Monhegan

High: 63 F
Low: 42 F
Conditions: S Winds 5-10 knots; Seas 5-7 feet with 10 foot swells

One of our favorite places in all of Maine is Monhegan. Located 12 miles off the coast, this island was one of the very first settled in all of North America: first, historians think, by Vikings, and later by pre-colonial fishermen and whalers. Now, Monhegan Island is home to 40 permanent residents, many of whom are lobstermen, along with a handful of artists and, of course, summer tourists.

We visited Monhegan over the long weekend to stay with friends. They've rented the same house--owned by one of the island's artists--for 25 years now. Our guide (both spiritual and terrestrial) was their dog, Paco, one of Ari's favorite gentlemen callers.

Paco took us on a tour of the island, which still maintains its nautical traditions, both in terms of its working waterfront

And its commitment to preserving the history of its fishing past (note sailor cat in the image below).

Today, many of its visitors spend their time birding. While we were on the island, warblers made a particularly strong showing--especially the magnolia warbler (Dendroica magnolia) in all of its yellow finery.

Our personal favorite inhabitants of Monhegan, however, are a different kind of winged creature entirely: fairies (Sylvanus fairianus).

For over a century, scholars speculated that Monhegan might, in fact, be the island where Prospero was banished in The Tempest. That theory was later debunked, but not for lack of Calibans and Ariels. The island's fairies (and there are rumored to be many of them) live in the Cathedral Woods, an old growth forest on the northern tip of the island. There, they build dozens of elaborate abodes like this one:

No one is quite sure when the fairies first arrived or how populous they are in number, but the fairies are serious about their settlements. And, just like the fairies of tales and legends, they are known to exact sharp and creative punishments against those who fail to follow their fairy laws while in the forest. You can imagine my horror, then, when the brazen caninaturalist stole a feather from this woodland house:

Unfortunately, I didn't notice until we were 20 feet down the trail, and by then it was too late: we were cursed for sure. I've been sleeping with one eye open ever since we returned: sooner or later, we're bound to be the victims of a little mischievous retribution of the fairiest kind. We'll keep you posted--assuming we're still able!

Raptor Week

High: 62°
Low: 44°
Conditions: Variable showers

It’s been a day of great contrasts: on the same afternoon that we saw the season’s first hummingbird, Ari turned us back early on our afternoon walk, presumably so that we could get back to the fire in our woodstove. That’s where she’s sitting now, curled up like a damp sled dog.

The real news this week, though, is in big bird land. Earlier this week in Lincolnville (a town we formerly knew only as the site of Ari’s agility school), a juvenile bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) was released after spending a year convalescing at Avian Haven, a really wonderful rehabilitation center in our area. A photographer from our local paper covered the event and took some great photos:

Today, we joined our good friend Khyra in cyberspace and watched a live stream of the annual Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus) chick banding in Khyra’s home state of Pennsylvania. Ari didn’t care much for the sound of protesting chicks, but she stuck around for the entire banding process—including adorable questions from even more adorable grade school kids—before seeking out a more peaceful place for a nap elsewhere in the house.

The biggest excitement for us this week, though, is our first osprey (Pandion haliaetus) spotting. Each year at about this time, the giant raptors return to their massive familial nests, some of which are over 100 years old. Here’s an example of bird and next, taken from Animal DiversityWeb:

We love everything about the osprey: their bellicose good looks, their pronounced sense of place, even the way that males bring females breakfast in bed each day during their roosting season. It’s their family life, though, that has really earned osprey a special place in our hearts.

For the first several years Greg and I lived in Maine, we rented a 19th-century Cape Cod cottage across from a dairy farm. Years earlier, an osprey pair had built a massive nest on a utility pole in one of the cow pastures. Much to our delight, they returned each summer and never seemed to mind a few voyeurs around. Each day, we’d walk our beagle, Kinch, past the nest to check on the family. Once the chicks prepared to fledge, we spend a good part of most afternoons watching flying lessons and subsequent hunting classes.


The chicks were understandably clumsy at first. Luckily, they had patient instructors. Mom and Dad would start by bringing them fish tails to carry around in their new talons. If the number of dropped fish ends around the pole were any indication, this was a tough learning curve. Eventually, though, they'd master the tails; then, the chicks would be given whole dead fish to negotiate. That’s when the fun really began. The rain of fish was frequent enough to warrant wearing a sturdy hat on most days. Once, a chick dropped a whole alewife directly on our understandably perplexed beagle. Luckily, he had a penchant for seafood. And, in spite of his grouchy demeanor, even Kinch seemed to miss the family when they'd all leave at the end of the summer.

We live in a different house now, so Ari hasn’t had the chance to get that intimate with our favorite bird. Still, she’s become pretty adept at picking them out as they soar above us on our walks. And she’s learned to be patient—if not interested—when I slow down the car at each osprey nest I see. She might even agree to head out again this week to check on our most recent visitor—that is, if I can get her to abandon her cozy spot next to the woodstove.

Silent Spring

Low: 44° F
High: 68° F
Conditions: Partly cloudy with a chance of showers late.

To paraphrase Garrison Keillor, it’s been a quiet week here in Central Maine. The caninaturalist and I have readjusted our walking routine to accommodate the growing black fly population, pushing our walks earlier into the dawn and later into the evening. That seems to suit both of just fine, as this is the one time of year I don’t mind being nudged with a wet husky nose before 6:00 a.m. Why not? After all, spring has finally arrived.

This makes both me and the caninaturalist deliriously happy.

Ari loves greens: timothy grass, fiddlehead ferns, and just about anything that grows in our garden. When she was a puppy, we thought she might be part goat. Now that she’s grown into her ears, she looks a little less the part. Still, her penchant for grazing continues.

This time of year, she noses around the pansy and fern shoots, looking for her first breakfast. Meanwhile, I spend my time looking upwards, trying my best to take in every molecule of flowering apple and pear trees. It is, without a doubt, the best show of color we'll see until fall foliage season.
Colorful signs of spring seem to be arriving all around our house these days. Nevertheless, I haven’t been able to get over the feeling that something is missing.

I spent all week trying to place it. And then, just this morning I finally realized what it is: other than our recent intruder the red squirrel, we haven’t seen a single wild animal. Sure, a handful of goldfinches and chickadees still visit our feeder, and we’re still hearing the last of the spring peepers. But that’s it. No barred owls and coyotes; no porcupines and skunks; no fox and deer. The woods are just too quiet.

This revelation came on the same day that the WWF released the latest Living Planet Index, which reveals that biodiversity has dropped by about a third since I was born. I’m 33, so you can understand my concern.

Ari is just two, so she hasn’t seen nearly the decrease in her life. But over the past week, she too seems aware that a lot less seems to be going on in our woods. Has biodiversity there dropped in just the last seven days? Probably not. But a new logging operation just off of one of our favorite trails is doing in miniature what the Living Planet Index has investigated at the macro-level: creating a human habitat intrusion the likes of which most environments have never seen.

Don’t get me wrong: we love studying foliage. We just don’t like the idea it might be all we have to study before too long.

That’s a sobering thought for any caninaturalist--especially now, during an otherwise glee-filled time of year. In fact, you might say it's left us speechless.