rain falling across the bay
here in the harbor
we get the rainbow
Showing posts with label Penobscot Bay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Penobscot Bay. Show all posts
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Posted with Blogsy
Saturday, May 7, 2016
May 7: Grandmother
If my grandmother were still alive, today would be her 102nd birthday. Also, she'd have been thrilled that the Kentucky Derby was on her birthday; we loved to watch the horse race together each year.
Your view's hidden by fog
but some mayflowers still bloom
on your birthday.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Friday, September 4, 2015
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Saturday, July 12, 2014
July 12: Moon-viewing from the beach
We've come here just for this:
full moon rising over bay,
bare feet in sand.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
January 7: Landscape of home
Driving Route One south from Belfast this afternoon, enjoyed the brief, wan sunlight shining on the gray winter waters of the bay and the familiar line-up of islands that I've recognized since childhood.
Same islands in the bay
that as a child I named
from my grandmother's porch.
Same islands in the bay
that as a child I named
from my grandmother's porch.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Sunday, December 9, 2012
December 9: Ducktrap inlet
(Sorry for taking two days off while we had a house guest.)
Birding up and down the coast today, we stopped at Howe Point, a cobble beach jutting out into the mouth of the Ducktrap River. From the shore, we scoped the waters, finding ducks, grebes, and gulls, as an eagle soared overhead. The tide was low, exposing rocky flats--where my family used to pick mussels when I was a kid--and sandy ridges creating riffles for gulls to bathe in. As we watched birds bob in the waves, the Islesboro ferry crossed by. Somewhere in the trees behind us, a crow rattled and barked.
River meets bay.
Eiders bob offshore,
dive for shellfish.
Birding up and down the coast today, we stopped at Howe Point, a cobble beach jutting out into the mouth of the Ducktrap River. From the shore, we scoped the waters, finding ducks, grebes, and gulls, as an eagle soared overhead. The tide was low, exposing rocky flats--where my family used to pick mussels when I was a kid--and sandy ridges creating riffles for gulls to bathe in. As we watched birds bob in the waves, the Islesboro ferry crossed by. Somewhere in the trees behind us, a crow rattled and barked.
River meets bay.
Eiders bob offshore,
dive for shellfish.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
November 8: Wind and sorrow
For the third time in a year I attended a memorial service for a someone I knew and admired--all three vital men taken in their prime, each a role model for the way one should live a life--energetic, joyful, generous forces within this community. At today's service, folk musician Gordon Bok and his wife, harpist Carol Rohl, performed Gordon's song, "Isle au Haut Lullaby," some particular phrases of which really resonated for me:
Give sadness to the stars
And sorrow to the seas...
Sleep now, the moon is high,
And the wind blows cold;
For you are sad and young
And the sea is old.
Bleak but oddly comforting images as the wind roars outside, whipping branches in the near-dark, and not far away, the cold waters of Penobscot Bay stretch to the horizon with their burden of islands, an ocean deep enough to swallow any grief.
The widow said she felt like
last night's storm was carrying
her husband away from her.
Give sadness to the stars
And sorrow to the seas...
Sleep now, the moon is high,
And the wind blows cold;
For you are sad and young
And the sea is old.
Bleak but oddly comforting images as the wind roars outside, whipping branches in the near-dark, and not far away, the cold waters of Penobscot Bay stretch to the horizon with their burden of islands, an ocean deep enough to swallow any grief.
The widow said she felt like
last night's storm was carrying
her husband away from her.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
October 24: Moon over the bay
The Chamber of Commerce's Business After Hours were hosted by Point Lookout Resort this evening. The Summit Center of the resort is perched atop Ducktrap Mountain in Northport, which I think offers the best panoramic view of Penobscot Bay in the Midcoast. When I arrived tonight, I hurried outside to the patio first thing to snap a photo of the view still rosy with the last tints of sunset. And there was the moon, looking down on all those islands, the deep blue waters of the bay, and all of us standing out there absorbing the beauty.
 |
| View of Penobscot Bay from Ducktrap Mountain |
Waxing moon tugs
at the bay, tugs on
our inner horizons.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
October 21: Chairlift ride
Rode the chairlift up Ragged Mountain this morning with my friend Janet so we could fully appreciate the fall foliage from on high, as it were. The Camden Snow Bowl is apparently the only ski area from which one has an ocean view. This time of year, when the surrounding forest is burnished gold and copper, the deep blue autumn bay shines in beautiful contrast.
The highlight of the outing for me, besides the glowing landscape, was watching (and listening to) a pair of ravens circling the summit. Also, we unexpectedly came upon a little garter snake crossing a ski trail, undoubtedly on its way to a sunny ledge. But the real surprise was when we were back down the mountain, heading for the car. Behind one of the maintenance buildings I heard a singing phoebe. I think the warmth of this sunny day must have confused him into thinking it was spring.
Phoebe's out-of-season song
makes the day feel warmer
than it really is.
 |
| View from just above the chairlift station, looking down Lookout |
 |
| Bald Mountain, as viewed from the Ragged Mountain chairlift |
Phoebe's out-of-season song
makes the day feel warmer
than it really is.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
July 10: Beech Hill kind of afternoon
Today was one of those days I truly loved my job: enjoyed a business lunch on the sunny outside deck of the Waterfront on Camden Harbor, spent a couple of hours in the office, then led a group up Beech Hill in Rockport for the rest of my afternoon. If you have to work, what better way to enjoy a perfect summer day here in midcoast Maine?
Here's how this idyllic day looked from up there:
Follow sparrow song
through fields of sunlit lilies
all the way to sky.
Here's how this idyllic day looked from up there:
 |
| View of Penobscot Bay from Beech Hill |
 |
| View of Ragged Mountain from the road |
 |
| Historic sod-roofed stone hut at top of Beech Hill |
through fields of sunlit lilies
all the way to sky.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
June 23: Breaching the dam
I watched footage taken this morning of excavators breaching the Great Works Dam, sited on the Penobscot River just south of Indian Island, home of the Penobscot tribe. This is the largest ever river restoration project in North America. Veazie Dam will also be demolished starting next year, clearing the last obstacle between young salmon and the sea along the ancient path of the river. I found myself staring at the screen for long minutes, fascinated as any child by the dinosaur-like efforts of the big yellow excavators as they picked their way over to the dam and began shredding it apart--as well as by the widening stream of water pouring through cracks and openings in the old walls. This dam removal is a truly historic occasion, one that will help restore balance to one of Maine's great rivers.
The Penobscot River feeds Penobscot Bay, the western shores of which include my town. If you look at a map of Maine, Penobscot Bay is the big v-shaped divot in the middle of the coastline. This amazing project lengthens our ties by water to interior Maine--soon, you will be able to get there from here once more. And more importantly, fish will, too, without having to be trucked there from the base of these dams. There's something about a free-running river flowing unfettered to the sea that stirs the soul--the freedom of the water and what lives in it, yes, but also the relinquishment of control, the removal of obstructions--the wild nature of water.
We free the water
and remember all that flows
through those wide blue veins.
The Penobscot River feeds Penobscot Bay, the western shores of which include my town. If you look at a map of Maine, Penobscot Bay is the big v-shaped divot in the middle of the coastline. This amazing project lengthens our ties by water to interior Maine--soon, you will be able to get there from here once more. And more importantly, fish will, too, without having to be trucked there from the base of these dams. There's something about a free-running river flowing unfettered to the sea that stirs the soul--the freedom of the water and what lives in it, yes, but also the relinquishment of control, the removal of obstructions--the wild nature of water.
We free the water
and remember all that flows
through those wide blue veins.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
March 20: Vernal activity
Today's the official first day of spring, the vernal equinox. (And yesterday was the official "ice out" day for Megunticook Lake.) From here on out, we enjoy more daylight than darkness. Energized by this transition (and a big mug of green tea), I sang loudly along with the car stereo this morning as I drove up the coast to a meeting. A warm spring haze softened the contours of the Camden Hills and blurred the islands out in the bay. A good morning to be alive on the coast of Maine.
Later this afternoon, when I'd opened the office window once more, I thrilled to hear the end-of-day songs of robins fill the air for the first time this year. I looked out, and the vacant, grassy lot across the street was dotted with birds hopping around, hoping for worms. They're truly back, and now we're rolling into the green season--not that I'm ruling out an unexpected snow fall or two. Yes, it's supposed to be in the 70s tomorrow, but according to Maine weather tradition, you can't rule out anything until Memorial Day. At least.
Blue islands, blue bay,
and robins singing vespers
this first day of spring.
Later this afternoon, when I'd opened the office window once more, I thrilled to hear the end-of-day songs of robins fill the air for the first time this year. I looked out, and the vacant, grassy lot across the street was dotted with birds hopping around, hoping for worms. They're truly back, and now we're rolling into the green season--not that I'm ruling out an unexpected snow fall or two. Yes, it's supposed to be in the 70s tomorrow, but according to Maine weather tradition, you can't rule out anything until Memorial Day. At least.
Blue islands, blue bay,
and robins singing vespers
this first day of spring.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
December 15: Transportation
Transportation is the name of my new book of poetry, my first, received this morning from the printer. And transported is how I feel to finally have a "real" book through which to share my poetry with people. The only shortfall of the book is its lack of haiku. This is the cover image, for which I am very grateful to Eric Hopkins:
Eric graciously let me choose the work I wanted for my cover. This piece conveyed to me the pure joy of taking in the beauty of this landscape we inhabit, as well as the sense of motion, of flying above it all and gaining perspective--themes that I think recur in my poems, most of which are set in a similar landscape. This is one book I hope gets judged by its cover. But I hope the words hold their own, as well.
Twenty years of words,
flashy cover--at long last,
my very own book!
 |
| Waterways in the Bay, Eric Hopkins |
Twenty years of words,
flashy cover--at long last,
my very own book!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
November 7: Cattle Egret
I rode the morning ferry out to the island of Vinalhaven to spend part of the day birding with a friend who lives there. A naturalist by profession, Kirk knows where to find the birds, and despite the rather bleak, chilly, and eventually rainy day, we had a good time looking. I've gotten out birding so infrequently lately that being able to spend a concentrated amount of time watching any avian life is welcome. So to be shown a bird I hadn't previously seen in Maine within ten minutes of getting off the ferry was bonus.
Cattle egrets are a small white heron generally seen well south of Maine. Until today, the only ones I'd seen were in Florida and North Carolina. How this one ended up on an island off the Maine coast is one of those mysteries of migration. As I disembarked, I ran into one of the ferry captains who is also a birder--a birder who particularly enjoys chasing rarities. When I explained that I was out there so Kirk could show me a cattle egret, he complained, "Kirk never tells me anything!" An island resident had recently described to him seeing a strange bird, like an "all-white gull with a big yellow bill." It suddenly dawned on him that she'd been describing the cattle egret. He'd have to try to see it on a future trip.
Kirk and I headed off through town to "The Ballfield," where he'd photographed the bird not an hour earlier right next to his car. A woman driving past stopped to tell us that she had recently seen the egret following Wizard. Turns out Wizard is her horse. That made sense to Kirk, because the bird had first been spotted on Greens Island following a small flock of sheep. They got their name because they follow livestock, eating the insects such animals attract. So we went off to see Wizard. Before we got there, however, we spotted the egret hunched over in the middle of a lawn. Kirk set up his scope and we got great looks at this southern visitor.
We were soon joined by a neighbor who knew Kirk and who may or may not have been slightly inebriated. Even though we were clearly already watching the egret, he wanted to be sure we saw the bird, gesticulating wildly at it. "I knew you'd want to see it, because I know you like birds and sh*t," he declared. He had seen the egret earlier standing in a ditch full of minnows, eating. "It looked to me like a f**king big white sandpiper!" he said excitedly. "Is this rare? Because I've never seen a bird like this here before." Kirk assured him that it was very unusual.
You'd think that the rest of the day's birding would have been anticlimactic after that. But although I didn't pick up any more new Maine species, every stop had its highlights. At State Beach, a big flock of pale and lovely snow buntings flew back and forth above the pebbly shore. Horned larks hung out in the road with a single late-migrating semipalmated plover. A great blue heron croaked loudly as it flew in to land on the opposite shore. At Folly Pond, we spotted eight eagles, including a pair of adults perched side by side on a spruce bough, and a couple of brightly plumaged male wood ducks drifted past with a pied-billed grebe. At a culvert called The Boondoggle, a lone yellowlegs stood knee-deep in what must have been freezing cold water while hooded mergansers drifted and bobbed. The Basin offered up hosts of Canada geese and several more duck species.
Even the ferry ride home was not without adventure. My ferry captain friend invited me to ride back to Rockland up on the bridge, which offered great views of flocks of Bonaparte's gulls, a zillion more loons, big rafts of eiders, some surf scoters, and one gannet. He recounted the day last summer when he'd seen an albatross fly across the bow. The passage across the bay was a rough one, with swells rocking the ferry hard enough to knock over a chair at one point. The spray of whitecaps corrugated the surface of the sea. Thanks to turning back the clocks last night, twilight (and a cold rain) were settling in over Rockland Harbor as we pulled into the ferry slip. As we got ready to unload, a seal popped its head out of the water just off the port side, giving us all a long look as if wondering what we were doing out in this weather. Cattle egret, I wanted to tell the seal. And eiders, mergansers, and crossbills. I don't think it would have understood.
Brisk island wind, rain.
Egret and I share a look,
both visitors here.
Cattle egrets are a small white heron generally seen well south of Maine. Until today, the only ones I'd seen were in Florida and North Carolina. How this one ended up on an island off the Maine coast is one of those mysteries of migration. As I disembarked, I ran into one of the ferry captains who is also a birder--a birder who particularly enjoys chasing rarities. When I explained that I was out there so Kirk could show me a cattle egret, he complained, "Kirk never tells me anything!" An island resident had recently described to him seeing a strange bird, like an "all-white gull with a big yellow bill." It suddenly dawned on him that she'd been describing the cattle egret. He'd have to try to see it on a future trip.
Kirk and I headed off through town to "The Ballfield," where he'd photographed the bird not an hour earlier right next to his car. A woman driving past stopped to tell us that she had recently seen the egret following Wizard. Turns out Wizard is her horse. That made sense to Kirk, because the bird had first been spotted on Greens Island following a small flock of sheep. They got their name because they follow livestock, eating the insects such animals attract. So we went off to see Wizard. Before we got there, however, we spotted the egret hunched over in the middle of a lawn. Kirk set up his scope and we got great looks at this southern visitor.
We were soon joined by a neighbor who knew Kirk and who may or may not have been slightly inebriated. Even though we were clearly already watching the egret, he wanted to be sure we saw the bird, gesticulating wildly at it. "I knew you'd want to see it, because I know you like birds and sh*t," he declared. He had seen the egret earlier standing in a ditch full of minnows, eating. "It looked to me like a f**king big white sandpiper!" he said excitedly. "Is this rare? Because I've never seen a bird like this here before." Kirk assured him that it was very unusual.
You'd think that the rest of the day's birding would have been anticlimactic after that. But although I didn't pick up any more new Maine species, every stop had its highlights. At State Beach, a big flock of pale and lovely snow buntings flew back and forth above the pebbly shore. Horned larks hung out in the road with a single late-migrating semipalmated plover. A great blue heron croaked loudly as it flew in to land on the opposite shore. At Folly Pond, we spotted eight eagles, including a pair of adults perched side by side on a spruce bough, and a couple of brightly plumaged male wood ducks drifted past with a pied-billed grebe. At a culvert called The Boondoggle, a lone yellowlegs stood knee-deep in what must have been freezing cold water while hooded mergansers drifted and bobbed. The Basin offered up hosts of Canada geese and several more duck species.
Even the ferry ride home was not without adventure. My ferry captain friend invited me to ride back to Rockland up on the bridge, which offered great views of flocks of Bonaparte's gulls, a zillion more loons, big rafts of eiders, some surf scoters, and one gannet. He recounted the day last summer when he'd seen an albatross fly across the bow. The passage across the bay was a rough one, with swells rocking the ferry hard enough to knock over a chair at one point. The spray of whitecaps corrugated the surface of the sea. Thanks to turning back the clocks last night, twilight (and a cold rain) were settling in over Rockland Harbor as we pulled into the ferry slip. As we got ready to unload, a seal popped its head out of the water just off the port side, giving us all a long look as if wondering what we were doing out in this weather. Cattle egret, I wanted to tell the seal. And eiders, mergansers, and crossbills. I don't think it would have understood.
Brisk island wind, rain.
Egret and I share a look,
both visitors here.
Friday, August 6, 2010
August 6: Pelagic
Three birder friends and I had picked this day several months ago for a seabird trip from Vinalhaven with biologist John Drury in his boat Fluke. Who knew we'd have such luck? Today everything came together for the perfect pelagic outing: good people, clear skies, relatively calm seas, and lots of birds*.
There's something special about the birds you see when you're on the open ocean with no land in sight. Wilson's storm-petrels, small brown seabirds that dart among the waves like swallows, seemed to appear out of nowhere to flit past the boat and then disappear beyond the swells. Young gannets dropped from height, plummeting after fish head-first, straight down into the water like shining white arrows that always hit their target. Terns wheeled acrobatically on slender white wings, dipping into waves right alongside the boat for little fish to bring back to almost-fledged young. At one point we saw two jaegers in the distance and gave chase, but these big, gull-like birds that like to steal prey from other birds were quickly out of sight.
Sometimes we passed a lobster boat pulling traps, and each swell would half-hide the other boat from view. But these were long, smooth swells, no white-caps in sight, so not scary, just a little disorienting. It doesn't take long to get into the primal rhythm of the water, the rise and fall that every so often seems to come to life in the form of the dark fins of porpoises. A day like this makes me think owning a boat would be really cool, until I remind myself that days like this are truly rare.
Fog lifts. Swelling sea
carries us on its grey back.
We leave land behind.
* I would be remiss if I didn't somehow get in here that the real highlight of this pelagic trip was seeing a red-billed tropicbird on Seal Island, a life bird for me. This tropical vagrant is spending its sixth summer in Penobscot Bay, which it has apparently chosen as its home. John Drury, who knows the location of the bird's lair on the island, says he thinks it thinks it's a tern, but the terns don't want to have anything to do with it. This exotic summer visitor is, I fear, doomed to lead a lonely life, unless a fellow tropicbird of the opposite gender also happens to wander this far off course...
Tropicbird in Maine--
despite your lonely summers,
you keep coming back.
There's something special about the birds you see when you're on the open ocean with no land in sight. Wilson's storm-petrels, small brown seabirds that dart among the waves like swallows, seemed to appear out of nowhere to flit past the boat and then disappear beyond the swells. Young gannets dropped from height, plummeting after fish head-first, straight down into the water like shining white arrows that always hit their target. Terns wheeled acrobatically on slender white wings, dipping into waves right alongside the boat for little fish to bring back to almost-fledged young. At one point we saw two jaegers in the distance and gave chase, but these big, gull-like birds that like to steal prey from other birds were quickly out of sight.
Sometimes we passed a lobster boat pulling traps, and each swell would half-hide the other boat from view. But these were long, smooth swells, no white-caps in sight, so not scary, just a little disorienting. It doesn't take long to get into the primal rhythm of the water, the rise and fall that every so often seems to come to life in the form of the dark fins of porpoises. A day like this makes me think owning a boat would be really cool, until I remind myself that days like this are truly rare.
Fog lifts. Swelling sea
carries us on its grey back.
We leave land behind.
* I would be remiss if I didn't somehow get in here that the real highlight of this pelagic trip was seeing a red-billed tropicbird on Seal Island, a life bird for me. This tropical vagrant is spending its sixth summer in Penobscot Bay, which it has apparently chosen as its home. John Drury, who knows the location of the bird's lair on the island, says he thinks it thinks it's a tern, but the terns don't want to have anything to do with it. This exotic summer visitor is, I fear, doomed to lead a lonely life, unless a fellow tropicbird of the opposite gender also happens to wander this far off course...
Tropicbird in Maine--
despite your lonely summers,
you keep coming back.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
July 13: Summer Fog
This afternoon from the summit of Beech Hill you wouldn't have known there was a panoramic ocean view. Inland, you could enjoy the beauty of the Camden Hills just fine, but the bay was completely hidden behind a thick bank of fog. The southeast-facing fields rolled into woods which faded into a wall of white. I felt sorry for people from away who were missing out on what I consider one of the best bay views in the area. On the other hand, fog has a way of making a landscape more intimate by highlighting the foreground and hiding the distraction of what surrounds it. The wildflower-spangled sod roof of Beech Nut, the historic hut that crowns Beech Hill, was highly visible in all its midsummer glory, for example, as were the damp stones of its walls.
Fog mutes, distorts, and obscures the landscape in disorienting but interesting ways. Driving back to the office, I observed a small island of green rising from a sea of mist and cloud--a peak of Mount Megunticook floating within the fog. Later, in the day's last light, I was driving back from a meeting in Searsport and marveled to see the big rolls of hay wrapped in plastic looming under fog's wet shroud like guardians of the fields or strange, organic monoliths loosely arrayed throughout the mown rows. And even as I drove through patches where it appeared to be clear all around me, a blank, swirling backdrop rose in the distance where rolling green mountains should be.
Mountains disappear.
Hay bales form shadowy ranks
within fog's embrace.
Fog mutes, distorts, and obscures the landscape in disorienting but interesting ways. Driving back to the office, I observed a small island of green rising from a sea of mist and cloud--a peak of Mount Megunticook floating within the fog. Later, in the day's last light, I was driving back from a meeting in Searsport and marveled to see the big rolls of hay wrapped in plastic looming under fog's wet shroud like guardians of the fields or strange, organic monoliths loosely arrayed throughout the mown rows. And even as I drove through patches where it appeared to be clear all around me, a blank, swirling backdrop rose in the distance where rolling green mountains should be.
Mountains disappear.
Hay bales form shadowy ranks
within fog's embrace.
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