Vermont Snow

In my wisdom, I left my gloves in my apartment back in Manhattan. The biting cold assaulted my hands as I walked down the gravel road tenderly clutching my camera. Ten minutes earlier, the sun's light had cut through large windows on the converted barn and awoken me, cocooned on the couch. Afraid of disturbing the other sleeping twenty-somethings and excited to explore my foreign surroundings, I dressed quickly and headed to the door.

Sleeping by the door, the family Golden Retriever jumped to his feet and eagerly shook his tail. Without hesitation, I held the door open and followed his bounds out into the early Vermont morning.

The night before, I had packed my things into a rented Penske truck and left my beloved coastal Maine, heading south on 95 towards the rolling hills and farmland of Vermont. Arriving late under the cover of darkness, the bright stars of the moonless light illuminated the silhouettes of barns and the impenetrable darkness of the Vermont woods. When I took a wrong turn on the three-mile dirt road leading to the Durkin farm, a friendly Vermonter, and proud owner of the Dodge Power Wagon pictured in this post, gave me directions better than any iPhone and sent me on my way.

Following the syrup lines, I walked down the road towards a large field, once used by local dairy farmers. In the distance, wisps of smokes emerged from the stone chimney of a 200 year old farm house, signaling the start of the day.

The sun broke the levee of darkness, casting its first shadows of the short November day. Enjoying the early light, I wondered for another twenty minutes before heading back to warm my hands and toes by the fire.

As I arrived back at the farm, the first snowflakes of the day's flurries rode the light winds.

Ian and Barkley standing guard.

Woof.

Posted.

Heating with wood.

Skis of yesterday.

Snow fell for the rest of the day, gaining from distant flurries to a relative whiteout. Periodic, under-prepared adventures in the snow made stretching out next to the fire on a couch that much more enjoyable. Delayed by the weather, I stayed around for an extra day. Do you blame me?

Here are some more links,
Vermont (Picasa),
Foster (by Ian Durkin).

Dark at 4

Flights to and from Portland Jetport (PWM) never leave on time and always run late. Thick fog often blankets the bay, limiting hourly traffic at the one-horse airport. In the cold months (September to April), Nor'Easters sporadically slam into the coast adding another layer of flight delays. At first, these delays pissed me off like a scratched DVD from Netflix. After hours spent meandering through the magazine shops in airports , I realized that these systematic delays contributed to the remote appeal of Maine.

Without fail, fog and rain delayed my flight to Portland from LaGuardia the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Excited to have nothing better to do than read emails and articles on my phone, I waited at the gate. On the flight, I sat at the window, face pressed against the safety glass watching the lights pass miles bellow. Flying out over the Connecticut sound and up 95 through Mass and New Hampshire, the pilot signaled the initial approach some 25 minutes into the flight.

Walking through the airport with its familiar windows and posters, I bypassed the baggage claim and stepped into the cold November air. I didn't see a single cab.

For the next three days, I wondered the familiar country with my college roommate and frequent accomplice, Tucker.

Higgins Beach.

The Old Port, Portland.

Cape Elizabeth.

A Portland land mark.

Darkness descended early with shadows stretching eastward at 2:30. By 4, the last glimmers of light bounced around the clouds before sinking down for a sixteen hour night.

Red, yellow and green.

I like this hanging light.

The last leaves of fall.

Enjoying the warm light afforded by a mere eight hours separating sunrise and sunset, I shot often. Protecting my cold fingers in the wool pocket of my Mackinaw jacket, my memories of living in Maine for four years quickly came back. However as a visitor, my perspective changed slightly, making me thankful to smell the cold sea air and see the dark night sky far from the shinning lights of twenty million people.

Here are some more links,

Dark at 4 (Picasa).

Harbor Fish (Picasa)

"Do I Hear Five?"

"You need to get to the auction at least a half an hour before it starts. The real experts sort through the junk early, separating the good from the bad and figuring out what's valuable."

I listened intently over the hood of my grandfathers Dodge van as we chipped at the frost on the windshield. Before I had a chance to finish scraping the passenger side, my grandfather, Bill, jumped into the driver's seat and urged me to let the defroster handle the rest. Sensing the unbridled excitement in his voice, I obliged.

Each weekend, Bill wakes early and heads to estate sales in the heart of the Wisconsin farmland in search of antique tools and toys. After a career selling electronic switches in Milwaukee, Bill retired to a farm near Adell, Wisconsin and started raising sheep. Tired of the long hours associated with raising fifty sheep a year, he looked elsewhere for entertainment.

Acting on a life-long interest in tools and attempting to clear out his garage for his next project, Bill started selling off some tools on Ebay. Enjoying the craft of researching the history and application of antique tools, Bill started buying tools at garage sales and auctions. Since September of 2002, he has sold over 1800 antiques on Ebay.

Driving an hour north as the sun rose, Bill explained, "Your Grandmother comes sometimes just to people watch. There will be a few hundred people filtering through today. People come to bid on farm equipment, silverware, guns and others for tools," he grinned.

"What's the auction today?"

"The description says estate auction: farm equipment, guns, cheese-making and a pick up. You can't go into an auction wanting something specific. You won't find it," Bill explained.

Grinning ear to ear, I nodded.

Arriving early, we registered with the auction service and went out searching through piles of farm equipment. Surgically, Bill sifted through the various piles and boxes making frequent introductions to other such addicts.

"He is in it for the oil cans." Bill motioned.

"Oil cans?"

"Yeah, oil cans. He collects vintage oil cans to go along with his cars," Bill explained as he turned over a box full of Stanley planes.

Nursing my coffee, I went out in search of gems. Shivering in my wool while inspecting a wall full of shovels, pitchforks and saws, I heard the familiar pop of an aluminum can. Turning expecting to see a diet Coke or perhaps a Mountain Dew, I spotted a group of camo-clad Wisconsinites starting off their Saturday with a case of Busch Light.

With a smile, the ring leader nudged the opened case with his foot, "Want one? these things (auctions) usually last a while."

"I am good, thanks. Trying to get through this coffee first." I looked at my watch, 9:17.

For the next five hours, these guys stood guard centrally located between the food cart, auctioneer's booth and port-a-potty. Providing a running commentary, they chimed in their two cents often as I passed by.

"Whatcha got there?

"What'd ya pay?"

"What the hell do you need that for?"

Good things.

As the last item sold, we packed up the Van with the day's bounty, bid farewell to the observers and headed back to the farm.

Looking back from the drivers seat, Bill smiled. "We did good today. That was one of the best auctions I have been to in a while. Now we just need to figure out what the hell we bought."

With no point of reference, but ecstatic from my day spent haggling and searching for gems, I nodded in approval.

Here are some more links,

Five and Go (Picasa),

Snow Fulliers (Picasa).

From Dawn Till Dusk

I reclined my seat and started to doze as the plane taxied through the fog and rain of Lagurdia International Airport. Like a five year old falsifying a snore in the back seat of the car to get carried into bed by their parents, I disguising my disregard for FAA regulations with an apparent catatonic slumber. Giving up on my returning my seat to its upright position and removing my headphones, the flight attendent moved on. Sliding into a much needed nap, I woke with a jolt some hour and half later as the pilot announced over the PA our initial approach to the Milwaukee area.

Grabbing my backpack from the over head bin, I stutter stepped and spin moved around the stragglers in the ile, eager to end my travels. Leaving my offices on Madison Av some four hours earlier, the cold midwestern air greeted my exposed skin as I waited for the familiar sight of my grandfather's van. Within a few minutes we were heading north on 57 towards my grandfathers 97 acre farm near Adel Wisconsin.

After an hour chat with my grandfather on our way north and a pleasant reunion with my grandmother as soon as we walked through the door, I headed towards the guest room. Before sunrise the next morning, I rolled out of bed. Greeted by the subtle smell of the wood stove in the next room, I dressed and headed towards the backdoor with my camera in hand.

These photos document my first day spent exploring my grandfather's farm and shop, from dawn till dusk.

Ten miles to the east, the morning's sun reflected off the water of Lake Michigan, creating one of the most beautiful sunrises I have seen.

The back of my Grandfather's Dodge Ram.

Local Suffolks grassing in the cold November morning

All of the license plates my 76 year old grandfather has ever owned.

The inside of his barn.

After a stint raising sheep post retirement, my Grandfather now enjoys his time hunting for antique tools, cleaning and researching them, and subsequently selling the cream on eBay. Check out his Ebay Store.

Red.

A brisk November Sunset.

I shot all of these photos with a Zeiss 35mm F2.0.

Tire tracks compressed by the mornings frost, leaving lasting marks in the recently cut grass.

As the sun sank towards the east, I returned to the very stairs where I started my day, some ten hours earlier. Curiously anticipating the next days estate auction, I found comfort in the periodic dashes to the woodpile and the biting cold of Wisconsin's november night. Tired from the days exploring, I put up a meek fight against extending my evening, and was in bed before 10.

Here are some more links

Snow Flurries (Picasa),

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