In the Right Place: The Real Estate Market

I spent a pleasant half-hour yesterday morning watching a well-camouflaged muskrat swimming back and forth and diving and surfacing in our pond. The scene was enhanced by his swimming within the abstract art of reflected cattails and his ripples in the dark water turning blue as they reflected the sky:

His real business apparently was inspecting this waterfront property to determine whether it was suitable for a summer residence for him and his prospective family. I hope that he liked it; the price is right for muskrats.

Muskrats are wonderful swimmers. They paddle almost silently with their strong webbed hind feet; and swish their thick, round tails back and forth for extra propulsion. They even know how to scull with that powerful equipment and swim backwards. When they dive, they reportedly can hold their breaths for up to 20 minutes.

Muskrats once were hunted widely for their soft fur and purported rabbit-like taste. (Here’s part of one old recipe: “Skin and remove all fat from hams … sauté until golden … [s]erve with creamed celery.”) They get their name from the strong scent that they use to mark their territory and their rat-like looks, especially when seen with their long tail fully in view. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 14, 2024.)

In the Right Place: The Joy of Awakening

Barbara maintained a hibiscus friend of ours on comatose life support for over two years. Two days ago, her hibiscus awoke with a sensual joy of a type that only a hibiscus can express. Here you see the patient blooming yesterday:

In Tahiti and Hawaii, we’re told, the tradition was that a woman wearing a red Hibiscus behind her right ear was looking for a relationship and that a woman wearing one behind her left ear was signaling that she was in a relationship. I wonder what placing a yellow and pink hibiscus in front of a sunny window means? (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 13, 2024.)

In the Right Place: On Getting High

We’ve been getting some hefty high tides lately. Here you see a receding tide at Naskeag harbor on Wednesday. It reached a recorded 12.5 feet high an hour before this image was taken. At that time, it lapped above the Town Dock and brought in the rockweed and other detritus that you see lying about.

As you probably know, high tide usually is measured from the low tide water mark, which is considered to be zero feet. (Think of seeing a six-foot tall man whose feet are somehow firmly stuck to the low water mark. A 6.5-foot-high incoming tide would slowly make him disappear and turn him into an underwater small boat hazard. In a 12.5-foot tide, such as you see here, he likely would no longer be a small boat hazard.)

Below,, you’ll see Monday’s receding tide that was reported as 11.9 feet high in the morning. It invaded a usually dry area near the shore of Great Cove, made a floating draw bridge across a stream there rise, and tried to climb the beach-access stairs. 

Note the 50-foot long, blown-down spruce in the center of the image above. It toppled into the Cove from its eroding bank, a victim of a recent high-wind storm. The tree will be removed during a low tide by our local expert for such difficult jobs, Tobey Woodward. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 8 and 10, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Stonewalling, the Yankee Terminology

This is a restored New England field stone wall that originally penned-in sheep in the area on the left. According to the literature, this also can be called a “stone fence” in Yankee parlance. That’s because the wall is freestanding and the land on each side is about the same level; the stones are there to divide – “fence-off” – property, not hold it up like a “stone retaining wall.”

(Remember the characterization in Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” poem? While the two neighbors were mending the stone wall along their property line, one referred to the wall and said, “Good FENCES make good neighbors.” [Emphasis added.])

Actually, the wall shown here is a popular type apparently known as a “field stone double wall,” because it is made of two lines of stone that have rubble between them. In fact, some sources indicate that it probably would be more accurate to refer to this wall as a “normal’ or “regular” or “traditional” field stone double wall because its large stones were cleared from the property and are only “stacked.” That is, the stones are not very carefully “laid” or “fitted” or “reshaped” to make what often is called an “ornate” field stone double wall. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 8, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Advice to Bear in Mind

This image of a black bear appears in my monthly column in the current Ellsworth American – is he bluffing an attack or not? 

To find out what the bear apparently was doing and how to handle encounters with black bears, read the column by clicking here: http://www.5backroad.com/montly-column

In the Right Place: In the Eye of the Beholder

You’ve heard of invasive vines in trees. Well, on the WoodenBoat School campus you’ll find attractive lines in trees.

In fact, up close, you’ll find what could pass for abstract art there:

This tidy landscape hanging includes colorful mooring buoys with white ropes and rusty anchors with chains. They spend the winter brightening up things and the summer in nearby Great Cove, where only the tops of the buoys will be seen (if there is no fog). (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 8 (wide-angle) and 1 (closeup), 2024.)

In the Right Place: A Magic Show for Lunatics

[Above is the unobscured sun as seen here through a black polymer solar filter yesterday afternoon before showtime.]

Maine was the last state in the U.S. from which to watch our little moon totally eclipse its 400-times-larger sun yesterday through the magic of perspective. And, it turned out that the lunar “Path of Totality” through center-north Maine was one of the best places to view the spectacle – the skies were clear and it was relatively warm. We won’t have another chance to see a total solar eclipse in the 48 contiguous states until 2044.

Here on the coast, a bit to the east of the Path, the moon eclipse was not total. It hid slightly more than 97% of the sun, right above Great Cove. The sun became a slivered crescent to us and it got chilly, but the landscape never got very dark.

The only wildlife here that might have gotten erratic due to the event were a few wild turkeys that appeared to offer extremely loud gobbling praise when the eclipse was at its maximum. But, you can never tell when a turkey will get goofy. Also, at about 2:30 this dark, moonless morning, we were awakened by coyote pack howls, screams, and barks, but it is more likely that this offering was a spring celebration than a “lunatic” ceremony.

Here are selected images of the partial eclipse that we saw here yesterday afternoon:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 8, 2024.)

In the Right Place: High & Dry Meets Low & Wet

Virtually all of the snow from last week’s spring blizzard is gone from the woods. Most of our trails are in good shape, although there have been a few big tree blow-downs that complicate matters.

The bogs and lowlands are another story. They’re under more water now than I’ve ever seen in the spring. Many skunk cabbage spathes and early shoots have become submersibles beneath the lingering floodwaters.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 7, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Opportunities

Here’s a friend of mine. She happens to be over 100 years old. She also happens to be an apple tree. But none of that’s important to this post.

What is important is that she’s pointing out angles to me – her gnarly wooden ones and man-made gravel and dirt ones that, when focused on together, form an interesting composition. At least to me.

Stated another way, I’ve photographed this tree countless times. Like a good artist’s model, she has something special that can make her surroundings more attractive, no matter how mundane or functional they may be. She keeps reminding me that there almost always are opportunities to see things in a new way. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 2, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Pregnant Paws

These are the furry catkins of American pussy willow (Salix discolor) during Wednesday’s cold weather. (“Catkin” is not an endearment whispered to felines; it’s a botanical term for slim flower clusters with nonexistent or tiny petals.) Pussy willow catkins usually are one of the first signs that winter has lost its grip, but not this week – the following day we had an April blizzard.

Of course, the common name for this furry plant, “pussy willow,” reflects the resemblance of its catkins to cat or kitten paws. That “fur” only is on male pussy willows to protect their flower pollen from the elements. The male flowers have no petals or scent; they’re just stamens that are pregnant with pollen. 

The cat fur soon will be shed, allowing the stamens to cast massive amounts of dusty pollen to the wind, often producing small, drifting yellow clouds in the nearby air and sneezes in nearby noses. The wind has the job of making sure that some pollen finds eagerly awaiting female flowers. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 3,2024.)

In the Right Place: Tow Holds

Status: Yesterday’s miserable April blizzard has turned into today’s miserable April shower with temperatures in the mid-30s (F) and the prediction of more mixed snow. We still have no pole power and are relying on generator.

Image: Too much rain and snow and too many freezes and thaws have pitted and cracked our many unpaved and winding lanes and long driveways this year. One of the most practical devices for giving these narrow byways the delicate maintenance that they need is an old, towed grader such as the one shown here working on Tuesday. These graders can be towed by a truck, tractor, or even horses if necessary.

Towed graders are not as easy to operate as it might appear. The stand-up operator needs to have excellent eye-hand coordination to continuously manipulate the two wheels that control the height and angle of the blade. Good balance also helps. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 4, 2023.)

In the Right Place: Blizzard Report

Well, I just came back from a little jaunt into our ongoing spring blizzard and experienced a near white-out at one point. We lost pole power early in the morning and have been on generator since. I can say with great confidence that I would much prefer a traditional April rain shower at this time of year.

As I write, my computer tells me that it’s 33°(F) with wind gusts (sometimes sleety) of 23 miles per hour in Brooklin. So far, we’ve got about four inches of snow on the ground here on the coast. As you see, it’s wet snow that can build up on tree branches and cause them to bend to the breaking point.

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 4, 2024.)

In the Right Place: At the Creation

Yesterday, our bogs and surrounding lowlands remained wonderfully watery. You could wade through reflected clouds there and stand over the reflected sun:

Beautiful abstract montages were being continuously created and dissolved:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 2, 2024.)

In the Right Place: No Shame

Yesterday, spring was in the air and maybe elsewhere, including our north field shown here. Maybe it’s my run-away imagination triggered by my overactive optimism gland, but I’m seeing slight hints of green in the khaki-colored fields here. Soon, green shoots and wildflower buds clearly will be spreading on the field and painted turtles will be rising in the pond.

But first, weather tellers say, we, the green shoots, buds, and turtles are going to have to delay our plans and endure a blizzard at midweek that could deposit more than a foot of snow on that field (and our driveway). Old Man Winter has had no shame since he contracted Climate Change. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on April 1, 2024.)

March Postcards From Down East Maine

March Madness this year included much more than college basketball here. It was a time for brilliant sun; torrential rain; damaging floods; super-high tides; murky fogs; unexpected snows; high winds; freezing and thawing ice, a Presidential primary vote, St. Patrick’s Day; the closing of scallop-dragging season; the opening of glass eel season; the beginning of spring (the vernal equinox); the beginning of the geese migrations; Easter, and a full moon that is unfortunately called the Worm Moon.

Let’s begin our review of the transitional month with cheerful scenes of this March’s good side, its sun and blue skies over our local bays and ponds.

March’s varied moods created special effects in the bogs, including large, plunging rain drops that created water spouts and bubbles, as well as floating targets.

Local piers pointed to sun-dazzled islands, foggy islands, and islands under siege of significant storms.

Our March woods were easy to roam under blue skies and through dappled sun, but a bit tricky when various snow flurries arrived without notice.

This March will probably set precipitation records. The downfalls engorged our wooded streams, large and small, and our culverts were working at capacity to prevent road flooding (which was not always prevented).

Incidentally, speaking of precipitation, our rain chain “downspout” seemed to become schizophrenic during all of the freezing and thawing:

The March flora was more reserved than our streams and rain chain. The American holly, skunk cabbage spathes, and ancient apple trees actually remained quite attractive throughout the month, especially when snow-dappled. Alder catkins and rhododendron buds also made decent spring appearances.

On the commercial waterfront, March was the last month of the scallop dredging (“dragging”) season, which was interrupted several times by significant storms and heavy fog. However, some of our handsome fleet sat for their portraits when the sun came out. So did a rogue scallop shell caught in March.

While March was the end of the scallop-dragging season, it was the beginning of the glass eel (aka elver) season. These migrating baby American eels from the Sargasso Sea are funnel-netted in rivers and at the mouths of streams as they travel to the lakes and ponds where their parents matured.

Recreational boats remained warm in their sheds while their mooring gear iced up outside during the month. Here you see three March scenes from the WoodenBoat School campus.

As for March wildlife, the month is when Canada Geese begin to migrate here from the south. Some will stay for the summer and breed here, others will continue on up to their namesake country.

Our resident white-tailed deer were never fazed by March’s tantrums. As you’ll see below, they even held pajama parties in pouring rain and didn’t pay attention to the cold and snow. That’s because they’re still wearing their winter wonder-coats. (It’s raining steadily in the first two images.)

March calendar events included a Presidential primary on the 5th; St. Patrick’s Day on the 17th; the vernal equinox on the 19th; the Full Worm Moon on the foggy night of the 25th, and Easter on the 31st. (By the way, that’s our heroic Christmas Amaryllis below, which kept blooming long enough to become our Easter Amaryllis.)

Finally, although March sunsets and afterglows usually are not among the best that we see, this March sunset warmed the heart while the hands froze.

(All images except the St. Patrick’s Day banner were taken in Down East Maine during March of 2024. That banner photo, a Leighton Archive image taken here in a prior March, was again posted on March 17 of this year.)

In the Right Place: Wriggling Wildlife

The glass eel (aka elver) season opened last week and here you see Fyke nets set to catch them at the mouth of Patten Stream yesterday.

Fyke (usually pronounced “Fick”) nets are large, narrow-mesh funnels with a catch container at the end and floats along the top. They usually are set up in rivers, streams, and stream mouths that historically attract the migrating eels. Those set in deeper water often take on fascinating forms that seem alive in fast-moving water:

As you may know, glass eels are baby American eels (Anguilla rostrata) that are transparent except for their small eyes and spine. They’re born in the Sargasso Sea and migrate here in the spring to return to the ponds and other fresh waters that their parents inhabited after a similar trip. In a number of years, the non-transparent, matured eels in the United States will migrate back to the Sargasso to spawn and produce more glass eels to return here.

The three-inch glass eels are the state’s most valuable form of wildlife, if you judge value on the basis of cost per-pound. Since 2015, per-pound prices paid to the limited number of licensed fishermen of these transparent wrigglers have been over $2000, except for the Covid epidemic year of 2020. Most of them are shipped to Asia to be raised to adulthood and served as expensive delicacies there.

(Images taken in Surry, Maine, on March 30, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Rain, Deer

Here you see part of a ladies-only pajama party that lasted at least two hours in steadily pouring rain yesterday morning.

These white-tailed deer are some of our “regulars”; they and others often sleep in that area of our field apparently because it faces southwest and gets warmth (on sunny days), has large open escape-ways, and it’s near the edge of protective woods.

Pajama parties provide deer the advantage of combining multiple eye, ear, and nose security systems. Their ears and noses reportedly stay turned-on in their sleep, and researchers report that they sometimes sleep with their eyes open. The deer seem to doze off only for several minutes, look around, maybe lick themselves or otherwise tend to a need for a few minutes, then doze again. They often place themselves facing in different directions, apparently to maximize surveillance.

It seems that cold and steady rain usually are not problems for white-tails. Thunderstorms and fierce winds may cause them to seek cover; but, otherwise, the deer around here don’t seem to pay much attention to the weather. They still wear their thick winter coats, on which the rain just beads up and streams off. Perhaps you can see the beading and streaming on these two when they finally arose to browse:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 29, 2024.)

In the Right Place: A Fishy Tale

It rained steadily most of yesterday and last night; it’s raining steadily as I write this, and it’s predicted to rain steadily all day. It already has caused flooding in some areas and there is a Flood Watch posted for all of our Hancock County Coastal Area until 8 p.m. tonight. March of 2024 likely will set a precipitation record here.

There already was flooding yesterday in the low areas of the woods, where raindrops were creating fascinating water targets, as you see above.  Many ponds were overflowing and, apparently, flying fish took to the trees. Well, that’s one interpretation of this image:

Spring has sprung. A leak. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 28, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Foggy Thoughts

It’s foggy today, as it was yesterday. Perhaps the most famous American observation of fog was by the poet Carl Sandburg in his 1916 poem “Fog,” a self-described form of “American Haiku.” (Haiku, as you probably know, is a stylized form of short, Japanese poetry, usually about nature; Sandburg’s poem does not quite meet all of haiku’s style requirements, but it’s a beaut.)

Sandburg described what he saw in Chicago one day, looking at a harbor in Lake Michigan:

The fog comes

on little cat feet.  

It sits looking

over harbor and city on silent haunches

and then moves on.

Most often, the fog here on the Maine coast does not arrive on little mammal feet, especially when it’s mixed with rain as it was yesterday. A larger, more threatening animal often seems responsible.

Yesterday at Naskeag Harbor, shown above, it wasn’t hard to imagine that the incoming rain-fog was the spittled, billowing breath of a giant sea serpent. As with Sandburg’s cat, our serpent moved on. It was last seen looking over the islands in Great Cove:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 27, 2024.)

In the Right Place: Down Memory Lane Again

Here you see ice-covered Great Cove Drive and the WoodenBoat School’s post-and-panel boat shed on Sunday’s cold morning. The Drive is literally named – it’s last 30 feet or so consist of a sloping boat ramp into the Cove waters, right behind the camera here.

More important, as you’ll see ibelow, the shed is protecting some of WoodenBoat’s precious fleet of small boats. As you know, I visit them regularly to refresh fond summer memories and to please some of the School’s far-flung alumni who browse these posts.

Among some favorites shown there: the big-ruddered Beetle Cat “Whimsey” in the foreground; to her bow’s port, with the white lapstraked (overlapping planked) hull, is (I think) the sailing dingy “Skylark”; and, in the center, is the green-hulled outboard skiff “Babson II” sporting her big Yamaha outboard motor.

Some of their mooring gear hangs outside all year:

(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 24, 2024.)