The Coldest Days are Always Sunny

The coldest days are always sunny. Before moving to Maine in the fall of 2006, I had never experienced brutally cold weather. I grew up snowboarding a couple times a week on Mt. Hood, where the temperature rarely drops below 20°, and felt prepared for my first winter in the Deep South of the Far North. Walking to class one morning in January, my hair froze into a Ace Ventura-like sculpture on top of my wet head. I had walked 100 feet.

Last week, a cold front from Canada swept down from the arctic by way of some desolate land in Canada. 93.5 the River, Central Maine's classic rock radio station that advertises ice fishing bait suppliers and snowmobile customizing shops and claims to be Hillary Clinton's least favorite radio station, warned of the looming subzero temperatures. They don't fear monger. I took note.

When the temperature turns negative, the pace of life changes. People stay inside. They watch TV and read. Buttons on key chains warm up cars before their drivers leave on errands. Last week, I ventured out, seeking the solitude and quiet of cold sunny days in late January.

A brackish outlet in Reid State Park filled with slushy runoff from a nearby 7-Eleven.

A vacant business in Augusta.

A solid tidepool in Casco Bay.

Snowmobile tracks on a vacant Messalonskee Lake.

Polo Cashmere Cardigan, Polo Gingham Shirt, APC New Standard Jeans, Georgia Ranch Boots, White Stag Parka, Barbour Scarf, and my Woolrich Hunting Gloves.

Despite the bright sun, the biting wind and X-ray like cold penetrate even the thickest jackets and gloves. Ears turn white and fingers shake in the subzero quiet of January in Maine.

Here are some more links,
The Coldest Days are Sunny (Picasa).

Ice Fishing Shacks in Maine

Starting in December, the lakes of Maine ice up and thousands of outdoor enthusiasts take to the frozen playgrounds on snowmobiles and pickup trucks in search of fish. Basing their operations out of small shacks, the fishermen walk around the frozen landscape periodically, checking traps, breaking up ice buildups and drilling new holes. Bundled up like Randy Parker from The Christmas Story, they approach their fishing responsibilities as a defiant right of passage. Each inadvertent slip on the ice or splashing of water proves to themselves and their buddies, warming their stomachs with cheap beer in nearby shacks, that not even sub-zero winters can bar them from enjoying the great Maine outdoors.

Driving by lakes throughout New England, I am always on the lookout for ice shacks and their dedicated proprietors. On Sunday, I looked at a map of central Maine for unfamiliar roads, towns and lakes and headed northwest with my camera sitting shotgun. Near Canaan I spotted a lone ice shack standing tall and pulled to the side of the road. A dozen more shacks came into view as I rounded a small point and for the next hour and half I walked around exploring the landscape and looking at the structures.

Utensils for cooking fish and breaking ice.

Scott Peterman's photos of architecture and ice shacks have had a major influence on my photography and overall aesthetic.

The bright colors of the ice shacks juxtapose the bleak Maine winter, making both more pronounced and impressive.

A thermometer on the door handle of his shack reminds Mr. Bickford of the gelid nature of ice fishing.

Anchored to the ice.

Truck, snowmobile and foot prints on the ice, the highway of ice fishing.

Thawing and freezing cements footprints in the ice until the spring storms of April and early May.

Take Note.

Yellow and Red.

Time passed as the wind whipped up loose snow and the drone of snowmobiles oscillated in the distance like a snooze alarm in a nearby room. I slid my feet on the ice towards the shore and the warmth of my car.

Here are some more links,
Ice Shacks in Maine (Picasa),
Fishing with John: Willem Dafoe in Maine,
Scott Peterman (Photographer),
IceShanty.com.

Another One Bites the Dust

Three years of long, dark and uneventful winters in Central Maine led me to start taking pictures, intern at Rogues Gallery, start a blog, and most recently watch semi-professional wrestling in a nearby civic center. A flyer tipped my roommates and me off to the night of blows, body slams and pile drivers. I entertained the idea of actually attending the wrestling matches with the same fervor as promising a high school friend to watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy back to back. As Tuesday turned to Thursday, my alternatives quickly evaporated and the imminence of watching fake tanned men hop around on a glorified trampoline grew from that of a conversation piece with acquaintances to a planned rendezvous with a group of close friends.

Inspired by famous wrestler-turned-politician, Jesse "The Body" Ventura and the granddaddy of Hulkamaniacs, Hulk Hogan, these wrestlers travel around New England on weekends battling it out in bars, civic centers and high school gymnasiums.

Arranged on folding tables surrounding the ring, memorabilia such as these vintage figures, posters and DVD's acted a reminder to the foundations of the sport and a reference point for the character of all of the wrestlers and the attitude of the fans. I am interested in what inspires people, regardless of my personal preferences. The process of inspiration to create is universal, with no specific inputs or outputs but with a transformation as the only consistent part of the equation.

This is Pro Wrestling in Maine!

Pile Driver.

I was surprised by the contrasts between the brightness and optimism of the foundation of the sport and the reality of wrestling now. Wrestlers of old wore bright colors, had goofy hair cuts and had larger than life personas. Today many wrestlers look like they are auditioning for a horror movie.

A close line in the making.

For two and a half hours a dozen men assumed various aliases and romped in front of some 50 or so Mainers. They worked the crowd and screamed.

The last jump of the match.

Here are some more links,
Another One Bites the Dust (Picasa).

A Bench by the Sea

Sitting on a stone bench, I watched the cold morning's wind skip across the Atlantic like a stone on a pond. I kicked some moss into the wind, stretched my back and nestled my fingers into the depths of my down jacket to protect them from the constant nibbles of the late fall breeze. For an untold amount of time, I repeated this process in a distant daze known only to a morning person with ADD. I pondered this and contemplated that.

This Thanksgiving I forwent the 3,000-mile jaunt back to the Northwest and instead made the 75-mile drive down to Cape Elizabeth. For the first time in my 21 years, I spent a holiday without kin but with a close friend and his family. In the mornings I would wake early and wander down towards the crashing waves and whistling wind.

The constant sound of waves crashing against the jagged shoreline formed a rough melody for my daydreams. Suddenly avoiding the occasional overzealous wave and staying out of ankle-deep tide pools whilst hopping from one kelp-covered rock to another replaced my superficial worries.

Meandering down the shoreline one morning, I climbed over a large rock to see a rock bench set into the a hillside. Despite a dilapidated sign offering a halfhearted warning, I kicked back and made myself comfortable.

Oh life's simple joys...

Here are some more links,
A Bench by the Sea (Picasa).