January 31, 2016 - Magical Bridges

We are enjoying a bit of a January thaw, and it’s a good feeling!  Portions of the rivers are flowing again.  You can hear ice cracking away from the shores.  It won’t last, of course, because . . . February.  But while it’s here, we enjoy it.  I wouldn’t chance a dip in the water just yet, though.

The temporary ice bridge between these two patches of land has dissolved.  I think ice bridges are magical.  They’re not like regular bridges, are they?  Regular bridges are purposely placed by man so that we might travel from one area to another over a region that is impossible to travel.  The constructed bridge makes it possible, and its construction is meant to be permanent.  Of course, people have to want it.  The manmade bridge has to connect two popular places, two necessary places.  There has to be a need for it.

The magical ice bridge, unmagicked.

But the magical bridge is under no such constraints.  The magical bridge forms wherever it pleases.  It does not always form in the same place, and even when it does, no two magical bridges are the same.  They are unique and must be appreciated for the temporary magical things they are.  A magical ice bridge does not fulfill a need.  Indeed, sometimes the magical bridge is not used at all, but that doesn’t stop it from forming.  It forms with abandon, beautiful planks of crystalline ice, shining and glowing, stretching from one remarkably plain place to another.

Once the bridge is made, though, the magical connection begins.  Now the places are no longer plain.  Now they are connected by something that begs to be crossed.  There must be a reason for it, although with magic, you never know.  What seems reasonable to us is positively ridiculous to magic, and vice versa. 

“Cross over!  Cross over while you can!” said the Bering Strait, a magical and temporary land bridge from about 15,000 years ago.  And they did, and things have never been the same.  That’s what magical bridges do.

Do not worry about our lost little ice bridge as it will rebuild again because . . . February.  Yes.  That is the only thing looming on the horizon now, and it blots out everything else.  Magic will be much needed over the coming month.

January 29, 2016 - Black Angus

It’s rather difficult to miss Black Angus cattle in the snow as they have a habit of standing out against the stark white background.  In the summer, they’re not nearly as impressive-looking as they are in the winter.  Fresh snow was falling when this photo was taken, but the cows didn’t seem to mind at all and it emphasized their deep black color even more.

Black Angus attempting to hide in the snow.

In the rest of the world, they’re known as Aberdeen Angus and are native to Scotland.  There are records of them there all the way back to the 1500’s, and those are written records, which means that they’re most likely considerably older than that.  Black Angus are a very muscled cattle with much marbling in the meat, which makes them highly prized in many countries, especially Japan.  They’re very efficient at turning pasture into body weight as opposed to many other breeds.

Because Black Angus can survive Scottish winters, it only makes sense that they are good cattle for Maine.  Hothouse-flower cattle generally will not do well here.  Animals in Maine have got a very difficult winter to endure, and they have to be able to handle the cold and the storms.  Like the Highland Cattle, also from Scotland and my personal favorite, the Black Angus is right at home in our tough winters.  Unlike the Highland Cattle with their exotic-looking horns, the Black Angus are polled (hornless).

I like going for meandering drives in the countryside, regardless of the weather.  In summer, there are so many cows, horses, and other animals to see.  But in winter, many of them are hiding.  That’s when the Black Angus comes out and really becomes the star of the show.  Their coloring is a very deep black, and they make the icy white landscape of Maine come to life like no other animal can.  People may prize them for their meat, but I love them for their complementary beauty in the snow.

January 28, 2016 - The Requirement of Light

I was rounding the bend on a dark and cold day, my mood as dark and cold as my surroundings.  Suddenly the sun explosively burst out from behind a cloud.  It was completely unexpected and blinding, to say the least.  I had no idea where it even came from because the day had been so dark, but suddenly the day went from dark and forbidding and unforgiving to hopeful and even joyous, all in the blink of an eye.

How is it that the sun always knows?  Not only does he burst through the greyness of the winter weather, but he also bursts through the darkness of our minds.  There are those who say that the weather has a lot to do with our moods, and perhaps there is some truth to that.  I do believe that on the days when the weather and my mood match, the two feed off one another endlessly.

And then the sun came.

Did you ever just come to the end?  The real end?  The point where you say, “That’s it.  I’m done.  I’ve done all I can.  I guess I should just give up.  I was a fool to ever attempt this.”  I’ve found that at the times when I’ve come to the end--the real end, not just when I’m frustrated and irritated, but consumed with sorrow--one of two things will happen.

The first is that the greyness will close in around me, envelop me, swallow me up.  It will confirm my choice.  It will say, “Yes, you are done.  You have failed.  It is over.”  And I will cry my eyes out, earnestly heartbroken.  The greyness will overcome me, overwhelm me, and threaten to suffocate me, but if I relax into it, I will see that it is a large protective field placed around me to hold me until I’m ready to move on.

The second thing that can happen is just as I reach rock bottom and truly lose all hope, the sun will burst through in blinding rays.  All creatures will quake at his entry!  He will command the clouds, command the rain, command the dark creatures.  Everything will shrink before him, dazzled by his brilliance, frightened by his power.  Then he will pick me up and say, “Not so fast.  Not yet.”  And then the way becomes lit again, the rays of hope are all around me, and I wonder how I could ever have doubted, how I could ever have thought of giving up.  Tiny little “right” things begin to happen, but only until I get on my feet again.  Then it is all up to me once more.

Somehow the sun knows these things.  He knows how to do this.  He knows when to abandon us and leave us to our misery and our sorrow.  He knows when to burst through like a hero and fight off the villains of darkness.  Either way, we change, we grow, we accept.  Some things require the sun.  And some require darkness.

January 27, 2016 - Winter Mallards

These mallard drakes are very jealously guarding their hens.  There is an overabundance of males in the mallard world, and females are in high demand.  The same amount of males and females are hatched, but females have a much higher mortality rate, often falling prey to predators when they are trying to guard their nests.  So there ends up being quite a shortage of females with fierce competition for them in the duck world.

On guard.

It’s uncommon to find a hen unaccompanied by a male, and if you do find one, she’s usually running as fast as she can from a whole pile of males.  They won’t stop until they catch her.  Hens always choose the strongest and best mates, though, those with the “best genes,” territory, and hopefully good looks.  That leaves a lot of very unhappy drakes out in the cold.

Aggressive non-paired drake behavior is worse in city parks and crowded areas.  Here in Maine, you won’t see as much of it, but you will see it.  Not to be outdone or outsmarted, the unpaired drakes will interbreed with other ducks (also aggressively), producing hybrid birds, some of which are fertile.  These are definitely opportunistic ducks!

But I love to watch them.  In winter, they often sleep right on the ice on the edge of the water.  Their little down feathers, hidden deeply inside of the larger feathers, keep them warm and cozy so that they don’t even notice the subzero temperatures.  Breeding will start in early spring, and by June the males will leave to go through their molting period.  Come October or November, though, they’ll be back looking for their sweethearts again.

January 26, 2016 - The Command Center

The sun slants low on an old shack that hasn’t been used in many years.  At some point, it was important enough to build, but now its only companions are the elements.  It’s still sturdy, though, with some life left in it, and that sure brings me back . . .

A perfect place to plot the revolution.

This was exactly the kind of shack I would seek out when I was younger.  I think I told you once about my secret hideouts.  I had several of them.  In case one got confiscated, there was always another one to go to.  I made shacks like these my “command centers.”  I would make them as livable as possible.  I’d bring in old sheets or pieces of fabric and make curtains and table cloths.  I’d find old crates for tables and chairs.  I’d do it up just right, I would.

Once I got comfortable in my shack, I’d need a “purpose” for being there.  In a young child, the imagination runs wild.  That’s where the command center part comes in.  I’d always have my trusty transistor radio with me where I’d get all sorts of important information about the world.  I’d also have a set of walkie-talkies.  Then I’d stake out the whole area and draw a map.  I’d include people’s houses, areas where other kids were known to play, schools, other secret hideouts (some which belonged to me and some which belonged to the enemy).  It was all very official, you see.

Then a campaign would begin.  If I’d allowed others to know about my command center, we’d work as a team using the walkie-talkies.  We’d usually start with a spy mission on any other hideouts in the area and also on people we deemed to be suspicious adults.  Sometimes our missions got quite elaborate, and it’s a good thing we were just kids because if we weren’t, we surely would have ended up in jail.  We peeped in windows, listened under eaves, and kept meticulous records of all the strange goings on in the neighborhood.  If a couple were fighting, we’d know about it.

Survival skills were also practiced.  I’d make primitive bows and arrows as well as traps for birds.  I’d practice my fire making skills a lot.  I’d make lean-tos and whittle small utensils.  One time a man caught me trying to set a fire.  He was wearing a long trench coat and had a black hat.  He told me he was a detective and that he was going to call the police and tell them I was an arsonist.  I told him I wasn’t an arsonist but that if he called the police, he might as well just kill me because if he didn’t, my mother would.  He left me alone.

I’d store food in my shacks and eat out there, pretending I was shipwrecked.  I’d make plans for the village I was going to build and the people I’d be ruling.  They were sophisticated plans that included all kinds of community building and municipal forces.  I was never one to dream small.  I always went for the gusto.

Eventually, as always, the farmer whose shack I had commandeered would discover me as a squatter and throw me out.  He’d board the place up or tear it down, or worse, he’d threaten to call my mother.  He might as well just have killed me because if he didn’t, she would have.

And another saga would come to a close.  Until I hunted and sniffed around again for a new command center.  Oh, the things I could have done with a place like this!  That shack in the photo is like the Hilton compared to some places I had.  Just imagine the kingdoms I would have ruled . . .

January 25, 2016 - At The Bargaining Table

You can see my footprints as I stepped down the icy and snow-covered rocks to the shore and then came back around.  You may even see where I fell, which is always a possibility on the icy shores of Maine in the winter.  Considering that I’d forgotten my cellphone (again), some might say it was a stupid thing to do.  Some might say that I had endangered myself.  But they weren’t down by that shore.

I can’t miss a chance to listen in to the bargain that takes place down at the water’s edge.  The two are always negotiating in winter.  See, in summer things are pretty cut and dry.  There’s land and there’s water.  There’s an absolute demarcation.  But in the winter, things get blurred a bit and the bargaining begins.

Down at the bargaining table.

The ocean starts by telling the land (as it always does) that it wishes to come up and walk upon the soil.  The land tells the ocean it would be pleased to allow this, but the ocean must let the hardness of the land extend out into the ocean.  Each greedily rubs its hands together and agrees.  So the ocean comes upon the shore to stretch its watery hand outward, and as it does so, it freezes instantly, which allows a hardness to extend out over the water.

The ocean has now entered the territory of the land, and the land has now entered the territory of the ocean.  The edge is blurred and where one begins and the other ends is anyone’s guess.  It never lasts, though.  Their eternal struggle continues once each realizes it has lost some its territory.  Then spring comes and both are stuck in a very compromising position.

I go just to listen to the negotiations.  They’re both quite good at it, but if I laugh too loudly at their outrageousness, I always seem to slip on the rocks on my way back.  I’m sure it’s just in my imagination.  Where the shore ends and the ocean begins is anyone’s guess at this point, as I said, but you can probably bank on the fact that I’ll always forget my cellphone, especially in cases of emergency.  Even if I were to bring it, there is the issue of charging it as well.

I can’t imagine having something like a cellphone with me down here anyway, though.  Such a foreign and alien thing it is.  It would seem almost sacrilegious to bring it to this place of beauty.  Perhaps that’s why they let me go.  For now.

January 24, 2016 - Following a Giant

This is part of the unique Cathance River, partially tidal and then giving way to freshwater.  And it all happens right here at this waterfall.  It’s half frozen and half flowing, the water spilling downward, flowing outward, and finally freezing.  Most of the dam is buried under a couple of feet of ice now.

The Cathance where it "changes."

What a time I had getting to it, though, since there is technically no access to this section at this time of year.  I was lucky to find what I call “giant footprints.”  Have you ever found giant footprints in the snow?  They were huge!  There was just one set of them leading in along with some animal prints.  I stepped into the giant footprints made in the snow by a person much, much larger than me.  His stride was enormous, and it was all I could do to stay in his footprints.  But stay I did because it was better than forging my own path through the snow.  Oddly enough, his prints led into the waterfall, but there were none leading out.

There’s a small open shelter in the background, and I have spent many a day there eating my lunch in warmer weather.  I wonder if the giant went to the shelter?  I didn’t go that far.  I wonder if he had a giant’s lunch?  I’m assuming giants eat very large sandwiches washed down with a couple of gallons of river water.  I had a little bit of beef jerky, hardly enough to keep a giant satisfied but enough to fuel me to follow the same set of the giant’s footprints back out again.

He’s quiet for a giant, I’ll say that.  As anyone can tell you, they’re usually obnoxiously loud, making all manner of noise especially when cooking a meal.  He has kept the falls flowing by smashing through part of it, most likely when getting water for his tea.  This is actually beneficial as the backed up water can freeze and cause difficult conditions for the humans in the area.  We should at least be grateful for that, but hopefully he’ll leave before spring because he’ll attract millions of black flies.  Easy target and all.

But back to the Cathance River.  It’s one of those rivers you just can’t help but love at any time of year.  There are serene flatwater sections of beauty and crazy whitewater sections (for well-seasoned rafters only).  There are deer, beavers, muskrats, turtles, etc., all along its banks.  Now that it’s winter, the ice shanties are going up, and little frozen towns are being created everywhere while people fish, talk, laugh, and drink.  They keep little fires in their shanties, and though it sounds odd, the ice stays firm and the shanty stays reasonably warm.

This is the Cathance, home to many creatures and occasionally giants.

The almost-frozen falls.

 

January 23, 2016 - A Secret Meeting

A SECRET MEETING

there was

a secret meeting

in the forest

in the trees

hidden

among allies

joining hands

a common purpose

a promise

in the ice

the snowy boughs

a hidden cult

in the crystal fortress

carrying a secret

so severe

it could change everything

 

January 22, 2016 - Winter Beach Mind

The salt air washes my mind.  Back and forth, it wears away at what ails me.  Just like water can eventually carve out an entire canyon, the salt air can slowly blast away at even the most stubborn areas of the mind.  No matter what may be bothering me, the salt air can make it seem more manageable.

After the salt air does its work, the cold takes over.  The beach in the winter in Maine is an experience no person should miss.  Once the mind is cleared, the shocking cold prevents it from becoming cluttered again.  The drastic cold is urgent and catastrophically real, and thoughts cannot reenter willy-nilly.  The cold is dealt with on a moment-by-moment basis where every second is handled and monitored before moving on to the following second.

Winter beach meditation.

Those who are familiar with Eastern philosophies will recognize that I am talking about something that gives the same effect as meditation.  Indeed, the beach in Maine in the winter is a meditation.  Whether you want your mind cleared or not, when you go to the beach in winter, that is what will happen.  And the cold is so shockingly real, so all-encompassing, that you focus on nothing else.  You breathe in.  You breathe out.  This is meditation.

The results are long term and potent.  It is a trial willingly entered into again and again, with judgment left out on the rocks.  I sometimes wonder if all of nature can present this connection, this “meditation.”  For me, it’s the beach in winter.  For others, it might be something else.  I also wonder if the actual act of meditation was created as a substitute for this automatic connection with nature.  I wonder if, once man lost his ability to spontaneously connect with nature, meditation was developed to fill in that gap and act as a bridge to the divine.

I don’t know for sure.  But I know the cold is key.  The salt air just preps the mind, but it’s the cold that forces the mind’s focus on to one point of being.  The cold creates the necessity to do so.  It is not a choice.  The cold can make happen in five minutes what takes some people years and years to achieve in daily meditation sessions.  Winter has a way of cutting to the chase.

And if you notice, it’s in the winter when we make our changes, our resolutions, and our new plans.  The mirages the sun creates in the summer are nowhere to be found in the winter.  The summer is for losing oneself, and the sun provides the means.  The winter is for reclaiming the self, and the cold strips away all pretenses.

January 21, 2016 - Lady of Thorns

The beach rose along the shore jealously clings to its dried and frozen fruits.  The Lord of Winter strips away all pretenses, however, and the true nature of the rose can be seen in all its terror.  He does not allow any hiding.  The cold truth must always be revealed.  There is no lying to the Master of final form, and there is no safe haven from his Sword of Ice.

The Lady of Thorns, starkly.

Hundreds of razor-sharp thorns jut out of the stems of the rose bush from the very bottom all the way to the top.  In summer they are hidden with a shimmering green gown that pleases the senses and belies the treachery.  But now we see the true rose.  Her beautiful green gown is gone.  Her intoxicating and drugging perfume has vanished.  Here now is a lady of cold steel who will starve a tiny animal with her thorns rather than give up her wretched fruits.

But it’s all she has, you say.  Perhaps not even that.  Grace does not require a gown of shimmering green or a scented potion, yet the lady seems abysmally lacking in that quality.  Let her have her thorns, then, and her dead fruits.  When the ice comes--and it always comes--she will regret her lack of virtue, but by then it will be too late.

And when spring returns, all the greenery in the world will not hide her frozen heart.

January 20, 2016 - Blinding Beauty

Sometimes something can be so beautiful that it actually hurts your eyes.  It’s as if your eyes are screaming at you, insisting you must look away because the beauty is too overpowering.  You look away, you look down, you blink, and then you are drawn back.  You must look at the brilliance even if it’s painful.  You have to look.  You have to remember something . . .

I chanced upon a dream . . .

The sun reflected off the clouds, off the water, and off the snow.  It was a blinding sight down at the ocean today.  The wind was incredibly fierce and cold, and I think that was to balance out the beauty of the scene.  If it had been calm and serene, I might have suffered from beauty overload, and the wind knew that.  This is Maine, though, and it is never calm and serene in the winter.

But it is beautiful.  Like a dream.  Like hobbits in the shire, the people in the small communities of Maine continue to live and work much as they always have.  And that’s beautiful, too.  If there is a “big bad world” out there, it exists only in stories told around campfires to scare children into behaving.  Then it’s time to look back at the brilliance again and forget.  The sun wipes the slate clean, and the magic continues.

January 19, 2016 - Winter King

WINTER KING

The ice now colder

taking even the ocean

advancing like an army

occupying every free state.

We whisper, “No more,”

but even that is stolen

our breath frozen solid

before the words are spoken.

And still he comes

a crystalline onslaught

as sharp as knives

and cutting deeper.

The builder of the mountains

He who shapes the land

the King with a thousand swords

piercing silently

 

January 18, 2016 - Maine in January

On the wind-battered shores of Maine in January, it’s hard to remember paradise.  It’s hard to remember laughter and sunshine, seals and summer boats.  It’s hard to remember easy times and shady trees, relaxing on the shores as the fishermen and lobstermen pull in their daily catch.  All of that seems like a cruel lie now, a reward someone promised us to get us to behave.

The realm of the Lord of Winter.

The cold is bitter in January, and the Lord of Winter reigns supreme.  Sometimes when the wind lets up, I can hear him laughing on the shore, but I still go to the edge of the land even in the dead of winter, out of defiance I suppose.  It takes many layers of clothing and a certain amount of stubbornness, with which I was gifted in plenty at birth.  I am not defeated yet.

The only thing that makes January easy in Maine is knowing that it is not February.  I’ll take my small victories as they come.

 

January 17, 2016 - Staying the Course

If your path is ever lonely, empty, and cold, remember that it is still a path.  Stick to the path and keep going.  You could try to go back the way you came, but if things had been so wonderful before, you would have stayed where you were.  You could try to forge a new way into the woods.  Some people do that and some are successful.  A great many are not.  But there is honor in forging your own path through the woods, whether you succeed or not.

There is also honor in staying the course.  You are where you are because you placed yourself there.  You may not be able to choose whether the sun is shining or it’s raining or it’s snowing or who lives or dies, but you have chosen your own path.  Step by step you forged the way, one foot in front of the other.

Keep straight on the path.

There are pitfalls, slippery spots, icy and dangerous spots, muddy places, and occasionally easy walking.  Trees sometimes fall into the path, and you must climb over them.  Sometimes the path gets completely washed out in a flood and you have to wait until the waters recede before you continue onward.  Sometimes the path forks, and you are faced with another choice that will add to the shape of your destiny.  Take one fork and you are on a path leading in a certain direction.  Take the other fork, and you go in a completely different direction with a different outcome.  But you can’t take both forks.  You must decide, and decide you will.

Then onward you go again.  On your path.  Your unique way carved into the world.  It’s no use wondering whether other people have easier paths.  Oh, they are only too happy to show you how good their path is, but don’t be fooled.  They have as many difficulties as you do.  If they didn’t, you wouldn’t even see them because they’d be too busy enjoying themselves.

And it’s no use complaining.  Enjoy the sunshine when it comes.  Revel in it.  Enjoy the greenery when it passes through.  Enjoy the flowers.  Enjoy what your path has to offer, all the secret parts, the tiny animals, and the mushrooms.  Then when the rain and snow come and the path gets difficult again, tighten your belt, adjust your hat, and keep going.  Stay the course.  Only the fool gives up and goes no further.  There is honor in continuing on your path even when you are all alone and afraid and tired and cold, even when you cannot find one ray of hope.

I never heard a ballad sung about a fool.  It’s the brave men and women who continue onward in the face of difficulty and hardships that warm our hearts at night and give us courage and strength as we sit around our campfires and ready ourselves for the next leg of the trial.  It’s the brave men and women who we sing about, who inspire us and give us hope.  It’s the journey that makes the hero, not the destination.  You are one of the heroes.

January 16, 2016 - A Secret Message

I did not manage to catch it nearly as wonderful as I saw it.  I tried.  It only lasted for a few seconds.  Just as the sun was setting on a cloudy and stormy day, the clouds parted and the sun’s rays shined upward under this tree.  Each ice-covered twig seemed to catch fire for only a few seconds in a fluid motion.  I grabbed my camera as fast as I could as it was already fading!

A message written in gold.

I tried to photograph the whole tree, but the effect was lost.  So I quickly put on my zoom lens and focused in on the top branches and twigs.  This was the best I could do.  I am a better writer than photographer, but I do try.  It was as if each twig of this maple had been coated in a fine layer of gold.  It shown unbelievably for about 30 seconds maximum, and then just as quickly as the gold had appeared, it left.  The tree was back to normal--cold and dead and grey.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it.  If this isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.  It was more than just the last rays of the sun before it went below the horizon.  It was a promise.  It was the words of nature written in a secret book.  Like a regular book, unless you know the alphabet and then are taught how to read, the symbols and squiggles on the pages remain an unknown mystery.  Once you learn what they mean, though, a whole new world opens up to you.  Messages from one person’s mind can then travel into your mind.

Today in the book of nature, I learned a new alphabet, and suddenly the sun’s rays took on a whole new meaning.  What used to be just random flashes of light instantly became ordered and intelligent.  The sun was talking to me.  And what’s more, I understood him.

January 15, 2015 - The Ice Cometh

Crashing, smashing, breaking, pointed, jagged, dangerous ice.  This is ice.  What you see in this photo is what we have to deal with in terms of ice.  Because we had a warm spell for a bit, the ice began to melt and break and shift.  The water current drove the sheets into one another, much like mini continents smashing into each other and pushing up the land.  Then the temperature dropped quickly and flash-froze everything as you see it.  Those pieces are as sharp as glass, and I have cut my hand on ice many times by accident.

Sheets of ice have smashed into one another.

This is why icebreaker ships were created with their extra strong hulls and tremendous power to smash their bows headlong through sheets of thick ice.  Unless you are out on it, you cannot imagine how thick, dangerous, and destructive the ice can be.  The Russians use nuclear-powered icebreakers, and you can understand why when you think of the cold water they must traverse.

Here in Maine we are not as cold as some parts of Russia, but we still get quite cold.  It took the ice longer to form this year, but it is having no problem picking up “steam” now.  The ice shacks are going in here and there, and soon ice shanty villages will be set up all over as people fish and party together.  It might be a wee bit treacherous out there, but having fun is still a priority.  Making enjoyment out of hardship is something at which Mainers excel.

January 14, 2016 - Complement

Even as the snow covers everything thickly and boldly, the sun quietly sneaks into the tiny spaces.  The snow needs something to cling to; it needs a solid place to land.  But the sun is under no such restrictions.  In fact, the solid things block the sun completely.  If your goal were to ban the sun in totality, you would hide under a solid contraption, perhaps a roof.  Then you would be “safe.”  Assuming that was your goal, of course.  The snow would find affinity with your roof.  It’s a solid place to land and build and grow.  The sun would disdain it.

Polar opposites.

You see, this is the part that the Lord of Winter does not understand, although I will deny that I said this if you tell him.  He is the master of the final form.  Crystals, minerals, diamonds--he excels at these, the more intricate the better.  He understands finality.  He understands form.  But . . . what to do with the spaces?  What to do with the things that have no hope of form?  This is where he is at a loss.

Here you can see the Sun King understands it all quite well.  He may travel as he pleases.  He need construct nothing.  He weaves his way in and out of the tiniest spaces.  If there is the slightest bit of room to move and nothing solid blocking him, he will find a way to sneak in.  Even in the coldest places, you will find him.  Here in the photo he embraces the snow.  This is boldness!  The polar opposites complement one another perfectly, although it is not for me to tell them so and I pity the soul who attempts such foolishness.

But it is only January, and this means nothing right now.  Perhaps in a couple of months we will speak further.  Say nothing to the snow.

January 13, 2016 - The Strength of Ice

This small white pine is dramatically covered with ice.  Every single needle, every tiny branch, and the slim trunk are coated with ice.  Each has its own little sheath of ice.  You would think they would all clump together, but they don’t.  Each part of the tree, down to its separate needles, has its own relationship with the ice.  And this is a good thing because if one part falls victim to the ice, not all the other parts will go.

Now, I told you about the ice and what it can do.  The ice is true winter, not the snow as most people seem to think.  Not the cold, either.  It’s the ice that moves a place into the season of death.  Ice can wreak havoc on the landscape, on the plants and animals, and on the water sources.  Once the ice sets in for real, you know that the Lord of Winter has entered the land and is in no hurry to leave it.  The ice imprisons everything.

Imprisoned in ice.

This is just a tiny new tree, perhaps a few years old.  Imagine what the ice does to larger trees.  Eventually they become so heavy with ice, layers upon layers of it, that they droop dangerously toward the ground.  Only the strong survive.  Plenty of trees never make it to a stately age here because of the ice.  First boughs snap, then branches, and then eventually the entire trunk.  “Teenage” trees are by no means out of danger.  In fact, they are usually the ones to snap in two.  They sometimes get too much gangly growth in the summer that is a bit weak, and if a good ice storm or two hits, they’re history.  The birches are especially prone to this demise.

It takes quite a bit of strength, courage, and luck to make it to be a big tree in Maine.  I’d say the same goes for the people here.  There’s something about the ice and cold.  It breeds a different kind of people, a kind of people who have become accustomed to difficulties and hardships.  Many who come here to live will flee at the first serious ice storm.  Hothouse flowers, they are.  The locals just laugh.

We may not have the exotic beauty and intoxicating scents of the tropics here in Maine, but we have something better:  Old oaks.  Stubborn, hard, and indestructible.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

January 12, 2016 - The Snow is Coming

The last bit of sun fights brilliantly before the snow falls.  The fight doesn’t last long, though.  At this time of year, it never does.  I’m afraid it ended rather badly for the sun.  Again.  After being overtaken by thugs, he was completely knocked out.

The calm before the storm.

Then the snow began to fall, slowly but steadily.  The clouds with character and shape that fought the battle left just as quickly as the sun and were completely replaced by a perfectly gray sky with absolutely no variation whatsoever.  If it were a painting, we would all point at it and talk about how inexperienced the artist was.  But it’s not a painting, and as I write, a world of stark gray encompasses everything as if a child spilled his watercolors by accident.  Or on purpose.

But snow brings the silence, and that is a good thing.  For some reason, everything else seems to behave itself while the snow is falling.  Well, except for the wind, but you can hardly blame it.  If you had that much confetti, you’d want to play with it too.  We have to be realistic here.

After all these years, I still get a small thrill every time the first snowflake of a storm begins to fall.  I like to think that I’ve actually seen the very first snowflake of the storm, and that makes me special.  To be chosen by the snow.  Not everyone can say that.  Add to it that this has happened more than once--many times, in fact--and you might even begin to suspect that the snow and I had a secret relationship.  It’s a lie.  But there are rumors.

January 11, 2016 - My Tiny Island

The ice is very unstable this year (so far), so sneaking out to the enchanted island has not been possible.  It still holds just as much magic, however.  Perhaps even more so.  I’m not sure why I’m so preoccupied with this little island, but I always have been.  It’s almost like another planet to me--exotic, far away, forbidden.  I want to claim it for my own, and yet I want it to stay untouched by man.

My tiny island.

There are at least 3,000 islands off the coast of Maine, some say 5,000.  It’s hard to know exactly how many there are.  Some are several acres in size or considerably larger.  Some are tiny like this one.  Most of the small to medium-sized islands are covered with untouched pine forests.  These places are as primitive today as they were when the first pilgrims came to America.  Some have rocky shores, and some have small sandy beaches.  Many have small log cabins on them.  Some are for sale.

This one isn’t and I’m glad it isn’t.  I want the magic to stay.  At the first hint of a “lawn,” the mystical parts of an island shut themselves out to further offense.  Once someone buys an island and inhabits it, the magic usually leaves.  Unless you make a bargain with the land, but we’ll say no more about that for now.

January 10, 2016 - A Forgotten Place

There’s a little shack down here by the river.  No one lives in it, and I don’t know who owns it.  It’s one of those forgotten pieces of property.  Someone has a piece of paper about it somewhere, but who and where they are is anyone’s guess.  Oh, I could go to the town office and find out, but I’m not interested in administrative records.  I’m interested in people.

Forgotten.

I’m interested in why somebody doesn’t care about this.  It’s a wreck, to be sure, but it could be made livable again.  Four seasons might be hard to deal with unless you’re really tough and don’t mind the cold, but three seasons could definitely work.  I wonder why they don’t care anymore.  It might be shabby, but you’d be hard pressed to find a prettier view or better fishing.  Yet year after year, no one comes.  That’s what I’m interested in.  Not the deed.  The motive.

Maybe it’s old age.  Maybe it’s boredom.  Maybe it’s exhaustion.  But there’s a piece of paper somewhere that says this belongs to someone and no one else can come here.  That must be a mighty strong piece of paper.  Or perhaps we’re all just so well trained.  Most of us are law-abiding citizens, so we dutifully pass on by.  Once in a while, I sure would like to be a bandit, though.

But I’m not, so I’ll continue to sneak here and take pretty pictures of the place that no one cares about.

January 9, 2016 - Living Colors

Man makes all sorts of bizarre colors in his laboratories--blaring blues, unnatural purples, painful yellows, harrowing greens, exhausting reds, etc.  All day long our eyes are bombarded with these colors.  We see them on our computer screens, on television, magazine covers, and synthetic clothing.  We get used to them.  They seem normal.  When they’re almost unbearable, we call them “electric” or “florescent.”

Unbearable is right.  I wonder what people might have thought of such colors only a hundred years ago.  Then go back two hundred and three hundred and four hundred years.  What might the people have thought?  I’ll tell you what.  They’d have thought it was strange.  Unnatural.  Uncomfortable.  Weird.  Frightening.  Bizarre.  Untrustworthy.  Bad.  And on and on.

One second of one sunset out of several trillion.

I’m not sure the human eye was meant to be assaulted in such a way as is commonplace today.  Clearly we can “see” the colors, so our eyes are equipped to “digest” them, but that doesn’t mean we should bombard ourselves with them.  Our stomachs can digest some tree bark as well, but that doesn’t mean that we should have it for dinner every night.

But no matter what the manufacturers do, they can’t beat the true colors of nature.  Even when they photograph something and completely analyze the color and create a color in the lab “exactly” like nature’s color, it’s still not the same.  It’s just a dead color.  The secret nature has, that none of the manufacturers have figured out, is that all of her colors are alive.  They are living, breathing colors, and since they are living colors, they move.  They are fluid.  You might not catch the movement with your eyes, but your brain catches it.  Your brain knows if it’s the “real deal” or not.

Subtle, shifting, living colors that change.  They start, they grow, they climax, they decline--sometimes slowly, sometimes all in a few seconds.  We sit back even in this “modern” day and gasp--we gasp!--at the sheer beauty of nature’s colors, at their shifting, shimmering light.  Not a thousand lab-created colors could do what a single sunset does in the blink of eye.  We know it, and so do the manufacturers.  Perhaps that’s why they have gotten so “loud” with their announcements.

I just turn them off.  It’s best that way or you’ll miss the sunset.  Like a snowflake, no two are the same.