Baxter

I am the black cloud of Sandy Stream.  

I've been there maybe a dozen times over the years and never once saw a moose.  Seriously!  This is the one place in the entire state where you are pretty much guaranteed to have a moose sighting.  People come here on "Moose Tours", Baxter state park has special "Moose Pass" parking spaces, everyone and their mothers come here to see moose.

I've seen them plenty of moose in other places, but never in the one spot where they flock to like moths to a flame: Sandy Stream.

It's a quick walk through the woods from the car park, and then it's elevated walkway to get to the clear, sparkling pond.  There are a few places to duck off the trail and take in the scene, which is just lovely.  A close-up of Katahdin and the knife edge to Hamlin Peak, South Turner mountain, and huge swarths of pine forest creating inky-black patchworks.

I did see plenty though.  Not only is it just a lovely peaceful place to relax in the sun, I saw oogles of critters around the pond:  Beautiful, flashy ceader waxwings-

I love these chipper little birds.  They sit so obviously in the pine-tops and stay there for a while, so I can usually get better than usual shots of them with a normal camera lens.

The squirrels were so frantically putting away pinecones, they were loathe to get off the trail until you almost on top of them.  Little piles of pinecone shavings dotted the walkway.

The water was full of ducks: Goldeneyes, Black Ducks, loons.

An elegantly long-legged spotted sandpiper darted from rock to rock.

More waxwings!

As the sun got lower in the sky, the songbirds made their way out into the open for a drink, and tiny chickadees and warblers flitted their way to a prime spot for drinking.  Across the pond, I saw a kingfisher diving for, um, fish.

Along came a hairy woodpecker to bang his head on a tree for a bit.

And close enough for me to not need a zoom lens, a whitetail doe sauntered on past.  It's really amazing how diverse the fauna is here.  Sitting quietly in one place and soon you become near-invisible.  Well, that is until a large family from New Jersey come by and say "HEY, WHERE ARE THE MOOSE??  HAS ANYONE SEEN A MOOSE?  WERE DO YOU GO TO SEE A REAL MOOSE?  WE CAME ALL THIS WAY TO SEE A MOOSE" and I wanted to cry a bit.

I could have sat there all day, but we did show up to hike.  Despite the rangers warning us that "moose pass" meant to sandy stream and back only, we took a, ahem, detour.  Or, "we got lost, I swear!" and headed up to Whidden Pond.

It was weird to walk in dense forest!  One thing England doesn't have much of is primordial old-growth forest.  So much more dark and fragrant, and there were mushrooms popping up everywhere, with lots of rotting and fallen trees, dense underbrush, and a foreboding sense of certain doom if you ever ventured off the trail.
 
While I do love walking here in Maine, I would never undertake the Appalachian trail.   Not enough to see!  Just endless hundreds of miles of walking in the woods.  

No moose at Whidden, either.

It's a magic place in its own right.

We sheepishly made our way back to the car park in dusk and headed down the long, bumpy tote road back to civilization, peering out into the roadside ponds and bogs, hoping for a chance sighting.  

My record still stands.  There will never be a moose at Sandy Stream as long as I am there.  

Camp

I don't really have a lot of family-oriented traditions.  I mean, I barely see those blood relatives as it is, and even growing up, everyone was so far apart.  We really only make a big effort to gather for weddings and funerals, and the only tradition we have there per say is drink like the booze is free.  

Still, every summer, at least for a day or two, the majority of the clan will gather on our island hideaway and participate in the ritual sacrifice of dozens of lobsters.  This barbaric tradition dates back eons, as early photographic evidence suggests.

This tradition carries on.  The eve that the most people can gather, we order about a million of these succulent searoaches, get these enormous pots on the gas broiler, and pace around, machete in hand, waiting for the last flail and scream to stop from the pot and the tell-tale orangey rouge to be peering out of the watery depths.  

There is something just so marvelously simple and decadent about this feast.

This year, I was late to the planning party, and there wasn't a single green veg on the table: just lobster, boiled shrimp, butter and corn on the cob.   While I can't say my stomach felt light and comfortable after that, I remind myself that it is once a year and snatch the last tail off the table.  No matter how many times I had gorged on lobster upon arriving in the state, it always seems much sweeter here.

Oh, and the leftovers!  Picking is a bitch job, but we put all the leftovers and the bodies in a garbage bag, shove it in the fridge and spend the next day with tiny picks, picking the meat out of each leg and knuckle that we couldn't be bothered with when we had the fast and easy tails and claws to work on.  Just reward: lobster omelets and lobster rolls the next day, and what ever after that is left over gets doused in butter and cream and leftover breakfast bacon and boiled potatoes, onions  and stripped-off corn to make a hasty and slightly unseasonable chowder.  

While we didn't get terribly hot weather (and in Northern Maine, hot is actually kind of nice with so many places to cool yourself) it wasn't so bad that sleeping outside wasn't an ordeal.   The camp has gone through a lot of changes over the years (electricity!  running water! private bedrooms!) and it's much more comfortable now, but I still would rather be outside next to the water at night.  A world of sounds- the loons calling across the lake in their mournful tone, owls, an occasional chilling mystery wail.

I'm also still in the habit of taking a bar of soap down to the lake and doing my bathing there.  We have hot, running water 40 feet away, but there is something about the pleasures of going for a refreshing dunk before nightfall.  It's also a good way to get rid of those dreaded lobster-scented hands.

I have abandoned the outhouse permanently and I'm happy to use the flush toilets as much as possible.  I'm a Luddite, but I do enjoy some comforts here and there.

My only gripe was that it was overcast enough to put a damper on star-watching,  I saw nothing, but we did have a few good lightning shows to keep things interesting.

Every year, I spend a lot of time staring out over the water at the big granite slabs on the horizon.

Despite the noise and inevitable drama that comes with not-oft gathering families (or any family, really), there's still a real sense of peace here.  People gather here because of the peace and quiet, and it ends up becoming anything but.  I find it stressful to try to get to know and get on with these near-strangers all over again.  We have our moments.   Thankfully, we brought kayaks, and a short paddle off the island and you are once again in a zen-like trance.  The smooth, clear lake, the wind in the trees, the mountains and the loons.

Its amazing to think that in a few months' time, you will be able to walk across the lake.

I think I will remain a summer visitor, even if it means having to deal with a crowd.    

Island Life

Lackadaisical.

It amazes me that every sunset will be completely different than the last, and how quickly the light changes.

Kind of sad this year...while I heard them a couple of nights out on the lake, I didn't see a single Loon this year. Some years, I see gaggles of them. I'm not sure if it was just timing or if the population is declining. I'm really hoping it's my timing.

I did see plenty of other birds: a couple of mature bald eagles nest nearby, and as the sun starts to set, the island becomes a madhouse of birds. Chickadees, pine siskins, nuthatches, pine warblers, juncos, alder flycatchers...they all descend for a feeding frenzy before retiring for the evening.

Really spectacularly is the night sky up here. There's no light pollution at all. You can see the thick white clumps of the milky way stretching across the heavens, and every few minutes you can see a satellite blazing across the sky, and at one point, the international space station made an appearance. I was also lucky to be in the middle of the Perseids meteor shower and I got to see countless long-tailed streaks of fire in the sky. It's really quite spiritual. I don't understand how anyone in this area could possibly own a television when there is all this excitement going on outside. Also, I've been living in cities too long. During the NYC blackout in 2003 I camped out on my roof and got to see the stars come out, which I assure you, never ever ever happens in New York.

I tried to take pictures of star trails and really didn't have any success. Granted, I didn't have a tripod and I was using duct tape to keep the shutter depressed....next year, I will come equipped. Sigh.

Katahdin Iron Works

It's been a few years since I had been up to Katahdin Iron Works.

Once upon a time, it was a place where they smelted iron ore and put it on a southbound train. Now, everything is gone except the ghostly ruins of the iron operation, well off the beaten track.

The furnace:

It's private property, but you can access trails that run through it for a fee. Part of the Appalachian trail runs through it- the final brutal stretch before Katahdin know as the 100 mile wilderness.

It's a good place for day hikers to break in new hiking boots, as there are plenty of loops of varying lengths and elevation gain. We hiked up to and along the rim of Gulf Hagas falls, which is kind of the main attraction in the area.

While calling it the "Grand Canyon of Maine" is a bit too grandiose, it is a beautiful spot to dip into the icy cold water and have lunch.

Getting there does require you to ford a knee-deep stream and navigate the big, slippery rocks on the bottom. Hilarity is sure to ensue as someone in your party is bound to have a spill.

Not me, of course. Not this time.

The reward: getting to hike through The Hermitage, one of few old-growth virgin forest left in the North East. Huge old white pines stretch halfway to the sun in this grove.

And, of course, the falls.