night sky: the lights from our neighbors across the way

sunrise:  4:57  (July 7th)

During a recent night on Sutton Island I was awakened by the brightness of the moon at 3:30am. I was drawn to go outdoors and look, in spite of the hour, and could already see the a faint glow beginning on the eastern horizon.

Ever since the year I spent rising before the sun, the early glow of morning light has filled me with flutters of anticipation. Most of the time I happily roll back over and back to sleep, but sometimes I give in to the urge and go out to meet the dawn. This particular night, I was so far in advance of the dawn that it was still, for all intents and purposes, the night sky that I was observing. But like many versions of our celestial covering, the night sky presents a beautiful scene – especially this one.

There were the lights of Seal Harbor across the western way, that strip of ocean between Sutton Island and Mt. Desert Island. Then there was that spectacular moon, casting shadows on the piney ground, its light reaching us from across a great span of space.

 But that span is nothing to the distance between us and those two brilliantly bright planets, stacked one over the other to the east, casting a path of light across the sea. And finally, inconceivably distant starlight reaches across light years of space to draw our eyes upward.

All of those light sources come from neighbors of sorts, if you allow for a liberal interpretation of the word. For how many years have human beings pondered the distant lights from our neighbors – in the universe, in our sky, in our own world? Since humans began, I suppose.


There will always be something mesmerizing about gazing out at distant lights in the dark night sky.

life's full circle is around us every day

sunrise:  4:54 am

I am reflecting these days on the divergent experiences offered through contact with the natural world.

Our bird expertise is growing bit by bit, partially thanks to a very entertaining app on J's smartphone called "iBird."  Part of our motivation is to figure out who is making such a racket outside our windows every morning.  We've identified all kinds of backyard birds by song and plumage.  J also finally spotted baby ducks on our pond.  He caught them briefly just before mama duck led them into the thickest reeds for protection.

In other outdoor news, the other day J and I each came home from separate excursions with turtle in hand.  Mine was a big old painted turtle, very effectively protecting himself from me and the dogs.

J's was the tiniest snapping turtle I've ever seen.  His belly covering was only partially formed - it was hard in the center, but all around his tiny, prehistoric legs the skin was still soft and supple.  It reminded me of the fontanelle on the head of a human baby.

While watching the turtles, we also witnessed the tenacious efforts of a red squirrel, determined to get to our bird feeder.  He was fearless - about 8 feet away from us and the dogs, but seemed to know somehow that he had a manageable escape route.

That same day, J had seen a beaver, several blue herons, an adult eagle and several immature eagles while canoeing on the Souadabscook River.

The natural world is charmingly filled with promise:  new life, perpetual regeneration, protectiveness, perseverance, survival, and beauty.

********

We spent an afternoon hip deep in the muck of our pond recently, to do some clearing of cattails.  We both came out with leeches attached, which pretty much ruined the experience for me.  J kept at it, however, and wandered into the mother lode of leeches.  Most (but not all) were miniscule, but determined to find open wounds and feed off of him.  We removed about 40.  Seriously.

Not far from where I found the painted turtle, my little hound Guster caught and shook a baby groundhog right in front of me, before I could stop him.  I shrieked at him to stop, but I was too late.  The little critter was still moving, but devastated; I will spare you the details.  I had to end his suffering as fast as I could.  It was a task way out of my comfort zone, but the clarity of what was right outweighed my squeamishness.  Very sad.  Guster, on the other hand, was elated with triumphant pride.

The natural world is full of parasites, violence, suffering, and death.

********

Amongst my family and friends this last month, there has been a new pregnancy, a couple of new babies, and a new job.  There was also a tragic suicide.

The whole package is all around us every day - caring and killing, exuberance and despair, bloodsucking and enriching, sunup and sundown, birth and death.  Somehow, we have to carry on in the full acceptance of everything.  Perhaps we can learn something by observing how life's spectrum plays out all around us every day with such equanimity.

skirting Katahdin - it's all about the journey

June 15th sunrise:  4:49
**earliest sunrise of 2012**

On June 15th, a friend and I set out to climb Mt. Katahdin just before dawn.  It's a long day - about 2 hours to drive to the base trail, 9-11 hours of hiking, and 2 hours home.

We have both been up the mountain a few times before (she many more times than I), so it is familiar territory.  G said to me as we were driving that she considered doing a smaller hike, but there is something incomparable in Mt. Katahdin.  Many people hike this formidable mountain of granite as a kind of pilgrimage, a spiritual act, a quest-completion kind of thing.  She felt like that was what she needed, so off we went on this quintessential sunny June day in Maine.


We parked at the Roaring Brook campground.  From there it's a little over 3 miles to Chimney Pond, then another 2 miles or so UP to the summit at Baxter Peak.

We met a number of people on the trail -- a man with his elderly dad; large groups with multi-day packs; one guy with no pack or water of any kind that we could see; a group of lovely young people dressed in (I think) Mennonite clothing - the women with head scarves, long cotton dresses, daypacks and hiking boots, the men with suspenders and buttoned shirts, and binoculars! trying to spot a magnolia warbler.

About halfway to Chimney Pond, which sits dramatically in a bowl at the base of Katahdin, G came to the conclusion that her quest for the day might not include the hike to the summit.  The inner drive that had been pushing her through recent trials was part of what pushed her to drive through this challenging hike.  But as she tramped forward up and over the rocky trail, the exhaustion that she'd been staving off for so long finally found its way to the surface.  An indefatigable woman, G is also dependably realistic.  This was no time to push herself further.

She was apologetic.  "I can't believe I made you get up at 4:00 in the morning."  But I was utterly content.  There was something wonderfully liberating about being on the trail with the specter of the summit lifted away.  We could contentedly gaze upon the great mountain from afar, and appreciate it thoroughly.

At Chimney Pond we had a chat with an exceedingly pleasant park ranger.

"Are you heading up?" he asked.
"Well, we were going to, but we're too tired.  Not today."
"Well, if you're not out of gas, there are a couple of really lovely side trails you could check out..."


Usually, when people come to Katahdin, they have eyes only for Baxter peak, the highest summit.  It is a bear of a climb.  My 50-something-year-old body generally takes almost a week to recover.  But there are so many side trails and little viewpoint destinations that people never see as a result.

The ranger directed us to Blueberry Knoll, an extra loop that would add about 1.7 miles to our descent.  I had heard of, but never seen Blueberry Knoll.  It was awesome -- here is the view.  A new prospect overlooking Katahdin, which is awe-inspiring from any angle.

Then, when we got to the base of the trail, I shed my pack at the car and hiked the .3 mile jaunt over to Sandy Pond, which our ranger friend had called "the moosiest place in the park."  Sure enough, it was as advertised.   I watched this big guy dip his head in and out of the water several times before I turned back, and saw a deer along the way.

It was a new and delightful way to enjoy Mt. Katahdin - as a backdrop to a beautiful day.

I was taken by the wording on a plaque near the Chimney Pond ranger station.  It's a tribute to Leroy Dudley, a long-time park ranger in Baxter, and it includes the phrases "genial philosophy, kindly ways,  and droll tales..."  It strikes me that THAT is the kind of attitude inspired by the surroundings out there in the untamed woods of Maine - blackflies notwithstanding.  I can think of no worthier words to have on a commemorative plaque, and they were inspired by someone's connection to the world outdoors.

The fact is, G and I had a superb day of hiking.  No distant signs of man-made development, serene brooks and streams, twittering birds, flowering ground cover - bunchberries and trillium, sunshine filtering through the leafy canopy, the awesome sight of Katahdin standing sentry nearby, and no pressure to do any more than we felt like doing.  Just out there, in the middle of it all.  Summit not included.  A worthy pilgrimage.

Yale college reunions and other layers of time

sunrise:  4:53AM

One of the things that J and I share, with increasing significance, is our college past.  We both graduated from Yale in 1982.  On top of that, we now have two children who are Yale graduates, plus an array of their wonderful friends who have become a part of our extended family to varying degrees.

Add to that my father, uncle, grandfather, great-grandfather...

Although a part of me always cringes at the appearance of hyper-privilege in that legacy, a bigger part of me is deeply grateful to be connected to that multi-layered history.  On May 21st, my daughter attended her boyfriend's graduation, with all the accompanying celebration and anticipation.  Four days later, J and I arrived to celebrate our 30th reunion.  That alone felt like a profound juxtaposition - these almost simultaneous celebrations of our two generations, in the same quads, under the same tents, amidst the same old, stone edifices - 30 years apart.

Then of course I expanded my thoughts to include the other thousands all around campus, graduates from the 1940's to 2007; and all of the ones from a couple of hundred years before that, now dead and gone.

They walked over these stones, sat in these classrooms, listened to the bells in Harkness Tower from their dorm rooms.  Every one of those people from every class was once young and full of anticipation and uncertainty at the door to their future, right here in this same space.  Layer upon layer of personal histories, personal triumphs and tragedies, growth and change and learning and the bursting open of the gates of the mind.

Time seeps into the pages of history and blurs the lines between then and now.

I know I was not alone in feeling overwhelmed by the experience.  It was lovely, reminiscent, poignant, this re-entering of our past, seen through the filters of the present.  Many faces were still happily familiar - almost as though they were the same 20 year old faces photoshopped to suggest aging.  Even in individual faces, the layers of time leapt out at you.

We have grown and mellowed, and we are good to each other.  But it was a lot to take in.  Post-reunion fatigue was described in multiple posts around the airwaves.

Back at home, it is another kind of revisiting to take a walk at dawn out in our lovely fields of central Maine.  Here we are again, in the shameless, explosive fertility of pre-summer.  There comes the sun again, moving towards its northernmost reach, finding its way insistently through the lush greenery.  I have been here before, but not exactly here.  It is another layer of pre-summer, another layer of dawn, another generation of purple irises around the pond and wet dandelions in the dew-heavy grasses.

My dogs provide some consistency.

Kate's stick is still ever present,

Guster explores,

Clara makes her way on her own,

But - Kate sleeps more.  There is more grey on Guster's nose.  Clara is lame from degenerative disease in her knees.



Revisiting the past is important - taking time to remember, to renew connections, to reassess oneself.  Who am I now?  What do I want to add in my life as the next layer to look back upon?

We don't really have much control over a lot of this.  No one has figured out how to lasso time and take it in hand.  So it's important to pay attention and take control of what we can while we're still here, living amidst the infinite layers of time.

midcoast Maine mini-vacation

sunrise:  5:05

About 14 months ago I won a free night at Rockland, Maine's Samoset resort.  It took us a while, but J and I finally found a night to escape.  The luxury of an ocean view room meant that I could snap a bunch of sunrise photos without leaving my balcony.

Perhaps the best part of the mini-vacation was discovering a whole new stretch of Maine coast, of which there is an astonishing amount.  Although the direct distance from one end of the Maine coast to the other is only 228 miles, the coastline travels 3,478 miles - longer than the California coast.  So, we probably have a lifetime of exploring before us.

This mid-coast region is definitely distinct from downeast and Acadia, which I know better.  It is softer, more beachy.  Reminds me a bit of Cape Cod.  We traveled way out to the end of the peninsula where the Port Clyde lighthouse sits - the one featured in "Forrest Gump" as the eastern terminus of Forrest's transcontinental running jag.  It is a glorious spot, with one of the most charming lighthouse museums I've ever seen.

Anyway - exquisite day, lovely state.  *AND* amazing breakfast, by the way, at Rockland's Home Kitchen Cafe.  It was especially welcome after walking the nearly mile long breakwater out to the Rockland Breakwater lighthouse and back.  That was our first lighthouse of the day.

Enjoy the photo journey.

waters of the Atlantic, looking pink and silky

odd illusion of a phantom sun, but it's just a light cast from below

First sliver, followed by more optical illusions

Port Clyde lighthouse and museum