods and do as little harm as possible, we have to remember that there still are a few toads, masters of camouflage, in our paths out there. And, these little amphibians often can’t hop out of our way quickly now, due to the chilly fall temperatures slowing their warty, cold-blooded bodies.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 9, 2022.)
Recent cold snaps have accelerated the arrival of fall colors here on the coast, where the peak of color is expected from mid-October to the end of the month, if significant storms do not denude the trees and bushes.
As you probably know, the colder weather and decreasing daylight signal to the trees that they should stop creating nutrients for themselves and get prepared for their winter torpors.
The chlorophyll in the leaves breaks down, the dominant green hues disappear, and the inherent yellow, orange, and red colors emerge to help the leaves create their own flamboyant farewell. Similarly, the low-bush blueberry leaves are turning scarlet before they become dull:
(Images taken in North Sedgwick and South Blue Hill, Maine, on October 8, 2022.)
Here you see the last of yesterday’s sunlight lingering softly on one of Brooklin’s lobster boats in Naskeag Harbor. She soon was in shadow.
For many of us, these fishing vessels are a fascinating combination of grace and utility. They characteristically have swooping, work-stained hulls that sheer from high bows to low sterns, rigidly sturdy wheelhouses, and gear hanging where you can get it.
Yet, this year, that working grace is hard to appreciate. Our lobstermen (male and female) are in trouble. Among other things, they have experienced relatively low lobster prices, decreasing catches, and are under the threat of expensive additional regulation, while costs of operation have remained high or even increased.
As one veteran captain said yesterday, “This season is a bust. We're just trying to make a little money for the winter. Can't make up for the [losses in the] early part of the summer.” (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 7, 2022.)
Judging from a quick survey yesterday, it looks like we’re going to have a large supply of Winterberry fruit this year, which is good.
However, it also looks like the Asian Bittersweet berries are coming in strongly as well, which is not good. (See also the image in the first Comment space.)
The red berries of the female Winterberry (Ilex verticillata), a deciduous native holly bush, are winter survival rations for many birds, which help propagate the plant by their droppings.
The same is true of the red berries of the Asian Bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus), which are just now emerging from their yellow husks. However, that non-native plant is a tree killer and its lethal propagation has proved impossible to control in Maine and other parts of the United States. The plant uses its sinuous vines to squeeze to death trees and bushes that compete for sun and nutrients.
This Asian Bittersweet is a reminder of the dangers of basing an environmental choice on the impulsive pursuit of beauty and/or the wish to increase diversity for diversity’s sake. It was introduced here in the 19th Century to bring variety and spectacular fall colors to gray winter landscapes; as a result, many trees and bushes will never be green again.
There is a native version of bittersweet, aptly named American Bittersweet (Celastrus scandens), that is environmentally innocuous. But, that’s another story. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on October 6, 2022.)
