4 weeks ago
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
"The wind, Dude. Do you see those white caps?" I responded as I caught my breath. "It feels like you're paddling upstream."
Quickly we packed the remaining sleeping bags, food and fishing poles into the canoe and pushed off the dock. With the help of two more paddlers and a stiff tailwind, we made it back to Oak Island in a third of the time.
A goose feather blowing away.
Here are some more links,
Oak Island (Picasa),
Great Pond (ART).
Friday, June 4, 2010
My dad had already checked the weather and prepared breakfast. "Great day for a hike," he said with a boyish smile. Forty five minutes later, we were on the trail, heading up Mt. Katahdin.
Prepared by a youth spent tromping around the woods and mountains of the Pacific Northwest, I felt unfazed by numerous war stories from trustifarians at Colby and Bill Brison's comical account of his tribulations in the 100 Mile Wilderness.
The "trail," consisting of a foot and half gap in the Maine woods along a compass bearing connecting our campground with a distant peak of Mt. Katahdin corrected my fantasy of briskly walking up mellow switchbacks whilst eating granola bars and casually snapping pictures with my camera. Scrambling up Igloo-cooler sized blocks of granite, we emerged from the pine and hemlock trees onto a sparse alpine environment found on only a few of New England's highest peaks.
Confused by the thin air and sparse environment, my mind bounced from place to place transcending time like a daydream. The wind whistled through rocks, rattling the small and tilting the tall signs in the same direction.
album I took with my iPhone.
After ten hours and forty five minutes we made it back to a small bridge within shouting distance of the car. Sore from twelve miles and 3,500 feet of vertical change, I rested my feet in a cool stream. As the sun dropped below the rugged outline of Mt. Katahdin, I wiggled my toes in the runoff from winter's snow. Taking my time, I jumped from rock to rock, happy to have finished the day.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Starting with a blank piece of plywood, the apprentices start each boat with full sized drafting. Using the board like a set of Lego instructions, the boat builders refer back for the angles, lengths and widths of the hundreds of components of each boat. It all seemed like alchemy to me.
Men at Work and a nearly complete rowboat.
The fruits of their labor: a 13-foot row boat and its oars.
You can't telecommute to Rockland or learn about it on Wikipedia. Boat building appeals to an older desire to create tools of exploration and adventure. It's an existence, a way of life. The results reflect the hundreds of hours spent toiling over wood, paint and sand paper. Price aside, I would rather have one of these works of art than any Patek Phillipe or Mercedes AMG. Groups of people on the Maine coast still answer the call to build boats from scratch. That inspires me.
Here are some more links,
Building Boats (Picasa),