Maine – Laurie Apgar Chandler

Wildlife dreams come true

A deer whooshed and crashed away through the woods as I loaded my canoe at Kimball Deadwater in the Seboeis parcel of Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument. Continuing north two miles on the American Thread Road, I parked at the sign for Twin Ponds, on the left. I would just take a look today and perhaps return with the canoe tomorrow.

A short tenth-mile trail leads to Twin Ponds

My feet fell silently on the soft path as I cautiously approached the small oval pond. The far shore rose high enough to support a narrow strip of spruce and other conifers. Gradually, most of the perimeter came into view, and there was a cow moose feeding contentedly in the shallows at the south end. I watched her, alert for any sign of a calf or two, for it was that time of year. Sure enough, she soon climbed on shore, and a light brown calf emerged, fuzzy in the morning sun.

Just big enough to see, before the calf appeared. No camera this trip, so photos are from my phone.

I planned to return the next morning to see if I could get through to the even tinier twin pond that lies behind this one. And so I did.

Sunny and still, this is the shoreline that separates the two ponds.

A loon was diving for breakfast, and I watched him swallow more than one silvery minnow. Paddling toward the southwest corner, the connecting stream materialized from what had looked like solid shore. I scrambled out of the boat to lift over a narrow bridge of land and continued on.

The second pond was quite shallow and perhaps a third the size of the first. Along the eastern shore was a colorful bog, its palette rich with reds and greens. Later, checking out the Maine Natural Areas Program categories, I believe it would be classified as a Mossy Bog Mat. Purple pitcher plant (Sarracenia purpurea) flowers poked above the sphagnum mosses, and there were a few scattered trees and clumps of sheep laurel. Walking just far enough for a couple of photos, the spongy ground gave and shifted underfoot.

That afternoon, my friend Chris Gill commented on my last blog post, saying he missed the days when he’d had to identify the plants for me. I said, “You only need to ask,” with a photo of the little orchid below. Chris identified it, of course, then also suggested that next time I look closely in the moss for carnivorous sundews as well. Horned bladderwort, a third carnivorous species with yellow flowers, might also be present, according to MNAP.

The shaded shore is always the place to back the canoe in and watch for wildlife. It just so happened that the spot I chose offered up a new orchid. “New” meaning that I don’t remember having identified it before, although I well could have. A rose pogonia (Pogonia ophioglossoides), just a single specimen.

This rose pogonia will have a second bloom

The flowers of the carnivorous pitcher plant

A pitcher-shaped leaf awaits an unwary insect

From Twin Ponds, the road continued north to the intersection with Grondin Road. Turning right, another three miles brought me back to Route 159. This would conclude my time in the national monument for now.

That evening, my parents and I took a drive to fill our water jugs at a local spring. On a typical whim, we turned into the gravel road to the Shin Brook Falls trail, happily bumping and bouncing along. On the way out, I was perched in the middle of the back seat. Looking ahead to the crest of the slope, there was a bear, smack in the middle of the road. Right size and shape, ebony black, and gone too quickly, before anyone else could see it.

Up with the birds : Kimball Deadwater by canoe

When you rise at four, nature rewards you. Rain was forecast, and I was on the road by five. A porcupine waddled surprisingly quickly along the shoulder of the road, then vanished into the woods. I entered the Seboeis parcel of Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument on the American Thread Road. Since yesterday’s drive, I’d been pondering that name.

At first, I envisioned the historic site of a mill that manufactured sewing thread. Not so, although I was on the right track. The American Thread Company also produced wooden spools to hold its thread. When the supply of birch was exhausted in one area, a new spool mill would be built elsewhere. The last, in Milo, Maine, was in operation from 1902 to 1975.

Kimball Deadwater soon narrows, winding into an impassable tangle of alder

At the short Kimball Deadwater trail, I unloaded my canoe and carried it down to the water. The telltale wake of a cruising beaver cut across the wide water, and I spotted a sleek brown head gliding along. I savored the short paddle, drifting close to photograph sheep laurel and blue flag iris.

Of course, the true barometer of success would be spotting a moose. I spent an hour quietly waiting. A strong wind had risen ahead of the rain and it washed over me, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. Delicate heads of marsh grass bowed low, and the red-winged blackbirds moved with restless energy, flashes of color bright in the cloudy sky. From near and far came the twang of bullfrogs.

Before giving up, I paddled the length of the deadwater a second time, 15 minutes for the round trip. It isn’t large. Near a patch of spatterdock, I saw the beaver again, or another one. After I was well gone up the trail came an emphatic tail slap that said, “Good riddance.”

Exploring the Katahdin Woods and Waters Seboeis Parcel

It’s been a long two years since I’ve written a blog post. Amazing!

There is one good explanation. In the spring of 2021, I began writing a monthly column for the Northwoods Sporting Journal. My articles for “View from the River” are varied, covering paddling, wildlife, wilderness places, and even book reviews. The discipline of a deadline has been motivating and the writing itself rewarding. But with summer here, I want to blog, too.

Today, my parents and I explored the national monument parcel that lies south of Shin Pond. Not long after passing the monument boundary on the well-maintained American Thread Road, we had our first view of the mountains.

About a mile in was a sign for the Kimball Deadwater. Down the short trail shone the unmistakable brightness of water. Here was a place where I would like to return one early morning with my canoe. It looked moosey, and perhaps a half-mile long on the map.

The wildflowers along the roadsides were stunning in their sheer quantity. Our field guide yielded new discoveries: pink ragged-robin and large displays of yellow king devil, which looks much like orange hawkweed.

The large flowers and leaves of cow-parsnip gave us quite a scare. I was sure I’d seen the flower before, but Dad pointed out that it looked remarkably similar to giant hogweed. In the Adirondacks, we’d seen posters warning about this very toxic invasive plant. Its sap causes a dangerous skin reaction and even blindness if it gets in the eyes.

As it turns out, the two are closely related, in the same genus. Giant hogweed can get twice as large as cow parsnip (14 feet tall) and has stems mottled with red, while those of cow-parsnip are solid green. I am going to give cow-parsnip a wide berth as well, after learning that it can also cause a milder irritation.

We saw both a spruce grouse and this ruffed grouse with two chicks, rounding out a drive that left us wanting to return to this quiet part of the monument.

About that new book

I am the ultimate morning person. The fresh promise of a new day always energizes me, and I can often be found writing as the sun rises, at least in the darker months. Today, here in Bremen, Maine, the sun rose at the precocious hour of 4:54 a.m., as it has for the last week or so. This is the third day of my summer vacation, so I was still deep in sleep at that hour. Nonetheless, I arose a little later with a much-anticipated mission—to give you all a glimpse into my new book and update you on recent milestones.

There is no better place to begin my story than with Maine Authors Publishing, my partner in publishing and marketing my work. Located in Thomaston, around twenty-two miles from my home, MAP has welcomed me into their fabulous community of authors and guided me through the years with wisdom and patience.

As a veteran author, navigating the publishing process has been smoother this second time around. One week ago, the edited manuscript was returned to me. Hundreds of edits, many repetitive in nature, awaited review. As I worked through them, the value of professional editing was once again clearly apparent. I learned a lot, too.

I hereby resolve to remember not to indent the first paragraph of a chapter or section, to spell good-bye with a hyphen and nonprofit without one. Note, in top paragraph, how proudly I exhibit my newly acquired ability to insert an em dash in place of a minus sign. Perhaps there won’t be so many edits next time around!

With Upwards, the adventure inspired the writing. With Through Woods & Waters (or will it be Through Woods and Waters?) , the writing inspired the adventure. By spring 2018, I was yearning to embark on another long wilderness expedition, one that could become the subject of a second book. I wanted a compelling destination and challenges in getting there. Tough river sections, novel vistas, thrilling beauty, rich history—I found them all on the way to and through newly established Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument. (Look, another em dash!).

My travels began with a backpack and hiking boots, following the International Appalachian Trail up and over mountains and along part of the river I would later descend by canoe. After the backpacking trip and a long-awaited book event, I put my small canoe in at the western end of Seboomook Lake, some 150 miles from the national monument boundary. Going the long way ’round allowed me to incorporate a couple of hitherto unexplored alternative routes of the Northern Forest Canoe Trail, as well as the upper reaches of the East Branch Penobscot watershed.

Shortly after creating this blog in spring 2015, I wrote a post about the “why” of attempting a solo NFCT thru-paddle. That post, entitled May you find fireplace birds, still rang true as I embarked on my newest adventure. Should you decide to come along on the journey, you will see that I found more this time than I ever could have anticipated.

A baptism

It was high time for the first swim of the year, I decided, surprised at the strength of the sun on my back. I lugged the canoe to the water’s edge, arranged my gear ready to go, then drove home to exchange my long pants and long sleeves for a bathing suit and shorts. Today is June 12th, five days later than last summer’s baptism, when I jumped into the chilly waters of Moose Pond during our beloved Maine Canoe Symposium.

By eleven, I was pushing into the breeze, the warm air rushing over my bare skin and setting the lily pads dancing. Brilliant blue damsel flies and dark dragonflies skimmed the shallows hazy with pollen. There was the beaver lodge that I hadn’t seen in a year, and a blue flag iris, just one splotch of purple along a shady stretch of shore.

This may only be the second time that I’ve gone in the water at Webber Pond, but I found a spot I liked. No beach here, but rather a wide, steep rocky slope, on the hidden side of an island. I clung to the rough surface, then carefully slid into the deep water. I swam the breast stroke, feeling the old familiar rhythm and the comforting warmth of the thin surface layer. After ten minutes, I climbed out, enough for the first day in the first lake.

Last year, I decided to keep a count of the lakes where I swam and ended up with ten: Moose Pond, Damariscotta Lake, Biscay Pond, Scraggly Lake, McCurdy Pond, Lobster Lake, Lower Shin Pond, Hay Lake, Nahmakanta Lake, and Pleasant Pond. Of course, I swam in Biscay and McCurdy dozens of times. Think I can beat ten this year?

Sweet liberty

“I sent my book to the editor yesterday!”

How long (twenty-one months) I have waited to say those simple words! For a couple of weeks, someone else will meticulously read and reread the manuscript – moving commas, detecting typos, and double-checking the spelling of Caucomgomoc, Seboeis, and Wassataquoik. Meanwhile, I can do the fun stuff, like finalizing the photos.

Snowy Katahdin

Taking off from my house up north, I spent my first day of freedom exploring. Snow still clung to the high peaks. At the greenhouse in Patten, buying cages for the peonies I’ve uncovered in my wild, untamed garden, I asked about the recent freezing temperatures. Local wisdom, it turns out, says frost can be expected until the first full moon of June. For 2020, that will be on June 5th.

Shin Brook Falls

The descent to nearby Shin Brook Falls is made possible by an indispensable system of ropes beside the steep trail. Climbing above the main 30-foot drop, the trail follows the tumbling stream past a succession of smaller cascades, equally lovely.

Ropes to Shin Brook Falls

Above Shin Brook Falls

My goals for the day included: (1) finally hiking a portion of the Seboeis River Trail, (2) visiting the Christianson family at Matagamon Wilderness, to see how they were faring amid the cautious reopening, and (3) spotting a moose, of course.

The moose spotting took the longest. Pleasantly weary from hiking and pleasantly full from cheeseburger-eating, I drove up to the Francis D. Dunn Wildlife Management Area. So far, I’d seen moose tracks and moose poop, not to mention bear poop, a ruffed grouse, and a garter snake. The marshy Sawtelle Deadwater that comprises this state WMA has always looked moose-y to me and that afternoon it was. A small bull with fuzzy antlers emerging was accompanied by two cows, all looking shaggy and scruffy. Only one caw was brave enough to continue feeding while I watched from afar (too afar for a photo) through my binoculars.

My first day of liberty had been well rewarded.

Fading trillium — Painted trillium on my two-hour Seboeis River Trail hike

Summer has begun at Matagamon Wilderness, where my friends are “bearing” up well. While I was there, I dropped off a fresh stack of books for the busy months ahead.

Old track — Giant, immensely heavy relic abandoned along an old road

In the turning of the seasons, we give thanks

They are treasured old friends, those forest places that we walk until we know them with every fabric of our body, and soul. We return, unbidden, adding layers of memory as the seasons pass. On the blank canvas of a place, we paint the story of our time together.

So it is with the trail behind our house, the less-than-two-miles out and back that I walk most often. Late one fall afternoon, not long ago, I followed the path through a gap in the mossy old stone wall, to an opening under a few magnificent hemlocks. This spot has always drawn me, and I often pause there.

My thoughts rushed back from wherever they’d been wandering when something moved, close beside the path. A spiky hummock of quills, its back turned toward me. This was my first porcupine in “my” woods and deceptively quick despite its cumbersome gait. It wasted no time reaching a tree and climbing steadily to safety.

This encounter will forever enliven this bend in the trail. No matter the season, on my homeward way, I’ll conjure up a prickly ball in the crotch of that tree, framed by the yellow leaves of fall. Just as I’ll remember the night I looked up into the surprising face of the full moon, shining white behind the firs. And farther along, the hill where an owl had snatched a mouse, leaving only the marks of its broad sweeping wings.

Since that fall afternoon, the snows have come, early for our part of Maine, and we’ve embraced the turning of the seasons to this time of gratitude. I think how our lives, too, consist of layers upon layers.

This Thanksgiving, we will gather in another log cabin, in Virginia, for the first Thanksgiving hosted by the new generation. Megan and Jacob will fill their home to bursting, stretching the seating and sleeping and serving, with the aesthetic creativity of two graphic designers.

As we paint new memories, they will never replace those that went before. The years of Dad’s rousing voice singing Over the River and Through the Woods. Searching for hazelnuts in a worn wooden bowl heaped with nuts that you had to crack yourself. Grandma Searls, urging everyone to “eat some turnips for the Pilgrims.” New on old, forever and ever, or at least for today.

This then is my prayer for all of you, that you paint memories anew this Thanksgiving. That you embrace the turning of the seasons, from prickly porcupines to the frosting of the forest, and that this season of gratitude brings you joy. Happy Thanksgiving!

To think I almost put my snowshoes away

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Sadly, February was mainly dedicated to flu survival and recovery. Happily, I got better in time to visit my children in Virginia, meeting their new chickens, touring Monticello, and celebrating my former brother-in-law’s 50th birthday. (How could that be?)

Now, somehow, I find myself a week away from spring, with visions of paddling trips dancing in my head. There is much to share and catch up on!

View of last week’s snow-laden trees from flat on my back. I’d been tugging on a sapling bent across the path and pinned to the snowy ground. As it popped free, I tumbled backwards, arms flailing, to see the forest from a slightly different angle!

Today is another snow day, our ninth, counting the 3 days we missed with October’s wind storm. That is two more than in any other school year I can remember. With our third nor’easter in 11 days upon us, and a blizzard warning, we may miss tomorrow as well. Last week’s storm brought about 14 inches of wet, heavy snow that plastered itself to the sides of trees and created Dr. Seuss-like mounds on every branch and twig.

In late February, I was tickled by the sign above, spotted in Thomaston during a book delivery jaunt. The weather was warm and the air felt like spring. I truly did almost put my snowshoes away. Now I think the groundhog may have been wiser than I thought!

Out snowshoeing this morning, with just a dusting of new powder, turkey tracks were everywhere. In places, the forest floor was in turmoil where they’d torn up the leaf litter in search of food. Hopefully the turkeys were feasting on ticks, already active here in Maine. I found the first one of the year crawling on my pants last week. Seems like we should either have ticks or blizzards, not both!

Usually, I have the back woods to myself. This morning, though, I was greeted by a new friend. Our neighbors had taken a walk with their kids, leaving behind this snowman, decorated with branches, pine cones, and lichen. By mid-afternoon, he was rapidly becoming just a snowman-shaped blob.

Well, it certainly feels good to be back to writing. Look for more news soon, including updates on Upwards and the author life and perhaps even some paddling plans. Then, in April, our family adventure in France will take us to Paris, Normandy, Brittany, and the Loire Valley. Until then, stay warm, dry, and safe!

Looking and seeing in the winter woods

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. Marcel Proust

To clarify, I’m all for seeking new landscapes! Like April in Paris, this spring, where we’ve just booked a hotel a block from Notre Dame! In our everyday world, though, there are plenty of new discoveries to be made, if we would just look for them.

The forest is still criss-crossed with animal tracks. As the snow turned thin and slushy this week, the imprints stood out in greater detail. Tiny “handprints” of red squirrels were everywhere, as were the squirrels themselves. The warmth prompted me to carry along my binoculars and to pause from time to time. The repeated call of a barred owl came from afar, but it was mostly red squirrels that I saw.

One explored an ancient log pile, dark and damp, adorned with scattered piles of demolished pine cones. He moved with fluid energy among the logs, popping out first here, then there, to scold me. Later, another bravely stood his ground atop a stone wall. Only his haunches moved, quivering with indignation, and the shiny blackness of his eye stared me down. He looked fit and well-fed, the subtle gray and rust of his sleek fur elegant in the drab and cloudy light.

Canine tracks still mystify me. The one above was repeated in a single line that roughly followed my old trail for quite a distance. Both coyotes and foxes frequent these woods.

There’s green stuff out there, too. Not just trees, but much more, if you look closely. This small native plant, whose relatives once dominated primeval swamps, is very common. Somehow, it thrives in the northern forest, surviving months of ice and snow.

Looking a bit like a miniature spruce and often called “running pine,” the club moss is neither a conifer nor a moss. Closely related to ferns, the club mosses are vascular plants, with “veins” of xylem and phloem. Their ancestors were once the most complex plants on Earth. In the Carboniferous period, 350 million years ago, club mosses well over 100 feet tall dominated the forest that was later transformed to vast deposits of coal.

This species, Lycopodium clavatum, is found in damp woodlands throughout North America. During the asexual part of its rather complex reproductive cycle, it produces spores, which are released from the plant’s erect, yellow-brown strobilus.

The spores are, for me, perhaps the most fascinating part of the story of the club moss. High in oil content, they are water resistant and flammable. Native tribes knew many medicinal uses for the spores, and, according to the Virginia Native Plant Society, medicine men tossed them on the fire during ceremonies to produce a flash of light.

In my reading, I found a host of other historical uses for the powdery spores, including flash photography, magician’s tricks, fingerprinting powder, fireworks, and treating rashes. Good incentive, perhaps, to try collecting some this year!

Upwards receives first book award!

The_New_England_Book_Festival_Logo

OK, how humble is it to say “first” book award? Honestly, though, my hopes and dreams for this book continue to grow, as more people read and share their thoughts. The volume of responses is growing and opportunities for the new year are coming in fast.

A few highlights:

Four upcoming events in the next three weeks (details on the events page)
Just invited to present at the Wilderness Paddlers Gathering in Fairlee, VT in March
Planning two events during the Adirondacks’ Celebrate Paddling month in June
And, of course, Honorable Mention in the category of Biography/Autobiography from the New England Book Festival.

The Boston-based New England Book Festival, sponsored by JM Northern Media, recognizes the best books of the holiday season in 17 categories. Winners are judged on “general excellence and the author’s passion for telling a good story” and “the potential of the work to reach a wider audience.”

To balance out the many hours devoted to the book, I continue to plan for next summer and enjoy today. A deluge of rain, amid temperatures as high as 55 degrees, has washed away much of our snow. The sight of green grass and brown leaves has been a welcome change. Sunday’s afternoon walk, on boots not snowshoes, felt free and unencumbered.

I tramped, I tromped, the trail more brown than white, looking around at the woods, rather than down at my feet. You know how it feels when you’ve just climbed up, then down, a mountain and hit the flat? The joy of simply swinging along is wonderful.

Gone, though, was the hushed white wonderland of winter. Every step was a loud crunch, either on a couple of inches of frozen remnant snow or, mostly, on frosty ground. Crunching along at a good pace, out to the edge of an old beaver pond.

There, nature had sculpted striking designs in the paper-thin sheet of ice that rimmed the pond. I walked a few feet out to sit on a log, trying not to destroy too much of the beauty, finding an inch or two of air between the ice and solid ground below. The sound of my progress was deafening, all wildlife no doubt well warned of my visit.

When I sat, though, to take in the play of the brilliant sunlight across the ice, the ruckus continued. A vigorous wind, rustling the trees in the pond, gave the ice a tortured voice. The grinding, cracking, and squealing never let up, and the cold soon nudged me to head back home to a cup of hot cocoa and my never-ending to-do list.

As my faithful readers know, I am still learning the ins and outs of social media, and recently discovered that my automatic sharing of posts somehow missed the last one. If you’d like to join me on an earlier walk, here is my January 5th post.