A Hike on the Beach

On Tuesday, temperatures crested 40 degrees for the first time in months. Feeling like millionaires in Vegas, Dan and I headed to the beach to catch some cosmic rays and go on a short hike on Morris Mountain and the surrounding beaches. Arriving at the parking lot just after 12:30, we set out for the beach. Dan sped up ahead towards the water, eager to do his geological research, studying erosion of a nearby river system, and wandering slowly down the trail towards the beach with the urgency of grandmother on Christmas morning.

The three and a half mile trail follows a seasonal gravel road through marshlands, woods and iconic summer houses towards Seawall Beach. I moved slowly, humming various Pink Floyd songs to myself as I took in the scenery and snapped pictures.

Boarded up for the winter.

Ice, shaded from the sun by evergreens.

After an hour, I finally crested a small hill and heard the faint clapping of shin-high waves. My slow and carefree stroll evolved into a purpose-driven walk as the sand drew near.

Low tide and a washed-up tree.

Where the grass meets the sand and water.

Sand arranged by tides and storms.

Erosion at Popham State park.

Clam pits at high tide.

Clammers digging through the exposed sands of Popham Beach.

I wandered through the knee-high grass and soft sand, enjoying the relative tropic temperatures for hours. I didn't see Dan for some time, but I knew he was out there enjoying the day in his own way. Finally I spotted Dan's blond head bobbing around against the blue of the Atlantic and yelled "Ohhh Helllloooo" in my best Mrs. Doubtfire impression. We sat on a washed-up tree lying parallel to the beach and took in the rolling waves and rustle of sand and wind through the tall grass. I longed for a match to start a campfire but settled on playing music on my iPhone as Dan and I watched the sun sink towards the west.

Here are some more links,
A Hike on the Beach (Picasa).

On Four Wheels

Constant snow and subsequent salt on the roads of Maine erode cars' paint and all exposed steel. After a few years, the harsh winters change a car forever. No two are the same. Mainers use their cars as plows, warming rooms, snowmobiles, grocery getters and basic transportation. Each one fits a specific purpose, place and owner.

A classic 15 miles north of Bath on 139.

Stationary for winter near Woolwich, Maine.

A modern day ox near Carr's Corner, Maine.

A Jeep delivery truck near Unity, Maine.

A pair of plows near Reid State Park, Maine.

On my travels I am always on the lookout for things on four wheels that tell stories just as dynamic and complex as the people that drive them.

Here are some more links,
On Four Wheels (Picasa).

A Wall in My Room: Part 3

People's taste evolves. It grows more complex and requires more to satisfy its increasing appetite. Starting in August, I decorated my wall with pieces of things found in the world around me. I started small with a piece of driftwood from Lake Champlain in Vermont and a few odds and ends from a flea market in Woolwich, Maine. From there I found a blanket at a garage sale and an American flag at an antique mall near my school. Recently, I pulled everything down and added some new finds.

My most prized piece of L.L. Bean clothing I own: vintage barn jacket.

My two favorite packs.

Face t0 face.

Shoes I have loved.

I like red details.

I enjoy the process of envisioning something and then trying my best to execute it, even more than the final result. In a few months I will grow restless and take it all down again, but I am okay with that.

Here are some more links,
A Wall in My Room: Part 3 (Picasa),
A Wall in My Room: Part 2 (ART),
A Wall in My Room: Part 1 (ART).

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).