Stars on Monhegan Island

Maine is a state for artists and Monhegan Island boasts an extraordinarily dense population of the rare, elusive and often cranky species. The light that glimmers and glints off the rocks that encircle this 1.75 mile wide island makes the place twinkle like stars in the daytime and the preserved wilderness areas that blanket the interior are gorgeous and can be seen via 17 miles of hiking trails.


Sunlight off island on the way to Monhegan

Mike was lucky enough to see extra stars as we were leaving the island when three middle aged women with glorious bosoms flashed the boat. Yes... it was a good day, for an artist. Monhegan has been a destination for us since we arrived in Portland and visited the Portland Museum of Art to view a Mainecenntric exhibition entitled, 'Call of the Coast: Art Colonies of New England'. Ever since Mike has had a glint in his eye to see the island on which the illustrious likes of Andrew, Jamie, and N.C. Wyeth have lived (Jamie is still a year round resident). Other notable residents include Edward Hopper (think Nighthawks), Winslow Homer and Rockwell Kent. Captain John Smith even stayed on the island for a time in 1614, but only long enough to ravage a native woman and bring death and enslavement to her community (just kidding, but probably true). Monhegan is accessible post-tourist season only by Monhegan Boat Line (est. 1914) out of Port Clyde Harbor which boasts a fleet of two handsome ships, the Laura B. (from WWII) and the Elizabeth Ann that function as supply and mail boats.


Gangway onto the Elizabeth Ann


Ready for a boat ride in a dorky hat!

One of these two boats is sent out to the island only three times a week and immediately turns around after unloading so if you aren't planning on staying at least two nights at one of the two B&B's open year-round you are out of luck. There are no cars or paved roads on the island either; the year round population hovers at around 65 enlightened souls, many with big boobs.


Old New England fish houses off an island on the way to Monhegan


Arrive at Monhegan


Are one of these a Wyeth house?


Island across from Monhegan with some sort of conveyor belt running up the side - for lobsters perhaps?

The name Monhegan derives from Monchiggon, Algonquian for "out-to-sea island" and it is fairly far from shore, a 50 min ride out and a 50 min ride back. We met two fine gentlemen from Ohio aboard ship, a strange coincidence because they were the only other people there simply for the boat ride. The two men were best friends and avid birders, one a biologist and the other, a manager for one of the departments of the Ohio State Historical Society. They knew the names of every bird we saw along the way and I have recorded them here faithfully:

Common Loon, Northern Ganet, Herring Gull, Great Black Backed Gull, Eider Duck, Phalaropes (a variety, can't remember the exact types), Shearwaters (ditto for them), Double Breasted and Great Cormorant, Raven, Black Guillemot, Common Murre (unconfirmed but possibly sighted), Dovekie

I was amazed at the huge array of bird life that was floating, skimming, diving and soaring below, on and above the dark blue Atlantic. It was a birders paradise and Mike and I were lucky to have been in the company of such expert birders, and from Ohio! More than anything, however, more than an artist colony, Monhegan, like most of coastal Maine pays homage to king lobster and clustered all around the island are fish and lobster houses used to process catches. We can't wait to come back during the spring and camp, hike and flash people!


Cool lobster boat close to Port Clyde


An army duck parked at Port Clyde Harbor


Marshall Point Lighthouse in Port Clyde, Mike painted it.


Plaque dedicated to fishermen who lost their lives while working


Sleepy Booth Bay Harbor, a sweet town on the way to Port Clyde


Saint George and the Dragon sculpture on Rte. 131

Sound the Fog Horn! You're Smashing Into a Lighthouse Blog!

You can't tell someone you live in Maine without being asked about the lighthouses, and I guess you can't really go anywhere in coastal Maine without seeing the whole lot of them anyway. Yes, the lighthouses are alive and abound here - more than 60 of them. Lisa and I encountered our first lighthouse while we were still just visiting Maine - Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse in South Portland. Under a brilliant setting sky with Portland beginning to glow across the Bay, we decided Maine was a pretty great place. It was one of our last days visiting and I had been meaning to call a friend of a friend, Chip, who lived in town. As I was reminding myself to do this we walked out along the rocks to the lighthouse where a young couple sat. I thought, "Wouldn't it be funny if that was Chip? I wonder if that's Chip?" I then turned to Lisa and exclaimed, "Wouldn't it be funny if that was Chip? I wonder if that's Chip?" We then turned toward the shadowed figure A N D .... well, it was Chip. He said he hadn't visited that spot in about four years! Uncanny! Since moving here, we've been wondering whether to call him back or try and run into him unannounced at other historic landmarks (we'll give him a call).





Perhaps the most infamous of all the lighthouses is the Portland Head Light, built between 1787 to 1791 under the directive of the early American poster-boy himself, George Washington. Two hundred eighteen years later, Lisa and I have joined the ranks of visiting the "most photographed lighthouse in America," quite unavoidably. It's actually pretty impressive, and the cliffs are exactly what come to mind when you think New England coast and then say, "New England Coast" to your family and relatives from the midwest. I particularly enjoy the painted lettering on one of the rocks nearby, stating, " Annie C. Maguire Shipwrecked Here, Christmas Eve 1886, R.D." Apparently, everyone aboard the British ship survived despite a massive storm carrying the vessel away piece by piece. The waves and rocks all along the coast are absolutely incredible in their smashing and exploding power. Lisa and I frequently see notices in the more public areas concerning "rogue waves," unexpected wave monstrosities that swallow up the unexpected rogue wave "viewer." Fortunately we still remain, oh worried families! There are countless other lighthouses up and down the coast - we've seen several more since the initial writing of this very blog! From the Bug Light in South Portland to the Marshall Point Light in Port Clyde, we've seen a few. But the tales that go with them will have to wait for future blogs....

Maine. Portland that is...

Howdy all. Mike and I have now followed the winds up North to a land known by many names, including, The Pine Tree State, Vacationland (our favorite), The Evergreen State, Maine: Where America's Day Begins (best to declare loudly while sipping black coffee in the morning), The Border State and The Old Dirigio State (state motto is Dirigio - 'I Lead' in Latin). All of these names are swell, but Mike and I prefer to call the state AWESOME and HOME. We have put down little root tendrils in the rocky soil of Portland, Maine's largest city, and we are hoping they grow into something magnificent, and, preferably with flowers in the Spring. We have a wee little one bedroom house from which we can see Casco Bay and some of the Calendar Islands, so-called because there are 365 of them.


(Casco Bay)

We watch huge cruise ships disgorge their loads of thousands of people into the city to buy artwork, beer and t-shirts. We are also visited by lobster boats, oil ships and ferry boats (some of which go to Nova Scotia!). We like to crawl out our window onto the rickety, rusty fire escape and watch the boats, and at night, the city lights.


(View of a big cruise ship from our window)

The huge "Time and Temperature Building' is also within view it is a neon blinking sign that displays the time and temperature is ever present outside our kitchen window thus rendering obsolete the need for clocks inside the apartment, which is nice, but in the winter we will always be reminded of how freezing cold it is outside (at least we have heat included with the rent!) - brrrr! Our place is in a nice location between the Arts District and Commercial Street on which most of the tourism is focused.


(Congress Street, also called the Arts District - the Portland Museum of Art is barely visible on the far right)




(Commercial Street - main shopping and restaurant area)

The city is peppered with art galleries small and large, not to mention warm, snuggy bars that celebrate live local music almost every night of the week. We've managed to stumble upon a full Irish music party one night at a bar called Blue. Many people were sitting around a large table eating cake and drinking Guinness when suddenly, bagpipes appeared under a hefty bearded man's arm and then a bazouki (an Irish banjo-like instrument) manifested itself in the hands of another man and all around the table instruments popped out of nowhere and were played incredibly well, and all sitting around a table - not even on stage! We've had similar like-encounters of the musical kind at other places around town; hopefully someday soon it will be Mike rendering his musical charms upon a rapt audience sipping on dark delicious Maine brews (Geary's and Bar Harbor's Cadillac Mountain Stout are particularly good). When Mike and I came out here to scope out the scene in early October, Mike's college friend Katie and her German-speaking boyfriend Luke (both of who recently moved to Boston after spending a year teaching English in Thailand) drove up to check out the city with us.


(Top of City Hall)


(Mike and Katie outside Brian Boru)


(Lobster-Kong!!)

We had a blast and decided that Portland offered everything we needed: affordable living, as vibrant an art and music scene as a small city with a population of 62,875 can have, and, of course, a landscape that we suspect is projected down daily from a camcorder in heaven. Yes, it's true, 3,500 miles of coastline to explore, 6,000 lakes and ponds and 17 million acres of forest. Basically, this constitutes all the food our eyes need to survive, and for our bellies, it's fresh and oh soooo good seafood all the time! Now about some jobs...we are confident that they are on the horizon and we're on the hunt!

The Migration

Hawk Mountain Sanctuary. Thousands of raptors riding wind thermals as they migrate south, following their food source towards warmer climates for the winter. Camping. Campfires. Pennsylvania Mountains. NEED I SAY MORE?? That's right folks. Your heros have finally answered the call of one of the finest refuges for birds of prey. From www.hawkmountain.org, "To advance the mission, a full-time staff of 16, assisted by a 200-member volunteer corps, carries out integrated conservation programs in education, research, and monitoring, including operating a Visitor Center and the Acopian Center for Conservation Learning, and managing the 2,600-acre Sanctuary, a portion of which is open to the public year round. More than half of the Sanctuary's property is used for scientific monitoring and remains closed to public for habitat preservation."



Peak migration occurs in mid-October when the greatest variety of avian species can be seen; golden eagles, red-shouldered hawks and more are common. The migration pears down in mid-December although some eagles, goshawks and rough-legged hawks have been sighted even in January. The birders have it down to a science, "in mid October, you have a 96 percent chance of seeing a sharp-shinned hawk. In early September, you have just over a 50% chance of seeing a bald eagle." (www.hawkmountain.org). Even if you don't manage to make it during peak migration, the hiking trails and views of the Pennsylvania countryside are well worth the trip. In fact, 8 miles of trail can be taken from the base of Hawk Mountain, the Skyline Trail even connects to the Appalachian Trail, our old friend.







The sanctuary offers a great many lectures and programs led by distinguished ornithologists and biologists so check out the program list before you go. Mike and I simply notified the gift shop attendant that we would be leaving our car in the parking lot overnight and headed on up the mountain to the key birding spots. On the way up from an overlook we saw the River of Rocks, a mile long glacier deposited boulder field (some boulders over 20 feet long!)


(You can see the River of Rocks here in the distance)

We joined about 20 other birders at the top who quietly waited for those traveling on wind currents to pass overhead and then someone bedecked entirely in khaki, with hair protruding impossibly far from random orifices (it's how you know they are wise and expert birders) would quietly say, "Osprey above peak number 4, to the left of the large cumulus," or, "Sharpy (short for Sharp-Shinned Hawk) at 2:00 directly above the North Ridge," and then everyone would swivel their heads, binoculars attached at all times, to get a look at the beautiful visitor from above. Even monarch butterflies and flocks of jays were noted. A large stuffed Great Horned owl stood watch atop a tall post, causing raptors to dip low and challenge the foe over the heads of the onlookers.





Hawk Mountain wasn't always a place of study, reflection, repose and calm. No Sireee. Before it's inception as a refuge in 1934, Hawk Mountain used to be a death trap for migrating birds. Men found sport in shooting them out of the sky until the land stunk with the rot of thousands of hawks, eagles, osprey and falcons. The devils disguised in overalls would get $5 for every raptor shot because they were deemed as pests that would eat crops and damage livestock. The idiots didn't even stop to notice that the birds were passing through, not coming over for an extended stay. Why this lunacy? I believe that the fact that this genocide occurred can be summed up best by Hobbes, ""...in the first place, I put for a general inclination of all mankind, a perpetual and restless desire of power after power, that ceaseth only in death." Story goes, as the conservation effort was just getting off the ground, photographer Richard Pough came to Hawk Mountain and photographed the carnage resulting from the massive slaughter of the birds. His photographs were seen by, among others, New York resident and conservationist Rosalie Edge who founded the sanctuary.

Hawk Mountain holds in it's history the best and worst of the human spirit and shines as a light for future conservation efforts to aspire towards. Animals are never the enemy, if they don't fit in with man's plan, it is because he has disrupted the harmony in which they exist.

Good Luck on the Horseshoe Trail

Adventures can start in your backyard if you know where to look. Our new adventure did just that, well, actually it was a few blocks behind my parents backyard, but it's basically the same thing. It all started before embarking on the AT when some of my parents neighbors, who interestingly fabricate extremely realistic prosthetics, invited me over to see their African art and the original 1948 National Geographic that featured Earl Shaffer and his historic complete trek from Georgia to Maine. While I was visiting, they said, 'Ya know sweetie, I think that there is a trail right here in our backyards that hooks up with the AT. I wouldn't swear it, nope. But we've heard tell of it." I let this unconfirmed statement slip from my brain for a time. After all, it sounded to awesome to be true and I'd never seen a trail around. Now, fast forward a few months, post AT, on a warm evening walking home after working at the Wharton Esherick Museum (aka the dean of American craftsman's abode that looks like a fairy tale house) I noticed some yellow blazes painted onto some trees, and then some more and then some more.... A TRAIL! Right in my backyard. Rob, the awesome Director of the Esherick Museum (shout out also to Paul, the awesome Curator!) confirmed my neighbors statement and my own suspicions. In fact, he not only knew the name of the trail, but had hiked the whole thing! Dear readers, introducing THE HORSESHOE TRAIL; a Pennsylvania hiking and equestrian trail stretching 140 miles from Valley Forge to the Appalachian Trail on Stony Mountain. According to Rob, in the 60's, the trail was campable from start to finish (sometimes on the property of friendly farmers). Unfortunately, suburbia's ravenous appetite has devoured large swatches of forested land, leaving a small tract which the trail delicately traverses through large subdivisions. Luckily, once the intrepid hiker gets closer to western PA, greater views and more camping is afforded.


(HST trail head)

How crazy that these little used footpaths for those who seek companionship with the wilderness are in league with each other - maybe not that crazy... The Horseshoe Trail Club, founded in 1935, has a website that alerted me to the fact that a complete trail guide exists and I bought one from a Revolutionary War re-enactor working the museum bookstore at Valley Forge park. Now I was set all I had to do was call upon my trail companion Mister Mike Marks. We set off down my parents driveway to follow the trail which once connected the various Pennsylvanian forges and furnaces, leading through the charcoal forests between them. The trail helped to fuel the iron industry of the East in the late 18th and early 20th centuries. Portion of the old iron trails have survived to become today's Horse-Shoe Trail.


(An old trickster crow watches us from a pear tree)


(Old spring water bottling plant - the stream runs right through the building)



The trail was a vital supply chain, bringing cast iron and pig iron supplies to soldiers and colonial era families. According to the HST guide, "William Penn encouraged the mining and manufacture of iron in the PA colony. In the early days, the forges were built to produce finished goods, such as cast iron stoves and other simple castings." The only downside to the modern trail is that urban sprawl has relegated large portions of it to neighborhood sidewalks and edges of lawns causing old people watering their yards to stare at you strangely when you trek by with a huge backpack on and people in cars to stare at you even more strangely - where would we be going and where the hell did we come from? It was obvious that the trail probably didn't get much use. Hiking suburbia is a strange experience indeed. Much like my own parents, it was obvious that many people didn't even know the trail was in their backyards.


(Who knew we'd see chinchillas at Great Valley Nature Center along the way!)









We were afforded leaf cover most of the time, however and saw some beautiful PA countryside, an old spring bottling plant, horse farms, and Historic Yellow Springs a mecca for people seeking healing of a wide variety of bodily ills from its iron-rich "yellow" water since Native Americans inhabited the region. Hopewell Furnace was an awesome stop along the Horseshoe Trail. It is an excellently preserved furnace who's flame ran strong from 1771-1883. The furnace was a major supplier of canons for the Union Army during the Civil War. Today it is owned by the National Park Service and is still in action, worked by men in period clothing who demonstrated the making of cast iron stove doors. Park rangers rode huge work horses around, women in long skirts and bonnets sold us root beer and we picked our own apples from the on-site orchard from which a delicious southern-style apple pie with sour cream was made upon return to the Simmons' abode - yummmmm.

West, By God, Virginia!

A trip to Mike's spawning grounds, ole West Verginie yielded incredible views from the North Fork Mountain Trail, running 24 miles mostly along a sandstone ridgeline, but also through hollows and valleys. The North Fork Mountain area is part of the Seneca Rocks Unit of Monongahela National Forest in the Potomac Ranger District and as its name suggests, gives the hiker a view of the snaking North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac River. The trail is gorgeous but almost completely devoid of a combination of hydrogen and oxygen molecules that our bodies needed to survive so we had to bring a lot of water which made for super heavy packs. The trail also gave us a wonderful birds-eye view of the Dolly Sods Wilderness Area, one of our most favorite places to camp and a favorite of Mike's to paint.







We connected to North Fork Mountain's ridgeline just before dusk, eating our dinner over a sweeping vista of West Virginia's rolling moutains and rocky faces. The katydid chorus came out early and blasted us all night long. Then, a strange company of curmudgeonly grizzled beings approached our tent from all directions. Slowly, they came closer, and in Lisa's head, the owners of the grumpy sounds outside our tent belonged to, first, deer, then bear with hooves, then centaurs led by satyrs. But they were none other than a herd of feral goats, munching grasses and butting heads against fallen trees and each other - we had unwittingly set up camp in their favorite grazing grounds along the ridge, and they would continuously approach the tent, eating of course, and flee quickly when arriving too close, simply to repeat this routine all night. The next morning, we tromped along through blueberry and huckleberry bushes that were already yielding berries because of the elevation. A quick handful here or there stained our fingers and mouths as we walked and gorged ourselves like our visitors from the night before. We did a loop of the trail, starting at Redman Run trail and following the North Fork Trail to its Northern terminus ( Mike to Check). On our way back, we followed CO28/11, also known as Forest Road 79. Although road hiking isn't normally something we plan for, we hoped to get glimpses of West Virginia countryside and private land. Our hopes were well founded because it seemed like we had traveled back in time. Countryside vignettes of old barns, ancient family cemeteries, horses grazing in pastures, sun glinting off wheat fields and old fences running far into the distance hid evidence of a modern world, save for the telephone lines, Milwaukee's Best beer cans, broken down cars from the 50's,60's,70's, and 80's, tires in the ditch, and the road sponsored by the Allegheny Bear Hunters Association.





On the way back to Maryland, we stopped at Seneca Rocks, a holy place for the Seneca Indians and also a holy place for hippy rock climbers (it's one of the rock climbing meccas of the east). We watched an educational video about the site in the National Park's educational center that told us of the very hilarious story, likely made up by white men to give an air of noble savage romance (a genera known to many curators of Native Arts - shout out to Sue) to the location. The legend is about "The Betrothal of Princess Snowbird" and it's even written on a historical plaque by a gas station. The legend goes that Chief Bald Eagles daughter, the "Princess" (note Native American's didn't have princesses because they did not operate under a feudal system of government)Snowbird declared that any Indian brave that followed her to the top of Seneca Rocks would have her hand in marriage. The video shows Snowbird, short deer-hide skirt waving in the wind, ascending the ridge top followed by about five braves all staring up her skirt. She reaches the top and pulls a handsome, strapping young man up with her and they live happily ever after. CHEESE CITY. It's the most "Walt Disney" that West Virginia will ever be.





West Virginia, throughout its history as a state, has always been the target of outside interests, especially in exploiting its natural resources. Coal and timber, at the expense of folks' lives, have always been the two big ones. By the beginning of the twentieth century something like 95% of West Virginia's old growth forests had been clear cut down to their stumps leaving behind a dry expanse that would ignite in forest (or forestless) fires, burning mountains down to their bedrock at times. The barren hills, now devoid of any rain barrier all the way down to riparian watersides in the valleys caused major flooding -- the water simply poured off the mountains all over the east. The WPA CCC group, along with the budding National Park and Forest systems eventually realized the desperate need to conserve the land and Monongahela National Forest became a reality in 1920. The forest is an example of a major turnaround in preservation within the eastern United States. This continues even today as Monongahela National Forest's 910,155 acres absorbed 37,000 new acres of designated wilderness within its boundaries as a result of the Obama administration signing into law the landmark Wild and Scenic Rivers Bill of 2009.


Clear cutting mountaintops in the early 1900s - courtesy of Seneca Rocks Discovery Center.


Removing the timber from the hills - courtesy of Seneca Rocks Discovery Center.


Flooding in Pittsburgh due to clear cutting and resulting runoff - courtesy of Seneca Rocks Discovery Center.


Sunset along North Fork Trail

The North Woods

Lisa and I made the long trek up to northern Wisconsin, driving from Maryland to Cleveland (six hours), and then on up through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan into Wisconsin (thirteen hours). The U.P. offered Lisa her first glimpses of a strange and new land much like the midwest she once knew, only farther north and with a peculiar culinary delicacy - Pasties, an old fisherman's meal of meat and vegetables wrapped in dough. The "Pasties For Sale" stands speckled the dunes of the U.P., appearing only after, and never before, driving across the Mackinac Bridge, the third longest suspended bridge in the world stretching five miles across Lake Michigan.






Lighthouse at Manistique, Upper Peninsula of Michigan.


Our Great Lake Michigan!!!

We were traveling to Eagle River, Wisconsin, where many of my family's roots began with my great-grandfather Joseph Weber moving his family, including my grandmother, to the area in 1917. My grandmother, Martha Weber (Judge), now 95 years old, has always returned to live there every summer and fall while spending the winters in Milwaukee. The original farm house and barn are still there, though she has lived for many years just down the road from it along the Wisconsin River in a small cabin my grandfather built. Through the words of my grandma as published by the Eagle River Historical Society:

"We arrived by train and were met by Norman Kinney, who unfortunately was bitten in the leg by our family dog. He drove us in his horse and buggy to our land located on a rutted, nameless dirt road which is today known as Illinois and Drager Roads. The house's exterior was red tin brick siding. The outside pump was out source of water and kerosene lanterns were our source of light. The kitchen wood stove and the potbelly stove in the living room heated the home. There was no heat upstairs and there were times in the winter when we would wake up in the morning with frost on our blankets. We would quickly run downstairs and dress in front of the wood stoves."

My great grandfather, having bought the land sight-unseen for farming, quickly found out the land was not fit for making a living off of. They were able to grow only enough for themselves, supported by subsistence fishing in the Eagle and Wisconsin Rivers. Eventually, Joseph Weber was forced to find work for his/our family by working in the Wisconsin/Minnesota lumber camps. As Lisa was to find out, the two traditions of fishing and lumberjacks were huge influences on northern Wisconsin, from the historically fascinating to the kitschy decorating of restaurants and pubs (i.e. paintings on saws and canoe paddles of moose, ducks, and especially fish). I had traveled to the San Juan Islands with Lisa and her family to experience her childhood retreat that was so impressionable on her, and now she was going to experience where my family and I were linked together, in Eagle River, Wisconsin. I was also planning on properly initiating her by the ol' welcome "push in the river" gesture.


Our Eagle River home.


View of the Wisconsin River from our tent on my grandma's property.


Our 1950's vintage low cruising sweet rides, previously owned by mom and uncle.


A painting of a lumber mill by a turn of the century mill worker - taken from the Eagle River Historical Society.

Family history aside, here's Lisa to tell you what we actually did during our week in the North Woods: We camped on a soft bed of pine needles on the far point of Martha's property, frequented by eagles with a fine view of the Wisconsin River that reflected a variety of moods on a daily basis. At night we dined on delicious walleye tackled out of the river by Mike's mom, a 28 inch long beauty, expertly and delicately cooked in a light batter that fed four people two nights in a row! The dessert was blueberry pie (actually three of them over a week!), with berries picked in Martha's backyard by Aunt Cathy and cooked by Mary Ellen. The conversation flowed over a particularly delicious Wisconsin brew, Fat Squirrel, made by the New Glarus brewery, and I enjoyed hearing about the history of the area from Martha and stories about when she was young. Kayaking was our sport of choice and we meandered down Rice Crick (covered in wild rice) and Mud Crick, tributaries of the Wisconsin River. We also traveled North to the U.P. to the Sylvania Wilderness to kayak the remote Helen Lake that was occupied only by a family of otters (I've never seen one in the wild!) that we were lucky enough to watch nab fish and eat them in front of us, barking at us and playing all the while. We also caught a glimpse of a HUGE beaver and a pair of lonely loons that watched us with their red eyes. SWEEEET TRIPPP!!! Ohh yeah - we also saw a flower that was on my 'bucket list' of flowers to see before I 'kick the bucket' = Indian Pipe, a plant that lives off a parasitic fungus that in-turn lives off the roots of oaks and pine. They turn black and wither away when you pick them, so best to leave them for others to wonder at...


Kayaking the Wisconsin River in front of my grandma's house.


Lisa, Paul and Babe in Sayner, Wisconsin, getting ready to spend a day of logging up in the U.P.


Evening on Rice Crick.


My destiny complete, I catch an 18 inch walleye and enter the final realm of manhood.


Lisa's trophy kill (he didn't really die).


An eastern painted turtle sunning on a bull-lily pad.


In the woods of my grandma's property.


Where the Indian Pipe roam, next to our cabin.

Summer in the Sound

The adventure continued on Lopez Island after the Appalachian Trail this summer as mentioned in the last post. Some of the pictures we took in Lopez were too good not to share in our adventure blog.


Flying to Seattle with Mount Rainier in the distance.

From the mainland, you can take a 45 minute ferry from Anacortes to Lopez Island. Mike painted some cool interior light studies on the ride and we taught baby Henry to fly just in case Peter Pan decides to borrow him for the evening.


Loading onto the ferry to Lopez Island.


Everyone was impressed when Steve Simmons managed to catch a young manta ray with his bare hands from the top-deck of the ferry. Here he is swimming.


Inside Lisa's grandfather's house - I mean inside the ferry.

Lopez is the most rural of all the San Juan Islands, covering over 35 square miles and it has a population of around 2,200 who are all closer to heaven. There are many gorgeous farms and a stellar farmers market but also plenty of artist, musicians and general bohemian types.

Lopez is also known as the friendliest of all the San Juan's. You can always tell a native by the classic two finger wave that I learned from my grandpa.

Lopez has plenty of public beaches. We visited Shark Reef and observed the land lubbing seals. Mike and his buddy Tom shimmied down some rock-sides and heard barnacles hissing ancient truths while the kelp forests swayed in the current breezes.

Stay tuned for the next posting which will be from Eagle River, Wisconsin, Mike's family retreat!
Ahoy maytees!


Our heroes, remaining mild-mannered under the guise of unemployment, enjoy the Northwestern weather.


At the base of Lisa's grandfather's property looking out over the sound.


Several amazing starfish were hanging out among the rocks at low tide, when one said to another,"Hey buddy, you ever think that maybe the tide won't come back this time?" to which the other starfish exclaimed, "AHHH! A talking starfish!?!?"


Moments later, we gaped, gasped and stared as Lisa's sister, Laura, was swallowed by an orca trying to retrieve some souvenir bull-kelp (see below).


Bull-Kelp.


Pictured: One-third of the official three-time state winning Maryland yelling champions. (Mike,Tom, and Waldo).


Our mystery lunch-guest is revealed! Mr. Mistoffelees emerges from a quiet life of retirement on Lopez Island to offer dining suggestions to Tom.


The Oregon Junco, aka the Ol' Northwest-Salty-Grizzled-Mariner Bird