I cling to summer with a fierce desperation. The days are long, but the season is short, and I am determined to wring all the sunshine and warmth out of it that I can.
Category: Maine
Hoop dreams
The rain we needed finally came today, at least partially. I’m guessing we could have used a longer, steadier rainfall to really soak the earth, but it’s the best we’ve had in awhile. (I’m not usually anxious for rain, but my goodness the earth has been looking thirsty.)
The rain had faded to insignificance by the time I was headed out the door for my second milfoil identification class. (Oh yes, good stuff, this. Let me know if you want a laminated card and a quick tutorial. Milfoil is coming soon to a lake near you, most likely.)
Just before getting into my car I noticed this rose-breasted grosbeak on our basketball hoop. I watched while the bird landed, paused, turned, turned again, jumped to the other side of the rim, circled out behind the backboard and repeated the entire performance. I watched the bird do this about four times before it flew out of sight. Just as well – I had milfoil class to attend.
Turtle in the fast lane
The distance from our boundary along Annabessacook Lake to the base of our septic field is easily 275 feet. The slope to the water is significant – perhaps running at a 45 degree angle – and it is strewn with trees, brush, loose dirt and decaying leaves that are incredibly slippery both wet and dry. Finally, there is a an old rock wall that runs the length of the property, dividing our 5.6 acre lot into an upper lot where our house sits in a mowed field, and the lower half, this wooded slope that we take to get down to the lake.
I mention these details because I find it remarkable how many turtles are trekking up the slope this month (and last June, and the June before) to lay their eggs. Last night I got home from work to find this little lady busy at work. By the time I had taken the dogs out and back in again, she had finished laying her eggs and was making her way toward the rock wall. I grabbed my camera, excited to have the opportunity to find out where exactly the turtles are climbing over the rock wall. I found that at least some of them are making their way over the wall in a low-lying section about two feet wide, a spot where a rock has either fallen aside or was never placed to begin with. The prospect of poison ivy prevented me from researching this point further.
Strawberry Moon and White Tail
Some things cannot wait for the counters to be wiped or the laundry to be started. If a chicken carcass has just been put on to boil it must simply be turned off again. When the moon is climbing over the tree line you cannot waste even thirty seconds tending to the tasks of finishing one day and preparing for another.
So it was that I found myself sitting in (on, really) my driveway at 9:00 tonight trying to shoot the strawberry moon. (I’m not even sorry that I haven’t learned to shoot the moon with this camera yet – July vacation is coming and I swear I’ll figure it out then.) I’ve shot the moon before, and I’ve spent many hours in the past six months crouching and creeping and perching and belly flopping in strange places – none of that is new now. But what was rather amusing tonight was the white-tailed deer that innocently came to eat my flowers during my driveway escapades.
Having grown up “in town” and not being a member of a family that hunts, I am not used to the many sounds that white-tails use to communicate. And I am absolutely not used to hearing the heart-stopping “whoosh” noise they make when startled. I am certain that the flashing lights emitted from my camera as I took several shots in a row caught the attention of the single deer standing in our field.
According to Maine’s IFW website (linked above), “White-tails have keen hearing, made possible by large ears that can rotate toward suspicious sounds. They have wide-set eyes, enabling them to focus on subtle movements, while maintaining an excellent sense of depth perception. White-tails have a very keen sense of smell enabling them to sense danger, even when visibility is poor.”
This certainly explains a few things. One minute I’m sitting on the pavement taking pictures and feeding mosquitos and the next my trusty flight-or-fight system has kicked into overdrive, thanks to the deer’s confusion about what it was that I was up to and the resulting racket. There was enough light for me to see the deer jumping, running, circling back, repeating the entire show. and then finally taking off for the woods. Heart pounding, I decided to retreat to my chicken carcass.
Summer Solstice
The sun has not yet climbed above the horizon, but already I am out of bed and at the keyboard. Last night before going to bed I closed my windows, since the temperature had fallen and the evening was cool. Even with the windows still closed, though, I am enjoying bird song in surround sound. They start their day early too.
Today marks summer solstice, as well as a full moon. The Farmer’s Almanac says that the occurrence of both events on the same day is rather rare (it happens about every 15 years). Last night the moon lit our property so well that I was able to take my dogs out without a flashlight or headlamp.
Today’s forecast promises to be similar to yesterday, with temperatures climbing to the low 80s. Two or three days ago the biting flies (horse? deer?) emerged. They are vexing because they are difficult to kill and their bite is painful. This is not such a problem for my husband and me, but walking our two dark-coated dogs is made much more difficult by these insects. They tend to circle one’s head endless, too, and my husband has developed the art of killing them by smashing them on his own person, as they are nearly impossible to grab out of the air. Pretty it may not be, but it is effective. I flail my hands in the air like a madwoman swatting at ghosts, making for a rather alarming site.
All of these insects are a necessary part of the food chain, helping to feed fish and ducks and birds and more. There are several geese families who are doing their part to clear the bug boom. Bernd Heinrich’s The Geese of Beaver Bog is an excellent, entertaining and educational read and I strongly recommend it if you are interested in the private lives of geese. Heinrich was foster parent to a goose that he named Peep, and from this relationship he gained amazing access to the inner lives of geese.
Here is a bit more about the book from the publisher’s website: In The Geese of Beaver Bog, Heinrich takes his readers through mud, icy waters, and overgrown sedge hummocks to unravel the mysteries behind heated battles, suspicious nest raids, jealous outbursts, and more. With deft insight and infectious good humor, he sheds light on how geese live and why they behave as they do. Far from staid or predictable, the lives of geese are packed with adventure and full of surprises. Illustrated throughout with Heinrich’s trademark sketches and featuring beautiful four-color photographs, The Geese of Beaver Bog is part love story, part science experiment, and wholly delightful.
A flicker of wings
“The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. The most you can do is live inside that hope, running down its hallways, touching the walls on both sides.”
From Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Dreams
A flicker of wings in sunlight drew my attention to a branch fifteen feet off the ground. For ten or fifteen minutes I pointed my camera up, up, up and shot this butterfly from different angles, zooming in a bit, and then further still. I believe this is a red-spotted purple (Limenitis arthemis), though I welcome correction. I am not typically drawn to photographing insects, primarily because at some absolutely mysterious point in my life I developed an irrational fear of having small birds and bugs zoom toward me. I suppose it is the lack of control that I dislike. Shocking, right?
I have held this fear (and developed Ninja-like reflexes for hummingbird-ducking and the like) for at least a decade. Hard to fight what you can’t see though: two summers ago a wasp stung my breastbone and for an entire night I felt like someone was holding a burning cigar to my flesh. I spent a long night holding an ice pack on my chest. The Great Stinging occurred at China Lake, where my maternal relatives have had a family camp for nearly a century (and where hubby and I owned a camp for a few years, because really what better way to lose money then to quickly buy and sell real estate. But I digress).
I’m sure that night was memorable for the neighbors who were out at their campfire. One moment they were enjoying a fairly routine evening, and the moment next Amanda is yelling and ripping her t-shirt off. Thank goodness I was already headed toward my grandmother’s camp when this occurred, as she took care of me with her usual intensity and grace.
Unlike the demon wasp that descended upon me sight-unseen and nearly murdered me, I can see the hummingbirds and dragonflies coming. (Actually, the wasp was in my shirt, I think, so I’m not sure there was so much descending going on as there was lurking and whatnot.) Moreover, they aren’t likely to cause me the type of harm that requires steady application of ice for hours upon hours. But still I crouch and cower. My sister has seen this. Our friends down the road have seen this. I own it. It’s the least of my flaws, really. Just this evening I had my husband choking on his dinner while I did the crouch-and-cower on the back deck.
Anyway, when it comes to insects, I suppose I am particularly interested in butterflies thanks to Barbara Kingsolver’s 2012 novel Flight Behavior. I listened to her read this novel in the spring of 2013 while I drove to Presque Isle and back for work. Her voice is thick and sweet and her tone is calm and her prose is exceptional. I have read nothing of hers that I haven’t liked, yet it seems that this is one of her finest. Kingsolver’s website describes the novel as “a heady exploration of climate change, along with media exploitation and political opportunism that lie at the root of what may be our most urgent modern dilemma.” Go to http://www.kingsolver.com FMI. Much more simply, the book is about a woman and butterflies, and it is absolutely worth reading.
In my backyard
Tree swallow at sunset and grackle on a miniature breakwater. Several families of geese – hard to photograph because they remain tucked in with the aquatic plants. They spend the day grazing, paddling, resting. A chirping sparrow having dinner – who doesn’t love an ant? And catbird in the magnolia. An abundance of beauty to capture in digital images.
Today was a day of blue skies and full sun. We are glad to hide from the world on the weekends, although we are often thinking of the family members and friends who we cherish most. Summer is busy and the days go past in a blur of boats on water and children running and dogs forever on the wrong side of the door. But the ones we love – living and dead – walk with us minute by minute, if we hold them in our hearts.
Water-lilies and pond weed (Or, Is That a Giraffe in Your Lake?)
On Wednesday night this week I spent two hours in a high school biology lab learning to identify invasive milfoil. Yes, this was as dull as it sounds. And also vitally important. Maine depends on healthy lakes for a healthy economy, and native plants and animals depend on healthy lakes for their lives.
The instructors mentioned in passing that lakes in other states are so thoroughly infested with invasive (non-native) aquatic plants that the people there have given up on trying to prevent infestations – because they have already lost this battle – and instead they MOW – yes, I said mow – their lakes, and take similar startling measures to cope with the fact that plants that do not belong in our ecosystem have nonetheless made their way here. So what? Well, non-native species of plants and animals do not have natural predators, which means they can go wild, grow wild, run amok, overrun, overtake and choke out the life of native species. (This is a gross oversimplification but I’m only a citizen scientist, after all, and besides I bet your eyes glazed over three sentences ago.)
Thursday morning, armed with scant knowledge of how to identify the type of milfoil that has taken root in at least one part of Annabessacook Lake, I trotted myself down to the water, ready to look for trouble. Okay, who am I kidding? The sun was out and the water was calm and I was itching to see what I could find through the lens of my Nikon. Happily for my budding efforts at learning to distinguish invasive milfoil from native look-a-likes – or the bad plants from the good plants – the water was clear to a depth of four feet.
I’ve attached some of my photos. The startling giraffe-neck looking thing is the root system for some of the many lily pads that camp out in my muck.
Osprey nestlings
It is late, and I should be sleeping, but really some things must be done to keep one’s soul from getting too ragged. So I’m sitting at my desk with the lights off to keep the bugs out, since they manage to work through the screens so that they can dance on my computer screen. I have opened the window that is closest to the lake side of the house quite intentionally – I want to hear what is happening. Loons are calling to each other intermittently, and once again I promise myself that as soon as I find those extra fifteen minutes in a day I will commit to memory the meaning of each call.
I wonder about the loon I watched this morning. Is she back on her nest? It was while I was watching that loon this morning that I captured the pictures of the osprey feeding its young. Take a close look – you’ll see nestlings with their tongues reaching for more, more more food from the adult who brought home the morning meal. I’ve provided the photos in the order they were taken. The juvenile appear to be listening for the adult to return: note the cocking of the head to the side, and then the open beak, which was in fact the juvenile calling out for the parent (or so I surmise).
Gavia Immer’s Morning Paddle
A beautiful hour and a half on the lake this morning. Sun, clear water, and this darling, the common loon, who after an hour of not budging an inch from what must be her nest, slipped into the water and paddle vigorously past me and out toward open water. The scientific name for the common loon – Gavia immer – strikes me as quite a fitting mouthful of fancy-sounding-ness for this beautiful bird.
Ondatra zibethicus (Or, Mr. Muskrat)
Each day is an opportunity to learn something – about yourself, or the world, or somebody else – but really these are all one and they same, aren’t they? On the lake, I listen and I watch and I wait. I’m learning to hear with my heart, and to piece together the puzzle of daily interaction that happens in this amazing ecosystem.
Twice this evening I was drawn out of the house and down to the water’s edge by a desire to understand why our resident loon pair was being so vocal. I found no immediate or obvious source of distress. Typically certain loon calls indicate a circling bird of prey, but I saw nothing of the sort on either trip down to the water. My first trip down was brief – twenty minutes that passed as quickly as a single breath. (You know you are meant to do something when you have mosquitos in your ear, weird moths all over your body, an ant dragging a spider carcass across your shoulder, sun in your eyes, painfully-full bladder, husband tapping his toes, dogs neglected….and still you can spend hours at it and feel like you have only just begun.)
On my second trip down I had an entire hour to myself. What joy! I quickly paddled across the inlet and around “Small Island,” which is privately owned and little used. Small Island is the location of the osprey nest that I have been watching for several months. On the back side of this island there are several “Tiny Islands” – owned by none other than all creatures great and small. I’ve known for several weeks now that the animal I had taken to be a beaver (I never claimed to be an animal identification expert) lived among the shallows of this area of the lake. While I was busy shooting ducks and birds, a splash in the water gave away this critter’s presence. I was so excited to have an opportunity to try to capture some shots of this speedy brown swimmer – who as it turns out is a muskrat, not a beaver.
I saw him (her?) disappear under a bank, so I decided to at least photograph the spot where he disappeared. When several red-winged blackbirds glided to a near-by branch with red leaves I decided I’d capture a few shots, since the red on the leaves and the red on the wings was impossible to ignore.
To my great surprise, the muskrat decided he’d finally seen enough of me and my blue kayak to know I was not going to eat him, so out he swam from his hiding spot. He shimmied right back onto this log and commenced to chew on his branch. After several minutes he did a diver’s jump and flop into the water – what startled him? – and disappeared. How satisfying to have this little fellow decide I’m not such a bother after all.
Go down to the water’s edge
In one hour tonight I saw a heron come for dinner, a loon pair preening, an osprey returning to its nest. Very blessed to call this spot home.
The Nature of Maine 