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)

A Farewell To Winter

"The snow is gone and it's not coming back," a baker at the farmers market told me recently. Impressed by his beard and suspenders, I took his word as gospel. The rivers are humming with water from a mild winter's snow. Dead set on maximizing their lawns, Mainers are raking up gravel and sand deposited by the county's army of plows.

I live in a shanty in a shanty town.

Signs warning of thin ice pepper the edges of lakes as open water slowly gains confidence around the perimeter and then spreads towards the center like kids at a middle school dance.

Tucker reading out on the ice on one of the last days of winter.

For Sale by Owner.

As you read this I will be in Nicaragua, playing in 85 degree water like a seven year old at Chuck E. Cheese.

Protecting a Mainer's back yard, these ice shanties won't see redeployment for another nine months.

Things weather fast here.

Chirping birds in the morning are bitter sweet. I will miss the reality of Maine winters that shatters the romantic ideals of snowball fights and warming up by the fireplace, but at the same time makes the bonds to seasons more long lasting and genuine. All good things must come to an end, and, like my time in Maine, a new opportunity is here.

Here are some more links,
A Bend in the River (Picasa),
My Last Time on Ice (Picasa),
Up Here We Take Canadian Quarters (Picasa),
Shanty Town (Picasa).

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.