The Coldest Days are Always Sunny

The coldest days are always sunny. Before moving to Maine in the fall of 2006, I had never experienced brutally cold weather. I grew up snowboarding a couple times a week on Mt. Hood, where the temperature rarely drops below 20°, and felt prepared for my first winter in the Deep South of the Far North. Walking to class one morning in January, my hair froze into a Ace Ventura-like sculpture on top of my wet head. I had walked 100 feet.

Last week, a cold front from Canada swept down from the arctic by way of some desolate land in Canada. 93.5 the River, Central Maine's classic rock radio station that advertises ice fishing bait suppliers and snowmobile customizing shops and claims to be Hillary Clinton's least favorite radio station, warned of the looming subzero temperatures. They don't fear monger. I took note.

When the temperature turns negative, the pace of life changes. People stay inside. They watch TV and read. Buttons on key chains warm up cars before their drivers leave on errands. Last week, I ventured out, seeking the solitude and quiet of cold sunny days in late January.

A brackish outlet in Reid State Park filled with slushy runoff from a nearby 7-Eleven.

A vacant business in Augusta.

A solid tidepool in Casco Bay.

Snowmobile tracks on a vacant Messalonskee Lake.

Polo Cashmere Cardigan, Polo Gingham Shirt, APC New Standard Jeans, Georgia Ranch Boots, White Stag Parka, Barbour Scarf, and my Woolrich Hunting Gloves.

Despite the bright sun, the biting wind and X-ray like cold penetrate even the thickest jackets and gloves. Ears turn white and fingers shake in the subzero quiet of January in Maine.

Here are some more links,
The Coldest Days are Sunny (Picasa).

Woolrich Horse Skin Hunting Gloves

I am a dreamer. The ideas and stories behind clothes are always more pure and unspoiled than the physical incarnation of a product. For example, I am really drawn to L.L. Beans' outdoor history and their loyalty to Leon's original vision, but I don't own a pair of Bean boots. With that said, every so often, I find a product that I am drawn to like a 13 year old to Twilight.

A few weeks ago, my friend Bethany sent me these vintage Woolrich Horse Skin Hunting Gloves. Designed for hunting, the horse leather flap on the right hand flips back enabling trigger control. I fell in love with the gloves as soon as I unwrapped them.

Judging by the stitching and the worn tag, these gloves could be from the 40's or earlier.

After decades of use, the virgin wool is surprisingly supple and smooth. I love the black and red stripes and the crossover around the wrist.

More importantly than their fine craftsmanship and beautiful design, these gloves fit perfectly into my romanticized world of Ice Shacks in Maine, Hikes in the Snow in the Cascades, Drives throughout frozen New England, and Campfires at Sunset. The slit in the right hand could just as easily drop the shutter of my 5d Mark II as open a Swiss Army Knife or fire a six-gun. I always identified with Flannery O'Conner's 1955 title to her short story, "A Good Man is Hard to Find." Well a good glove is hard to find too, and I have found mine.

Here are some more links,
My Woolrich Horse Skin Gloves (Picasa),
My Own Private New England (ART),
Ice Fishing Shacks in Maine (ART),
A Campfire at Sunset (ART).

My Own Private New England

In four months to the day, I will pack up my belongings and move away from New England for the foreseeable future. Three years ago, I arrived at Boston International Airport, naive, unsuspecting and excited to spend four years at a tiny college nestled in the Maine woods. It wasn't until my junior year that my curiosity drove me out of the walls of my college and I started appreciating the history and texture of the area around me. As the shadow of moving away from New England edges closer, I find myself looking for excuses to explore bumpy side roads that connect the forests and fields of Northern New England.

Crates in a lumber yard near Unity, Maine.

Convenience store near Decker Corner, Maine.

Locomotive breath near Detroit, Maine.

Jeep delivery truck near Dodge Corner, Maine. I wish it was mine.

A country road near the New Hampshire and Maine border.

A pair of weathered barns near Burnham, Maine.

A lone tree in a field near Shoreham, Vermont.

Aimlessly, I wander the cracked roads, listening to songs on repeat and measuring my trips in time, not miles traveled. I drive alone. Stopping often, I leave the car running as I skip across the road and into the snow. Through the lens of my camera, I try to capture my own private New England.

Here are some more links,
My Last Four Months in New England (Picasa),
Side of the Road (ART).

Ice Fishing Shacks in Maine

Starting in December, the lakes of Maine ice up and thousands of outdoor enthusiasts take to the frozen playgrounds on snowmobiles and pickup trucks in search of fish. Basing their operations out of small shacks, the fishermen walk around the frozen landscape periodically, checking traps, breaking up ice buildups and drilling new holes. Bundled up like Randy Parker from The Christmas Story, they approach their fishing responsibilities as a defiant right of passage. Each inadvertent slip on the ice or splashing of water proves to themselves and their buddies, warming their stomachs with cheap beer in nearby shacks, that not even sub-zero winters can bar them from enjoying the great Maine outdoors.

Driving by lakes throughout New England, I am always on the lookout for ice shacks and their dedicated proprietors. On Sunday, I looked at a map of central Maine for unfamiliar roads, towns and lakes and headed northwest with my camera sitting shotgun. Near Canaan I spotted a lone ice shack standing tall and pulled to the side of the road. A dozen more shacks came into view as I rounded a small point and for the next hour and half I walked around exploring the landscape and looking at the structures.

Utensils for cooking fish and breaking ice.

Scott Peterman's photos of architecture and ice shacks have had a major influence on my photography and overall aesthetic.

The bright colors of the ice shacks juxtapose the bleak Maine winter, making both more pronounced and impressive.

A thermometer on the door handle of his shack reminds Mr. Bickford of the gelid nature of ice fishing.

Anchored to the ice.

Truck, snowmobile and foot prints on the ice, the highway of ice fishing.

Thawing and freezing cements footprints in the ice until the spring storms of April and early May.

Take Note.

Yellow and Red.

Time passed as the wind whipped up loose snow and the drone of snowmobiles oscillated in the distance like a snooze alarm in a nearby room. I slid my feet on the ice towards the shore and the warmth of my car.

Here are some more links,
Ice Shacks in Maine (Picasa),
Fishing with John: Willem Dafoe in Maine,
Scott Peterman (Photographer),
IceShanty.com.