Several mornings ago I paddled across the narrow expanse of our inlet to look for the large snapping turtles. I failed to find them, though I did experience something much more amazing. An eagle further up the inlet was persisting circling, presumably looking for breakfast in our still-clear lake water. I paddled toward the eagle, hoping for a good shot, and was surprised to see a loon on a hummock of grass that I have paddled past for months. I did not want to startle her and cause her to abandon her nest, but she did in fact fly off the nest, leaving me with a view of the eggs. I snapped a few shots (with a powerful zoom lens) and then left the area.
Backyard visitor. Heard him before I saw him. Hard to photograph, as he moves quickly and stayed tucked into the wooded half of our property most of the afternoon.
I have a distinct memory of being in the first grade and feeling extremely competitive about learning a children’s song that bears the same title as its opening line: “Hi, My Name is Joe.” The song now strikes me as ridiculous, but I am certain (hopeful) it served a pedagogic purpose. It involves a man who works in a button (button!) factory and is asked by his boss to take on more and more work. (Perhaps this song is meant to serve as a warning).
In any event, I remember being so proud that I learned (memorized) the song before anyone else in the class and then was selected to lead the class in chanting this little doozy. Thirty years later I am still competing – with who? for what? Myself, I guess, though lately I feel like all versions of me keep losing the competition. How to get back in the race? No matter, I’ll find the starting line again. I look for it everyone morning when I get up with a head full of tasks to accomplish, most of which I enjoy (yoga) and some of which (housework) must be done.
This morning I managed to get up shortly after 6:00. When I realized that the temperature was an amazing 45 degrees and the lake’s surface was not wind-whipped, I made a dash for my Sun Dolphin kayak, clutching my cherished Nikon Coolpix 900, a nifty digital camera that I shoot these photos with. I had less than an hour before I absolutely had to get ready for work (thankfully my button factory boss is forgiving) and so without too much dallying (I am an excessive dallier, I have learned) I headed for the opposite side of the inlet to look for the ancient ones (my snapping turtle friends).
Even as I was paddling across the short expanse, ready to grab my camera, ready to find THE BIG ONE, I was telling myself to calm down, enjoy the paddle, enjoy the sun (so little seen and felt lately). I saw four or five painted turtles sliding along a few inches under the surface, easily visible because water quality on our lake is excellent right now. Not finding any snappers, and knowing the clock ticks fastest when I least want it to, I stashed my camera back in its case and paddled another hundred yards into the inlet, hoping for loons, or the beaver. I saw neither. Somewhat surprisingly, I did not even see the osprey or the eagles that are so often looking for a meal in the early morning. No mallards, no geese. Where have they gone?
In the midst of my search for snappers, I had the good sense to take note of what was in front of me – the red-winged blackbirds. I watched one male defend his territory, chasing off two other red-wings, and then I watched him sing, preen, sing, then preen again. Like chickadees, red-winged blackbirds are very common in my yard, so it is all too easy to take them for granted, to look for something “better” to photograph. This makes the surprise of “discovering” them all the more humbling. How often the very thing that we frantically search for, that we are certain we must have, reveals itself to be something else entirely.
Usually when I go out with my camera I try to go without an agenda, with no expectations. I try to stay open to what presents itself, be grateful that it is there, and then capture quality images. Interestingly, to me at least, is my inability to apply this same philosophy to other aspects of my life. Perhaps my approach to nature-watching explains why I am so happy when I do it. No rules, no contests, no pre-conceived notions about what must occur for me to be happy. This isn’t to say that we should not have standards, and goals, and expectations about life, work, marriage, whatever. But how to strike a balance between expecting, creating, controlling – and then simply receiving what IS as what is, and doing so gracefully?
Women, especially, are taught not to hear their own voices, not to trust their instincts. Children raised in difficult circumstances learn the same. Don’t trust what you see. Don’t trust what you hear. Reality is fluid, malleable, revisable. Yet it is so important to know when a shot isn’t working, to accept that a turtle probably really won’t reveal itself in the next fifteen minutes, to admit that the button factory job will remain horrendously dull. Only when we can listen to our voices and trust what we are hearing can we decide to paddle in a different direction. Without this knowledge we compete with darkness, and that is a competition we will lose every time.
Went outside in bare feet to take several photos of this little guy. He didn’t seem to mind that it was about 35 degrees outside this morning. Good sport. The rest of us seemed rather confused by this sad turn of affairs.
We share space on the lake with turtles large and small. In another month we will share our backyard with snapping turtles that climb 250 feet of slopped, wooded, rutted, rocky ground, then over an old farmer’s rock wall, and then another 80 odd feet to lay their eggs in our yard. Stay tuned.
Today’s weather was amazing, or so I observed from enclosed spaces for the majority of the day. I was fortunate enough to be standing in our driveway very late this afternoon when a breeze blew the last petals from our magnolia tree. I have watched this tree with great interest since March, anxious for it to bloom. Unfortunately one of April’s heavy frosts killed half of the petals, and only about half had opened to begin with, for reasons I need to explore with a local green house. Regardless, this merrill magnolia is a treat to have in our yard and a wonder to watch. The fragrant white blossoms are delicate and lovely, and I’m sad to see them gone so soon. We surely enjoyed the while they were here, though.
I was only three-quarters awake this morning when I stepped outside with my dog. I don’t know what caused me to raise my eyes to the top of the tallest Eastern White Pine on the edge of our property, but when I did I saw an adult bald eagle peering down on us. This eagle had a fine view of fields and lake and probably was not interested in my dog, but I wasn’t placing any bets on that probability.
When I am down on our dock, or paddling our inlet with my camera, the loons often alert me to the presence of the eagles by calling out in a double-wail, the cry they use specifically to alert each other to the presence of bald eagles.
The winter of 2015-2016 was really the winter that wasn’t – at least in Central and Southern Maine, where I spend the great majority of my time. Lakes froze over incredibly late, little snow fell, and though we had our share of bitter cold, spring came early.
Early spring meant that birds returned sooner than normal, or so it seems. We have only had the privilege of calling this marshy cove our home for several seasons, and each day, month and year reveals new wonders. We watch for patterns in the coming and going the animals whose woods and water we’ve invaded to live our own lives. But it did seem that the red-winged blackbirds were back early, and so I was sure to keep them well fed. (About the bluejays I was not so concerned, as they were certain to help themselves regardless.) It is the slight chickadees that most amaze me, flitting about and taking care of themselves regardless of winter wind, or bullying bluejays. Life is a wonder.
When spring comes I watch the people around me unfurl like ferns, arching their necks for the warmth of the sun on their faces. Eyes and expressions that have grown listless over a long winter take on life again. When winter shows signs of giving way to spring – when the ice retreats from the lake’s edge, when sap collection lines weave through the woods like a game of cat’s cradle and buckets hug tree trunks, waiting for the delivery of sweet spring – then the sharp icicle point of people’s edges round off.
Weathering Maine is challenging for humans and wildlife alike. Some of us take to the trial’s presented by each season more readily than others – we are built sturdier, perhaps. Others prefer only winter, or summer – and few can truly claim to enjoy mud/bug season (or spring, as it is more commonly known). Autumn may be the one season that has near state-wide approval, although those who struggle with the winter blues experience autumn not as a riot of beauty but a precursor to dark days.
As I child growing up in Central Maine, I thought little of the changing seasons, beyond their immediate impact on my daily existence. In college the weather was a backdrop to long hours of hard work, nothing more. Twelve years into a career and marriage, a homeowner and dog mom for ten years, my life has shifted in a way that has allowed me to develop a more intimate relationship with nature. In February 2014, my husband and I were blessed with the opportunity to become lakefront owners.
I saw the house before my husband did. It was a Thursday morning in late December. I nearly turned around one curve short of finding the private road – to think how different our lives would be today. I climbed onto the front porch, read the foreclosure notice, cupped my hands over my eyes and peered into a massive living room. The deep maroon rug competed with the cathedral ceiling for my attention, but when I lifted my gaze I saw that the kitchen and dining room windows looked onto the lake. I was a goner.
Climbing off the porch and circling around the back of the house, I crunched through deep snow in my work clogs to look at the waterfront. I do not remember the details of the climb down the wooded slope to the lake, though knowing the geography as I do now, I wonder how I didn’t fall or turn an ankle. Perhaps determination and focus kept me upright. Or luck.
What I do recall with great clarity is the feeling of expansion and wonder in my heart when I gazed on the shorefront and woods that could, by some fine miracle, become mine. The prospect of becoming a steward for one small section of a lake seemed deeply compelling to me. Eight hours later, we had put in a bid on the house. The decision to make an offer to buy was a leap of faith and an act of hope. Would we regret the move? Miss our first home? Hate the new neighbors?
But how could we possibly pass on the chance to live a quarter of a mile in on a private road, on a six acre parcel with four hundred feet of lake frontage? We couldn’t. For ten days, we negotiated deal terms and held our breath. In the end, we were the successful bidders. We sold our home and moved across town to a foreclosure that ad been vacant for over three years.
And this is where the story of my abiding love affair with nature begins in earnest. Several decades of camping trips, mountain hikes and countless forest walks did not prepare me for the intimacy one develops with nature when given the daily opportunity to attune one’s senses to the same half dozen acres of land. I share hayfield, old pine forest and a marshy inlet to a 1400 acre lake with more wildlife than I will ever realize. What I can capture with zoom lens and observe with minimal intrusion, I will share here.
The Nature of Maine 