This is what my backyard looked like at 4:45 this morning. Although I would have preferred to stay in a state of half-sleep, I dashed back inside for my camera. Within moments the scene had changed and the pink was gone. So glad my sweet Jessie girl had to greet the morning on the early side of things today.
It is mid-day now, and the early clouds have not burned off, but that makes today a perfect day for puttering and poking away at projects that need tending. In the midst of such puttering I decided to walk down to the lake to grab an old towel that I’d left sitting there for nearly a month.
When I got within twenty feet of the water the smell of the lake – a smell that I’m still working to put into words for you – hit me in the gut and I was amazed to find myself involuntarily taking a lung-filling gulp of that air. Olfactory memory is an amazing thing – a simple smell triggering old memories and emotions – for better and sometimes worse. For me the smell of a Maine lake in the summer is a good thing – family, love, safety, childhood. All of this filled my lungs and my heart this afternoon, and for a few minutes my clenched jaw muscles relaxed and my shallow breathing was replaced with a sweet deep breath.
The smell of the lake drew my attention away from the dirty towel I’d gone to retrieve and out to the water itself, which was another fine bit of photo-taking luck today, since the loon I’m trying to photograph was floating in the lily pads. I have not had much luck getting good shots of the loons when they are on open water, so I sprinted back to the house for my camera and tried to capture the loon in the lilies.
As my nearly three year old niece would say, “my running away.” I slipped off from hubby and pups to catch the last hour of sun. With a breeze and fishermen making my inlet an imperfect location for shooting (and relaxing), I headed to the Small Island (as opposed to the Big Island, apparently) that is home to an osprey nest and is nearby this fallen tree that I decided would be a great place to spend an afternoon. Soon, maybe, I will paddle out there for half a day and rejoice in the beauty of sun, wood, bird poop…..
Eastern Phoebes have made their nest under our back deck. I snuck a peek in their nest (using my camera on a tilt) and from what I could see (I didn’t want to get too close) there are no eggs. Regardless, they remain committed to this nest, so I will continue to watch with interest.
This Great Blue Heron was perched on what I think is a beaver lodge (or the start of one) located on our shoreline. I didn’t see him (her?) until I paddled about 50 feet out from shore. Until this spring I had never seen these birds and now I know that at least three make our inlet a routine stop for meals. I don’t know yet where they might be nesting. Perhaps on one of the many nearby lakes. If you have a special interest in these birds check out the Heron Observation Network of Maine.
And though this may be merely a common loon, I will never tire of watching it paddle my lake. Did you know that Mainers have been counting loons for over three decades? This year’s annual loon count will be July 16th. If you are interested in participating check out The Maine Loon Project with Maine Audubon.
This snapping turtled climbed out of Annabessacook Lake, traveled 250+ feet up slopped, wooded terrain, clambered over a farmer’s rock wall, then hiked another 75+ feet to our septic field, where she has spent the past four hours in the rain laying her eggs. I don’t have the heart to tell her that skunks, crows, raccoons and probably a few other creatures I haven’t even thought of will likely have gobbled up her hard work by noon tomorrow. We’ve seen this happen for several summers now. A few seasons ago some eggs managed to hatch, but the babies didn’t make it back to the lake, I’m afraid.
Ever seen a turtle crossing the road and wondered if it will make it to the other side? You aren’t the only one. For information on several breeds of rare turtles in Maine, as well as turtles and road crossing issues, check out Inland Fisheries and Wildlife’s Factsheet.
This mallard has been on our dock and in our front yard for the past few weeks. Sometimes birds are not as familiar and easy to identify, which is part of what makes it fun to share space with them. Yesterday my friend at work had a female scarlet tanager in her yard. She was able to identify the bird using Backyard Bird Identifier, a fun and easy to use search tool offered for free by National Geographic.
I remember spending at least one summer as a girl (ten or eleven years old, maybe) climbing onto our garage roof with my best friend to watch the bird at the neighbor’s feeder. I do not recall whether we had binoculars or bird books, and we certainly didn’t have mobile bird identifier apps, but we had one heck of a good time.
Two nights ago my husband said coyotes woke him out of a sound sleep sometime before dawn. A conversation later in the day with our neighbor confirmed that at about 3:30 am on Memorial Day the field on the opposite side of our private road had at least several coyotes in it. And last night hubby’s sleep was somewhat interrupted by “my owl friend.” By this he means the owl (surely there is more than one, no?) that I was hoping to photograph several nights ago on a sunset paddle along our waterfront. We are both terribly light sleepers, in truth, and we wouldn’t trade our slice of heaven for anything, rowdy owls notwithstanding. (Okay, maybe we would trade it for something, but let’s not quibble over my use of hyperbole.)
Last night I watched while a rusty blackbird (Euphagus carolinus) landed on what appeared to be an osprey’s head. (I was counting on my camera to tell me the truth once I uploaded photos at home.) There was a slight breeze on the lake and so my kayak was bobbing just enough in the waves to make shooting hard. I quickly paddled backwards into a small grove of trees to anchor myself and spent about 90 seconds watching this small bird drama unfold.
The osprey was a good sport about this small indignity, although I believe her expression post-blackbird gives us a sense of how she really felt. (Thanks to Bernd Heinrich – nature writer and scientist – for making it okay to anthropomorphize. I can’t spell it or pronounce it but I know what it means, thanks chiefly to Bernd’s honest and tireless defense of attributing human behavior and emotions to other animals). And even better was the confused expression on the face of the juvenile osprey.
Summer seems to have arrived Saturday, judging by temperature readings in the high 80s to the lows 90 in Central Maine. Across the state, Mainers who were fortunate enough to have some or all of the weekend off from work jumped to put in their gardens (we enjoyed a quick stop at Longfellows Greenhouse in Manchester), or packed up their gear and headed out on camping trips. (Did you know that in addition to dozens of great private campgrounds, Maine’s state parks and public lands offer memorable camping opportunities? Check out Camping in Maine’s State Parks FMI.)
Sunday’s weather was cool and cloudy, and by the evening the temperature had dropped to the mid-50s. I wondered about the campers at nearby AugustaWest Campground and Beaver Brook Campground and hoped that they had brought warm clothing or extra blankets.
Today’s forecast included enough steady rain that many Memorial Day parades were canceled, though by early afternoon the sun burned away the clouds by about half, certainly enough to get outside to enjoy the last stretch of a long weekend.
Summer in Maine goes so quickly. Already the black flies are gone and the mosquitos have come in droves. Trees have leafed out. Several days ago the dragonflies started zigging around our yard, gobbling up bugs. And today we finally got out act together enough to repair a damaged hummingbird feeder (we are nothing if not frugal) and fill it with sugar and water (the pre-made mix is not necessary, and in fact the red dye in it is said to be dangerous). How lucky and lovely to trade such a simple potion for such fine views.
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.
The Nature of Maine 