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Wednesday, December 07, 2016
Thursday, May 26, 2016 1:01 PM
I doubt my canoeing companion would have so readily shared a prime fiddlehead location if it hadn’t taken three days to get there. In a swamp where the skunk cabbage was in full leaf and . . .
  • Christine's All-Weather Field Notes: 5/1/2016
    I was working up a sweat hauling the remaining oak leaves off the Front 40 on Sunday when I caught sight of a crow-sized bird gliding into the hardwoods on the other side . . .
  • Winter weather has finally descended, even if the two feet of snow hitting the mid-Atlantic today is missing us. By now, the sleeping bear we found while snowshoeing . . .
  • On New Year’s morning, I mimicked the call of a red squirrel to see if the Golden-Crowned Kinglets would be curious enough to come down from the . . .
  • There are times when I have sensed a language of the landscape, a shared communication between its varied occupants, whether predator or prey . . .
  • Christine's All-Weather Field Notes: 1/1/2016
    On New Year’s morning, we broke trail through ten inches of freshly fallen snow on the way to Flagstaff Lake at the foot of the Bigelow Mountains. . . .
  • The full Sturgeon Moon of August hovering over Islesboro on Saturday night looked like something worth believing in; it was closest to the earth in its . . .
  • I arrived at Russell Pond in the heart of Baxter State Park around ten in the morning, just as resident park ranger Brendan Curran was doing his dishes . . .
  • Striped skunks are making their appearance at nightfall near the summer cabin and out on the back roads in a reminder that summer is winding down. .. .
  • Christine's All-Weather Field Notes: 8/11/15
    After five years of living in a one-room summer cabin in a grove of birch trees, I’ve gotten pretty good at predicting when the mice will decide to move in . . .
  • On the way to hike South Turner Mountain in Baxter State Park, which supplies the best view of the Katahdin massif for the least effort, I stopped at . . .
  • There was a mid-size hawk feeding on a hapless gray-feathered meal next to the parking lot of The Free Press when I arrived at work this morning. It was perched in the limb of a tree, then hopped to another limb, keeping one eye on Wendell and me, and plucking gray feathers . . .
  • It was bright winter sun and -1 degrees when we skied out to Camp Solitude, shushing across the lake to the island on snow so cold it whispered. After starting a fire in the cabin woodstove, we went exploring around the frozen bog and backwaters. Two ice fishing shacks stood deserted near shore. Except for a . . .
  • The language of trees has always intrigued me, largely because it requires a studied patience. For one thing, not all big trees are old and not all old trees are big. Such is the case of one very old red spruce tree that shares a juniper shrub and blueberry knoll in the Camden Hills with a wolfy white pine. . . .
  • Time is on my mind as winter deepens and the days grow slightly longer. Most of the time we are as busy as the chipmunks who live in my stone wall. In fall, they collect sunflower seeds from the feeder and acorns from the abundant oak trees non-stop, stashing their booty in a tunnel that runs twenty feet from the stone . . .
  • On Saturday, it was 48 degrees, so I took off cross country up a stream to an old game trail through a hardwood slope to avoid the crowds. Trees felled by 14 inches of heavy wet snow in early November had obscured some of the trail, although damp leaves tamped down by passing feet made the detours easy to . . .
  • I've been undecided about whether to remove the cluster of bright red-orange ladybird beetles that took up residence in one corner of the living room ceiling two months ago. Huddling up there like a bunch of shiny red bumper cars at the carnival, the ladybugs' social behavior is like a shout: Don't eat me! . . .
  • On Monday evening, I walked around Norton's Pond in the slanting sun of late summer that cast longer shadows than in July. The fall weather had arrived, too. It was cool and clear. When I ducked off the camp road onto a woodland trail, I heard the piercing two-note whistle of a broad-winged hawk . . .
  • Christine's All-Weather Field Notes: 7/27/14
    A funnel-shaped web spun across the edge of a mushroom that was pushing up the carpet of pine needles at Camp Solitude housed what appeared to be a female funnel weaver, a timid, fast-running spider. She sat in the cave created by the umbrella of the mushroom, waiting until an ant tumbled onto the web. . . .
  • The progression of blooming wildflowers, from early spring beauties deep in the woods of Camden Hills that open long before the trilliums, to the purple New England asters of late summer, is my personal naturalist calendar. As a girl, I walked everywhere, all summer long and entertained myself by . . .
  • Wind was roaring down the lake, so we put the battered Grumman into the marsh behind Camp Solitude and paddled towards the white water lilies and yellow bullhead lilies that had just started to bloom in the back water, aiming the canoe for the dark red flowers of the pitcher plants in the sphagnum mat . . .