Alexandersmap

    Author: nhcarmichael

    • The Buzzard in the Bay

      Buzzards Bay is a 28 mile long body of water lined on one side by the mainland of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, and on the other by Cape Cod, the Elizabeth Islands and Martha’s Vineyard.  Buzzards Bay is named after the osprey’s that thrived along the bay.  Osprey are very different from buzzards, but the name stuck anyway.  Names have a way of doing that.

      The saltiness and warmth of Buzzards Bay make it an attractive place to bob around in during the late summer and early fall.  The bay is considered “an estuary of national importance” in the late 1980’s.  There’s no doubt that the bay teams with thousands or millions of fish, shellfish and the birds and wildlife that feed on them.  The king of all feeders is the osprey.  Watching them float and dive for fish is one of the highlights of being down here.  Thankfully they’ve rebounded from the catastrophic introduction of DDT and other insecticides into the environment.

      That  some explorer 400 years ago can mistake an osprey for a buzzard and name the place after that mistake is interesting.  What even more interesting is it didn’t evolve over time to something more accurate.  I guess once you start associating a location with a name it would be confusing to suddenly call it something else.  So the genie has left the bottle and there’s no changing the name now.  Which is a shame because Osprey Bay is a pretty damned good name if you ask me.

    • The NJ to NH Run

      As a road warrier, I’m used to long drives.  Honestly, I don’t even blink when I drive 6-7 hours anymore.  The one exception to that is the drive back from New Jersey to New Hampshire.  The timing of the drive is critical, and so is the weather.  This afternoon neither worked in my favor.

      From New Jersey, there are basically two viable options over the Hudson River; the Tappan Zee Bridge or George Washington Bridge.  When you drive over the GW you assume the worst, no matter what time of day it is.  Heavy traffic and a rough and bumpy road surface are a given 90% of the time.  Usually crossing the GW means placing all your chips on I-95 all the way to New Haven.  That’s a scary bet.

      The Tappan Zee is less predictable, but generally lighter than the GW.  I’ve always found it to be an interesting and enjoyable bridge to cross, largely because of the width of the Hudson at this point, and the beautiful cliffs that line the shores, particularly at Hook Mountain State Park.  The challenges come after you cross the Hudson.  You either roll the dice on the Sawmill Parkway or on the Merritt Parkway.  Parkways sound lovely, but they’re narrow, unforgiving roads built at a time when cars were driving 35-40 MPH.  Quaint.  Of the two parkways the Merritt is more appealing, with rest areas, a tunnel and importantly, no traffic lights.  The Sawmill has multiple traffic lights along the parkway, which puts the park in parkway.

      From the parkways you’ve eventually got to get through or around Hartford before you finally catch a cruise control breather on I-84 from Manchester, Connecticut to the Mass Pike.  This moment of bliss is usually interrupted by the realities of the Pike.  Channeling thousands of drivers from from parts west with thousands of drivers from parts south can lead to epic traffic on the turnpike.  Summer and holiday traffic is especially delightful along this stretch of Americana.

      Life at highway speed isn’t all its cracked up to be, but its still better than bumper-to-bumper speed.  The math has never worked taking the train or a plane to New Jersey.  So we all enter the grinder and hope for the best.

    • Mount Hope Bridge

      Bristol, Rhode Island is home to the first and thus oldest 4th of July parade in America.  The stripe down the middle of the road is red, white and blue.  This town is patriotic and quaint.  It’s home to Roger Williams University and the America’s Cup Museum, but my favorite thing in this town is the bridge between Bristol and Portsmouth.  The Mount Hope Bridge is a two lane suspension bridge over Narragansett Bay.  It’s a tall, narrow bridge that runs 135 feet above the high tide mark.  There are no sidewalks on this bridge – one lane each way at no wider.  It’s on the National Register of Historic Places because there’s quite a history to it.

      The Mount Hope Bridge was proposed in 1920, supported by the wealthy and influential William Henry Vanderbilt III and finally completed four days before the 1929 Stock Market crash that started the Great Depression.  It’s named for the bay that it spans, which in turn is named for the 209 foot hill Mount Hood.  There’s incredible history in this area.  The Wampanoags held meetings at a rock formation called King Phillips Seat near Mount Hood.  Thankfully this is preserved by Brown University, which owns the land in that area.  That history is a blog (or a few blogs) for another day.  Today is about the bridge.

      Timing the ride over the bridge well, you may be lucky enough to see a spectacular sunset over Narragansett Bay and Jamestown.  It’s one of the rare times when I wish there was traffic so I could just watch the sunset.  Sadly there are no pedestrian walkways on the bridge, though in theory I could ride a bike across the bridge.  In practice that’s a scary thought.  The lanes are narrow and there isn’t much forgiveness between moving vehicles and the bay.  I’m not risk-averse but that doesn’t seem like a recipe for success.

      I’ve had an affinity for bridges for a long time.  It may have been all those trips across the Sagamore Bridge going to the Cape as a kid.  It may have been those long rows from Lowell to the Tyngsboro Bridge in college.  Or memorable trips across the Brooklyn Bridge, Golden Gate Bridge and recently the Vasco De Gama Bridge in Lisbon.  Beyond their utility and architectural beauty, bridges represent connection.  The Mount Hope Bridge may be named after a hill, but I prefer to think of the name as nod to optimism.  Connection and Hope.  We could use more of each in this strange world we live in.

    • Maple Season

      As the days get longer and the sun sits higher in the sky, a site unique to the region starts to appear.  Buckets or plastic barrels start to appear around the maple trees.  Plastic tubing running from the trunks of tree to to these containers wind through the woods.  Maple syrup season is upon us.

      The process of collecting sap and boiling it down in barns and sheds to the sticky sweet topping for pancakes and waffles begins now.  The key, I’m told, is to have cold nights and warm days, which triggers the sap to run.  I’m not sure who in history started licking the sap coming out of the maple tree to discover it was sweet, but I do know they’d be shocked at the industry that’s grown around it.

      Maple syrup comes in two varieties, the real stuff and the dark brown, mass-produced junk spotted in the supermarket and made by subsidiaries of Fortune 500 companies.  Look, I’m sure they’re nice people too, but if I’m going to invest in the carbs and calories for syrup, I’m opting for the real stuff.  Real maple syrup, like local honey, just tastes better.  It also has a lower carbon footprint, isn’t full of additives and preservatives, and supports people in my region.  The buckets are a true sign that spring is right around the corner, and I smile when I see them as I drive through New England.

    • For the Birds

      Yesterday while walking with Bodhi I caught a glimpse of brilliant blue in a neighbors tree.  It was a bluebird frittering from branch to branch.  With the snow as a backdrop it’s colors were thrilling as I paused to watch it.  Its not lost on me that I use descriptive adjectives often, and I offer no apologies. The ride is short and I’m going to make the most of it while on it.

      I’m not a birdwatcher per se, as in you won’t find me with a pair of binoculars chasing a tufted titmouse.  But I take the time to observe them, as I do other wildlife.  Bluebirds, finches, orioles, cardinals and hummingbirds highlight the backyard, offering life, motion and color to a sometimes drab canvas.  Hawks, eagles and osprey, so focused on their next meal, are thrilling to watch in action.  Pileated woodpeckers offer their own thrill, with a unique call and a rapid, loud knock that betrays their presence even when you don’t see these shy birds.

      As I’ve said before, I feed the birds, and view the investment in time and seed as worthwhile.  Bluebirds don’t generally visit my yard for seed because they prefer mealworms.  I’ve already started planning the addition of a Bluebird feeder, with it’s smaller 1 1/2′ holes to keep the bigger birds out.  The ground is frozen now and I don’t think it practical to add another feeder to an already crowded pole out back.

      Having an awareness of the world around you – birds, flowers, stars in the sky, the gurgling of the stream as the snow melt feeds it – doesn’t seem unusual to me, but it feels like many people don’t notice, or don’t care.  Maybe they’re much more focused on their careers, or their projects, or replaying a scene from something they watched on television.  Or maybe I don’t notice them noticing the same things I notice.

      We got eight inches of snow overnight, but its rapidly melting as the sun does its work.  Spring is closer, and with it the world becomes more alive.  I’m sensing change in the air.  Longer days as the earth tilts us towards the sun.  2018 is two months old and already highly interesting.  I’ll be starting a new job soon too.  Brilliant color on an otherwise drab landscape draws my eye.  I feel its worth the investment.

    • Morning Person

      I like to think of myself as a morning person.  Most days I actually am one.  By morning I mean that period of time between night and when the sun rises.  Pre-dawn is my time.  It goes back to when I coached crew and had to be up at 4:30 to get to the boathouse.  It was a struggle at times, but the payoff was when I was out on the river as the sky slowly flooded with light.  We used to say that we did more before the sun came up than most people did all day.  I’ve heard that same expression used with people in the military like Jocco Willink who’s started a cult following with his 4:30 club.

      As a 50-something, I’ve grown lazy.  Sure I try to get my 10,000 steps.  But I rarely lift weights anymore, and even rowing on the erg is hit or miss.  Doing either at 4:30 is prohibitively unpleasant.  At least that’s what I tell myself.  And so I put off working out and have a coffee or two.  I journal or read.

      There’s a 63 year old character named Joe in Hampton, New Hampshire who goes for a power walk every morning before sunrise.  His wife also goes for a power walk but they don’t walk together.  Instead Joe walks with a flight attendant of roughly the same age while his wife walks with some other friends.  Occasionally they meet up and walk together at the end of their respective power walks, but usually they do their own walks independent of each other.  Joe looks a lot like Rodney Dangerfield and has a similar sense of humor.  I imagine his walks with the flight attendant are filled with much laughter.

      Joe used to live in Atkinson, New Hampshire where I live.  He downsized a few years ago, selling his house, his condo on the lake up in Maine and the boat that he had up there for a condo near the beach in Hampton.  Joe is happier now than I recall him ever being.  He works part time in a butcher shop, power walks and flirts with women half his age.  Joe is a morning person for sure.

      For me being outside getting some exercise before sunrise is just about the perfect start to the day.  I’ve settled for a couple of cups of coffee and some light reading.  It’s about time I get back to being a real morning person.

    • Ebb & Flow

      Temperatures in southern New Hampshire have risen into the mid-40’s today.  As a result the snow pack is melting, swelling the streams, creating foggy patches and revealing bare lawn and a hint of the pool cover.  It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing spring is in the air.  Hardened New Englanders don’t take the bait.  We’ve been here before.  The promise of spring is a tease followed by nor’easters and April Fools Day storms.

      Sure enough, tomorrow night there’s a snow storm brewing.  New England doesn’t let you off the hook that easily.  Our personalities match this.  One minute you’re getting a compliment from someone, the next you’re the butt of a joke they’re making.  Love with a smack of sarcasm.  That’s how we roll around here, and it’s easy to blame the weather.

    • Sea Glass

      Another offseason walk on the beach brought me to Salisbury Beach.  I walk for all the reasons you might expect, and I seek out open space to give my mind room to expand.  Salisbury in summer is a mess of arcades, pizza joints and go-carts.  It’s slowly gentrifying, but it’s no Rye.  Salisbury is a working class beach, and it offers no apologies.  While I turn my nose up at arcades in middle age, I acknowledge that Salisbury Beach has great sand, crashing waves and in February, elbow room.  A receding tide offers even more elbow room, and a chance to look for treasure.

      A beach walk generally doesn’t require you look at where you’re walking.   None of the tripping hazards that some of my more granite-forward paths take me on.  Just beach sand and the occasional sea gull or metal detector swinger.  Swingers always fit the same profile; early retirement years, male, work alone and wear a very serious expression on their face.  I’ve noted some similarities in my current beach walk and will strive to never purchase a metal detector.

      The treasure I seek on a beach is glass.  Sure, sea shells and smooth stones are great too, but seasoned beach glass is a rare find indeed.  Glass comes in different levels of maturity on a beach.  There’s the juvenile, hazardous freshly broken glass, which is every barefoot beach walkers worst nightmare.  When I come across this I curse the drinker who it originated from and do my best to safely remove it from the beach.  This glass almost always originated right on the beach.

      Lightly-seasoned sea glass is a bit more interesting.  It originated somewhere out at sea, as indicated by the light buffing that the surf and sand have done to it.  Lightly-seasoned glass has the sharpness removed, but it’s still rigid around those edges.  It’s also easy to see through.  It’s always a tough call whether to keep it, leave it for another stroller or dispose of it.  My answer is to pick it up and leave it on a railing near the entrance to the beach as an offering to the retirement gods.

      The class of the sea glass is well-seasoned glass.  Like a fine wine it’s been aged appropriately, and shows unique characteristics that make finding it special.  The edges are smooth and rounded, and the glass itself is opaque, so you can’t really see through it.  Well-seasoned glass is tough to find, an usually only available on special beaches.

      My favorite beach for finding well-seasoned sea glass is in the Hamptons on Long Island.  Millions of tons of trash was dumped in the ocean over the years, and this expensive real estate features some of the best sea glass I’ve come across.  Salisbury Beach beach glass is more of the lightly-seasoned variety.  Bottles floating down the Merrimack River or dumped in the ocean offshore eventually makes it’s way to the beaches.

      Sea glass is the beautiful byproduct of trash.  At some point in the not-too-distant past a trash barge or an ignorant boater dumped that bottle overboard.  Time battered it into pieces, and the surf action buffed it.  Given the appropriate amount of aging, beach glass is charmingly beautiful.  Something out of nothing.  The environmentalist in me cringes at the origin, but embraces the recycling of the glass into something more than it once was.

      Today there just aren’t as many glass bottles being dumped into the ocean.  Plastic bottles have taken over the trash, and it’s a horrible addition to the ocean.  Much more of an environmental tragedy than adding glass bottles.  Plastic is the real enemy on the beach and in the ocean.  Thankfully the ocean isn’t the dumping ground that it once was but it will take time to make the oceans clean.  I hope we’re up for the task.  And over time our friend sea glass will become an endangered species, which makes finding it a real treasure.

    • Dogtown

      New England is deeply rooted in its colonial past.  Walking through the woods in most towns in the area, you’ll come across miles of stone walls, old cellar holes and forgotten road beds.  But there is no walk in the woods quite like Dogtown Common.  I had an opportunity to take a walk through this abandoned village yesterday, a bright February Tuesday.  While it was a beautiful day for a walk in the woods, I didn’t see another soul in the two hours I spent there.

      Dogtown is located in Gloucester, Massachusetts, right on the edge of the town of Rockport, on Cape Anne.   It was once a small community of settlers who cleared and farmed the land as so many other communities did in New England.  Unfortunately, they chose a tough spot for this.  As the name Rockport indicates, this area is basically arid piles of loose granite sitting on top of ledge, sprinkled with some dirt.  Once the trees were cleared and the livestock grazed the remaining vegetation to the ground, there wasn’t much left to work with.  Compounding things, Dogtown was sited in an exposed area near the sea, making it an easy target for the British in the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812.  So over time residents moved on, abandoning the area for easier living elsewhere.

      Sheep continued to graze in this area into the early 20th century, but as with so much of New England    the farmers and herders passed on, leaving the land to return to the woods.  Dogtown 100 years ago was a rocky land sprinkled with grass and shrubs.  Today it’s a forest with a bed of boulders, ledge, old stone walls and cellar holes, similar to what you’d see in forests throughout the region.  What makes Dogtown unique is the work of Roger Babson, who commissioned unemployed stonecutters to carve words and numbers into the granite boulders that litter Dogtown.  Babson was an interesting guy; he was a Prohibition Party member, he predicted the market crash that led to the Great Depression, and he founded Babson College.  As a tenth generation Babson from Gloucester Dogwood Common was figuratively in his blood.

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      Walking through the woods of Dogtown on a bright winter day, the work of Babson resonated with me.  I chose a Tuesday when most people are working to visit, and had the place to myself.  Aside from seeing mountain bike tire prints, the sounds of commuter trains on the tracks that cut through Dogtown and the sounds of construction encroaching on the woods at the nearby office park betraying the current century, my visit was timeless.  The stonemasons and the settlers to this area have come and gone from this place and it was my turn, alone amongst the boulders.
      Babson spoke to me from the past with his choice of words and phrases carved into the boulders.  “Get A Job” is highly relevant for me as I leave the struggles of one job for the hope of another.  “Truth” challenges me to be honest with myself about where my own strengths and weaknesses lie.  “Courage” shoves me in the chest and knocks me back a step, urging me to be bold today.  And “Prosperity Follows Service” reminds me that to earn anything worthwhile you’ve got to give much more of yourself.  While some view the messages as a strange curiosity, Babson’s boulders for me are a humbling reminder of what I can be.
      I came to the woods knowing of this place.  Perhaps because I was alone on this brilliant winter day, or maybe because of the place I’m at in my own life, but Dogtown resonated as I walked its quiet paths.  They say that when the student is ready the teacher will appear.  Maybe it was the woods, with voices of the past whispering in my ear as I walked.  Maybe it was me moving on from one job to the next and working that through in my mind.  Or maybe it was a message from a tenth generation Gloucester Babson who died a year after I was born.

       

    • Ambient Light

      Last night was one of those nights you hope for when you’re a stargazer.  Brilliantly clear skies, with cold air providing sharp focus.  Just a quick glance at the sky showed old friends Orion, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, and down low in the southern sky, Canis Major with the brilliant Sirius a beacon on the constellation.  Sadly, the neighborhood was lit up like a prison yard as several of the neighbors chose to leave their outdoor lights on.  Another celestial show foiled again by the neighbors…

      I seek out the sky, and often walk looking up, sometimes started when I step off the pavement onto the shoulder of the road.  I once sailed from Norfolk, Virginia to Newburyport, Massachusetts, and eagerly watched the night sky when we were well offshore.  Cape Cod in winter offers some good viewing.  Any large body of water serves to subtract ambient light, simply because there usually aren’t lights shining there.  A favorite place in southern New Hampshire is Big Island Pond, where many a late night boat ride was spent marveling at the night sky.  Another spot I have fond memories of is the Robert Frost Farm in Derry.  Back in the late 1990’s I joined a couple of friends for a late night viewing of the Hale-Bopp comet in these Frost fields.  I think old Bob would have approved and joined us for a turn at the telescope had he been alive.  The next comet will be Halley’s Comet in 2062.  I would be 96 in 2062.  I hope I’m around to see it, and have my wits about me to recognize it.

      In search of dark skies, I came across The International Dark Sky Association, which lists Mont-Mégantic (Québec) as the closest, and first-in-the-world, International Dark Sky Reserve.  I’ll confess I wasn’t aware of this distinction prior to today.  Mont-Mégantic is roughly a four hour drive, directly through the White Mountains of New Hampshire, past the Connecticut Lakes region and into Quebec.  This region is familiar country for me.  I’ve visited the area to see moose, canoe on First Connecticut Lake and see and hear loons.  It’s an area that stays in my memory even after a quarter century.  If I was going to pick a part of New England that would have the darkest skies, this corridor between Franconia Notch and Pittsburgh would be on the short list.  Shifting northeast into Maine, I’d pick the Hundred Mile Wilderness along the Appalachian Trail as a likely dark sky candidate, and of course the unnamed wilderness to the north.

      Curious about where the darkest places in New England actually are, I came across this helpful site called Dark Sky Finder, (http://www.jshine.net/astronomy/dark_sky/index.php?lat=40.384212768155045&lng=-74.300537109375&zoom=8).  As this image shows, the darkest areas are in the north-easternmost corner of New Hampshire northeastward through a large swath of remote wilderness in Maine between Baxter State Park and the Allagash Wilderness Waterway that runs along the Canadian border.

      It was an easy guess picking the wilderness of Maine as the darkest skies in the northeast.  My memories of hiking the Hundred Mile Wilderness aren’t filled with a lot of ambient light.  Another memory comes to me.  The first time I hiked the Appalachian Trail through Mahoosuc Notch I was in my early 20’s.  A bunch of us set up camp at the Speck Pond Campsite, had dinner and swapped stories from our day through the Notch.  After dinner we hiked halfway up the trail to Old Speck Mountain and settled in for star gazing.  There was a meteor shower that night and the clear dark skies gave us the perfect canvas for a stunning show.  That night is what I think about when I look to the skies.  I guess I’m still chasing stars.