Woods Wanderer

Harbor seals and mergansers fished in the shallows shortly after the sun rose over Goose Rocks Beach. I watched them with Judy and ate breakfast while waiting for low tide. When finally the water had receded enough, a long, curved arm of wet, exposed sand reached out to the wave-battered rocks a quarter mile offshore. I slipped on my boots and headed for them.

I crossed tiny rivulets cutting through the sand, slowly tramping towards the rocks. Gulls were busy feeding all around me, of course. Other, much smaller shorebirds leapt into the air in unison as I approached. With my binoculars back at the cottage, I couldn’t identify them. I stepped over a narrow channel of water and onto slick, dark rocks completely covered with periwinkles and barnacles, as well as kelp and other varieties of seaweed. Then stepping onto a pile of small, polished stones, I left the land bridge behind.

An American oystercatcher crept away as I approached the patch of white rocks that always remain above sea level. Then several terns dive-bombed me. They came close enough to make me duck. I surmised that they had nests nearby. I looked around. I didn’t find their nests, but I did stumble upon five large, light olive eggs in a nest that most likely belonged to the pair of common eiders looking on anxiously nearby. I retreated from there to another mound of white rocks not far away. There I found a few still, crystal clear tide pools no bigger than bathtubs. I knelt down for a closer look.

Tiny, barely visible crustaceans called amphipods slipped in and out of the green algae in one of those tide pools. I cupped my hand, capturing one along with a little water. Using a hand lens, I inspected it. Then I released it, hoping to find even smaller creatures. How small could I go? Would I be able to see a copepod? Probably not. Protozoa? Definitely not. But I knew they were there from the samples I took home to view under my microscope the previous year. Then I looked up, gazing at the horizon where the sea and sky meet. And in that moment, my head exploded. The ocean is too vast to comprehend on a microbial scale. Too much like trying to count grains of sand. I was beholding infinity.

On the way back to dry land, I watched an egret fishing in a large pool not far away. Then I saw something underfoot, in a much smaller pool. What is that? Something round and translucent, no bigger than a penny. I pulled out my cell phone and took a video as it undulated and revolved in the water. Later showing it to Judy, she put it before ChatGPT which told us it was a moon jellyfish. But it was too small to be that. Or was it? The ocean is full of surprises.

Tags: intertidal zone, low tide, Maine coast, shorebirds, the ocean, tide pools

Judy loves the ocean, especially as it presents itself on the Maine coast. To celebrate her 75th birthday, we spent a few days in a suite with an ocean view at The Beachmere Inn in Ogunquit earlier this month. To say December is off-season in southern Maine is something of an understatement. A good number of the shops and restaurants were already closed for the season, and there were never more than a few people around wherever we went.

We got the romantic package and spent a lot of time just lounging about the suite. We did venture out one evening, though, to watch a one-man performance of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol while eating dinner at the Clay Hill Inn. That was interesting. What was almost as interesting was driving around in the darkness, checking out front-yard Christmas decorations in the area. Lots of lights, but no blow-up Santas.

On the second morning of our stay, I went for a walk on the Marginal Way –– a mile-and-a-quarter pathway that hugs the coastline in Ogunquit. The icy, snow-covered path made for tough going, as did temps in the low teens, so I cut it short at Lobster Point Lighthouse and wandered about town instead. But it was good to walk along the rocky shoreline for a short while at the beginning of winter, seeing the ocean in a different way. Beneath a clear sky, there was a peaceful albeit frigid beauty to it. Just the opposite of the ocean’s dark and intimidating attitude when a gale erupted the day before.

Judy loves the ocean and is revitalized by it. I am awed by the ocean’s magnitude, somewhat disoriented by its openness and raw power. It is nothing like the densely forested mountains where I regularly roam. They are claustrophobic by comparison. The ocean is vast.

Most people flock to the seaside to escape the tensions of modern living. During the warmer months, the Maine coast is certainly good for that. But in December the ocean feels more elemental, reminding us that we inhabit a world that is fundamentally liquid and flowing. That’s how it strikes me, anyhow. And some people, like Judy, revel in that feeling.

Tags: Maine coast, Marginal Way, ocean, off season

While vacationing with Judy on the Maine coast last week, I did a little tramping around on my own. Hit a couple of the usual places, like Wells Reserve, then checked out a new trail. On the map it’s called Bridle Path, which isn’t very appealing, but I walked it anyway. Come to find out that another name for it is Mousam River Outlook Access Trail, which better reflects what the trail has to offer.

A nearly straight, wide path follows the Mousam River, just outside Kenebunkport, for a mile or so before passing into a neighborhood. The Mousam River and its salt marshes pop into view along the way. The trail crosses a few quiet tributaries that captured my attention. Not much going on there, it seemed, but I found the blend of woods and brackish waters quite alluring.

The southern Maine coast is a busy place, chock full of homes, vacation places and commercial development. But there are pockets of wildness here and there for those of us who are looking for them. An immature bald eagle perched on a dead tree along the river reminded me of that, as did the chipmunks scurrying across the trail. Wild nature, it seems, is never as far away as we think it is. And in quiet, backwater places, life goes on pretty much the same way it has for thousands of years.

Admittedly, I prefer deep woods to manicured parks and managed reserves, but wildlife, wildflowers and most other wild things don’t seem to care how far away they are from human busy-ness. This never ceases to amaze me. Migrating birds are apt to show up anywhere. Weeds growing in the cracks of an abandoned lot underscore a truth that most of us find difficult to accept, that civilization – human presence, that is – is a temporary arrangement in a world that could easily go on without us.

Tide pools scream fecundity. Salt marshes are much more subtle about it. I collected a water sample from a Mousam River backwater, looked at it under a microscope when I got home and found it to be a very busy place. Lots of microbes there. This makes me wonder how much of what’s going on around us we don’t see, or simply ignore, or shrug off. This makes me wonder how important humankind is in the greater scheme of things. Certainly not as important as we think we are.

Tags: development, Maine coast, salt marshes, wildlife, wildness

Once again Judy and I rented a cottage on the Maine Coast for a week, and once again I couldn’t resist the urge to walk to a small, rocky island just off Goose Rocks Beach. For days I watched a spit of the sandy beach reach towards the island at low tide, but it didn’t seem to connect. Then it did, although very briefly. So the next morning early, I timed my walk so that I’d reach the narrowing channel between beach and island right when the tide was lowest. It worked. I stepped onto the island without getting my feet wet.

The sun, just above the northeastern horizon, shined brilliantly through the cloudless sky. No breeze stirred the still waters, and temps rose quickly through the 50s and into the 60s. The beginning yet another beautiful day. I felt lucky to be alive and kicking. I ventured onto the island’s rock-strewn, uneven ground, careful as to where I stepped… all the time looking downward…

That’s when I realized that I could hardly step anywhere without stepping on some kind of life-form: periwinkles, barnacles, clams and more. These rocks, underwater during most of any given day, are covered with marine animals. I have witnessed this many times before, but can’t get used to this intertidal fecundity. I knelt down and turned over one rock after another. Beneath every rock, tiny hard-shelled aquatic animals moved about, along with translucent creatures barely visible to the naked eye. Had I remembered to bring my hand lens, I would have seen much more, I’m sure.

When I went to pick up and look under one rock, it started moving. That took me by surprise. It was a crab doing its best to look like a rock, now that it was exposed. Fortunately, I came upon it before any of the nearby shorebirds did.

Gulls, godwits, and other shorebirds were busy feeding in the shallow waters nearby, just off the island. No doubt they were finding plenty to eat. I was pretty hungry myself, so I hiked back to the cottage to consume a bowl of granola cereal. Yeah, we all have to eat. Gotta keep those inner fires stoked. Life forms come into being, eat as they mature, reproduce and die. It’s the eternal cycle of life. And nowhere is this more obvious than on a shoreline at low tide.

Tags: fecundity, intertidal zone, low tide, Maine coast, marine life

Once again Judy and I headed for the Maine coast, right before the busy summer tourist season began. This time we stayed in a quaint little cottage in Cape Porpoise only a few minutes from the ocean. We took the place for a week and were glad we did. Our leisurely days there slipped by fast.

Judy is still big into photographing birds so we spent much of our time on the coast tracking them down. First we went to Scarborough Marsh where we saw egrets, a lone sandpiper, and the surprisingly colorful glossy ibis busy feeding. A short walk in the Scarborough River Preserve later that day and another at Wells Reserve the following day educated us in the curious ways of catbirds. We encountered brown thrashers, an eastern towhee and a mockingbird, as well, along with numerous warblers flitting about. The forested spots along the coast are busy this time of year.

Judy and I visited Goose Rocks Beach a little past low tide in the middle of the week. That was the highlight of our visit, per usual. We had the place to ourselves for the most part – one of the advantages of going to Maine off season. I watched the tide roll in while Judy walked the beach, reflecting upon her first visit there 35 years ago. The place hasn’t changed much since then.

In Wells Harbor towards the end of the week, we got into the shorebirds. I found willets immensely entertaining while Judy worked hard to capture least terns dive bombing for small fish. She got a good shot of a male tern offering a minnow to a female along the shore’s edge. Ah, the mating ritual! Cormorants, eiders, and the ubiquitous gulls were hanging out there as well. The more one looks for shorebirds, it seems, the more one finds.

On the last day, I drove up to Portland and caught a ferry to Peaks Island to visit my old buddy Steve. He took a day off from his mapmaking business to walk and talk with me around the island. His wife Angela joined us for lunch, then the three of us lounged on the deck of their house for a while before I caught the ferry back to the mainland. Judy and I watched common terns feeding at Mother Beach at dusk later that day. It all happened so quickly.

I’m a woods wanderer at heart, most comfortable in mountainous wildlands far removed from the heavily developed coast. But I find the rocky coastline, sprawling beaches and the green spaces down east alluring all the same. And the ocean stretching to the distant horizon as it does certainly puts things in perspective. After all, we live on a water planet. Even as sunlight washes across the landscape for days on end, it’s good to remember that.

Tags: Atlantic Ocean, beaches, birding, Maine coast, salt marshes, walking

Taking advantage of a two-day, off-season special at a hotel appropriately called The Seaside, Judy and I escaped the leafless landscape of Vermont for the late-season foliage and slightly warmer temps of the Maine coast. As far as Judy is concerned, it’s all about the water, of course – her passion for the ocean matching mine for wild forests.

We arrived on the coast in a driving rain at dusk so we simply went out to dinner then settled into our hotel room for the night. But we stepped out on the beach first thing in the morning, before breakfast. By then the rain had passed, leaving the rising sun all by itself in a calm, clear blue sky. Light jackets were all we needed to keep the early morning chill at bay. We walked the length of Kennebunk Beach, taking in the sight and sound of waves breaking gently to shore, between encounters with a few dogs and their owners. We collected pieces of sea glass as we meandered along, deeply inhaled the salty air, and basked in the negative ions emitted by the sea.

During the middle of the day we did a lot of nothing – window shopping, a nap, another meal, a little cafe sitting. When the sun sunk towards the western horizon, we went back out to walk the shoreline again, enjoying the play of light over water, rock and sand, happy enough to keep things simple.

The next morning we went out for one last oceanside walk before checking out of the hotel and driving back to Vermont. With temps in the 30s, we were bundled up. Still ours was a pleasant, late autumn stroll along the beach. What a shock it was, then, to return home later that evening and find two inches of snow on the ground. From one season to another in the same day. Good thing we got away when we did.

Tags: late autumn, Maine coast, walking the shore

Once again my wife felt the need to visit the seashore so we headed for the Maine coast early last week. With temps in the 50s, a chilling breeze and rain every day, it wasn’t weather for lounging on the beach. All the same, Judy got her ocean fix during a few shoreline walks, and I had plenty of opportunity to hike early in the morning while she was still sleeping. My best hike took place on the last day.

I drove over to Wells National Estuarine Research Reserve and meandered through forest and meadow just as a thick morning fog was burning off. I got there early enough to have the place all to myself – just me and the mosquitoes, I should say. With all the rain we’ve had lately, it’s been a banner year for them. No matter. As long as I kept moving, they didn’t bother me much.

Bunchberry, starflower and several other wildflowers were in bloom despite the closing of the canopy overhead. The many ferns in the surrounding understory were that vibrant vernal green that also brightens the leaves of the birches, maples and other trees. Coast, mountain or anything between, I love that green. And I love this time of year because of it.

I hiked the perimeter trail as it ran along the estuary then veered back into the woods. I particularly enjoyed the rather lengthy boardwalk cutting across a wooded wetland covered in sphagnum moss and other wet-loving vegetation. I’m not a big one for elaborate trail work, but in particularly damp places like this it minimizes impact and makes walking nearly effortless.

I feel more at home in the mountains, really, but anywhere a forest grows is a good place to be by my way of reckoning. With all the development along the southern Maine coast, I’m glad that some of its natural beauty has been preserved – estuary, wetland and forest as well as shoreline. All this complements the magnificent ocean view. We are enriched by it. We are enriched by all things that we are able to appreciate.

Tags: forest, Maine coast, walking, Wells National Estuarine Research Reserve

By the time Judy and I reached Goose Rocks Beach, we had been on the Maine coast for several days and were already chilled out. The night before we had lounged in our room at the Breakwater Inn overlooking the mouth of the Kennebunk River, watching lobster boats come and go for hours while googling the lobster trade and all it entails. So the beach simply took us to the next level of relaxation.

Mid-week in late May, we pretty much had that long strip of sand all to ourselves. A dozen other people were there when we arrived but most of them cleared out before noon. This is why we like to visit the Maine coast off-season. I can only imagine how crowded the beach must be in the middle of summer.

Judy first came here in 1985 – the year she and I met. Her mother had just died so she came to the coast to be alone and process her grief, to seek solace in salty air, the call of gulls, and water washing endlessly to shore. The ocean is to her what the forest is to me. So she walked the beach by herself again while I stayed with our folding chairs and other beach accouterments. In her absence, I stared out to sea.

When she returned we sat together on the beach, enjoying a gentle breeze on a mostly sunny day. In contrast to the shady forest where I usually roam, the sun beat down relentlessly, and our gazes towards the thin blue horizon went farther than our thoughts. In other words, we became beachified, utterly incapable of intense intellectual activity. And sometimes, yes, sometimes that’s a good thing.

Tags: beach, Maine coast, off season

Fecund. That’s the word leaping to mind as I walk the Maine shoreline at low tide. At my feet lies the detritus of the ocean: shells mixed with seaweed, spread along the beach as far as the eye can see. Knotted wrack, barnacles and snails cling to every square inch of nearby rocks exposed by the retreating sea. In shallow tide pools I find more snails, hermit crabs, and so many smaller life forms that it seems the water itself is alive.

My wife Judy takes a wider view – her eyes locked on the distant horizon as the incessant, low roar of crashing waves washes her mind free of mundane thoughts. Impermanence is the word that leaps to her mind, and the shifting sands underfoot confirm it. All human constructs are like the sand castles built along the shore that the incoming tide dissolves.

A few days later, we board a 65-foot boat that takes us twenty miles off shore, to the feeding grounds of finback whales. For an afternoon we are sandwiched between low, gray clouds and sea swells. The edge of land grows fainter in the mist until it disappears altogether, unsettling a landlubber like me. When the captain kills the boat’s engine, all we can hear is water spraying upward from blowholes as those behemoths surface.  Their slick bodies shimmer in the dull light as they break skyward. Then they disappear beneath the waves. When finally we see one sucking in the ocean with its great mouth, we get a sense of what’s going on here.  “Lunchfeeding,” the captain calls it – tons of fish converting into tons of whale.

Back home, hundreds of miles inland, I return to my daily routine and the comfort of a green world that makes more sense to me. But for a few days I was reminded that we live on a water planet along with countless other life forms both great and small. The ocean is humbling, to say the least. I can’t grasp the sheer magnitude of it.

Tags: Atlantic Ocean, fecundity, impermanence, low tide, Maine coast, seashore, whales

During a recent trip to the Maine coast, my wife Judy and I signed up for a ride on a 55-foot schooner. Funny thing about sailing, you can’t come and go as you please. We had to wait two days for fair wind. Even then, there was no telling where we’d end up.

While Judy gravitates to the Atlantic shore with all its beaches, salt marshes and waves crashing against rocks, I’m more at home in the woods. We both get what we want while exploring the many parts of the Rachel Carson Wildlife Refuge scattered along the southern Maine coast. That said, it’s good to step out and try something different every once in a while.

Sailing is definitely something different for a landlubber like me. From the moment the boat pulled away from shore, I felt exposed. The ocean is big and dangerous. Nothing but water below and sky above. As we motored out of the harbor, I tried to shelve my apprehension and enjoy the cruise.

Shortly after gaining the open sea, the captain cut the engine and ordered the crew to raise the sails. Then everything changed. Suddenly the wind was carrying us along. The schooner rose and fell rhythmically as it rode the waves. The sun shined brightly through the cloudless sky, a gentle breeze caressed our faces, and the coast rolled past slowly. The sails flapped quietly in the wind as we changed course. And all our hard, land-bound concerns faded away.

Judy was napping in the lifeboat by the time we turned back towards shore. I couldn’t stop smiling. After the sail, we wandered along the coast aimlessly. We could do nothing but eat, drink and be happy. The ocean had massaged us. We were putty in its hands.

Tags: Atlantic Ocean, Maine coast, sailing