August 29: Mountains and Migrants

After a quick breakfast and camp breakdown, we had to pause at the River of Rocks that basically bisected the campground. 

While it may appear to be any random section of a Michigan expressway in Detroit, it’s not.  During the last Ice Age, exposed rocks (in this case, Tuscarora Sandstone) were broken apart by the frost/freeze cycles we so often see in erosion.  In this case, these broken chunks ranging in size from basketballs to small cars literally flowed down the mountain side mixed in with mud and ice. Overtime, streams removed the gravels and sands.  The rocks remained in the place. The Appalachians are apparently covered with this incredible effect.

Soon afterwards, the winding roads took us to one of the most historic birding locations in North America.  Joining the ranks of Point Pelee of Ontario, Cape May, New Jersey, and the Dry Tortugas of Florida, one’s bucket list (even though I hate that phrase) must include Hawk Mountain.

While most people today cherish the opportunity to just see hawks, that has not always been the case.  Once upon a time in the not-so-distant pass (early 20^th century), gunners would trudge up the hillside and park themselves on a rocky outcropping hoping for the opportunity to blast “them chickenhawks.”  Amazingly, such behavior was encouraged by the Pennsylvania Game Commission as they were prepared to pay the gunner $5 per goshawk.  Of course, nobody could readily identify such a bird in flight, so they shot everything they could.  On days with northwest winds, the flights would be heavy and close to the ridge.  The birds didn’t stand a chance.  The carnage was incredible. 

As history so often shows, amazing things happen when woman get pissed.  Forget Lorena Bobbitt – that’s not what I’m talking about.  Rosalie Edge, a New York Socialite  and amateur birder, enraged with the shooting,  bought 1,400 acres of the land in 1934 including the now world famous North Lookout.  Maurice Broun and his wife Irma were brought in as wardens to protect the mountain and the birds, and to begin what is now the world’s longest running hawk migration census.

For decades now, folks hoping to see birds of prey or even shoot them (with cameras as opposed to a 10-gauge) hike the one mile trail, sit on rocks (which is every bit as uncomfortable as it sounds) and hope to see migrants zip past at what seems to be only an arm’s length.  In the world of Islam, one is expected to travel to Mecca at least once in their life if they are capable. For birders and environmentalists, Hawk Mountain should be considered in the same fashion. 

A good flight was not in the cards for us.  August is hardly prime time and a migration-promoting weather pattern had not been seen in days.  It was hot and humid. But who cares – it's Hawk Mountain. Let’s face it, there are not many places where one can look down on a migrating Turkey Vulture! Stealing a joke from the fishing world “A bad day at Hawk Mountain is better than a good day at work.”  

That said, our day was not bad.  Turkey Vulture (like the one in the photo below), Black Vulture, Osprey, Bald Eagle, Sharp-shinned Hawk and Broad-winged Hawk were all tallied.  A single Red-tailed Hawk was seen as well.  Interestingly, the best bird was the Northern Harrier.  Apparently, they are more difficult to get at Hawk Mountain than a Bald Eagle.  Nice.

After a bag lunch on the mountain (minus the Timber Rattlesnake who was removed from the premises a few days previous), it was decided to press on.  We knew our next destination was southwest Pennsylvania and it would take almost four hours of driving to get us there.  Sunset found us in Laurel Hill State Park near Somerset (which is southeast of Pittsburg).  Showered and refreshed after a light camp dinner, we found ourselves at a local restaurant getting more food (because dinner wasn’t very filling) and a Delaware beer (that can be easily secured in Michigan). That was not the plan. 

Wouldn’t it have been stupid if we ventured out for a 40-mile round trip drive to have a drink at a brewery that turned out to be closed on a Saturday night?  It’s a Saturday night. They have to be open.  What sort of brewery is not open on a Saturday?    I mean really. How stupid would you have to be to call them, get no answer, and still drive all that way because it’s a Saturday and you feel they have to be open?  How stupid to you have to be to drive through those crazy-ass mountain roads to a brewery that should be open so you can turn around and do it again?  You have to be a fool.  I mean, geeze.  Can you imagine how embarrassed you’d be?  You would never tell a soul as everyone would just point at you and laugh. 

Hey. Stop pointing.

August 28: Augustus' Place

After a fair hotel breakfast, the morning took us on a short drive to New Hampshire’s only National Park site.  Forget the grand vistas or peaceful fields that once hosted death.  Nah. Let’s talk art.

Augustus Saint-Gaudens (GO-dins) is considered one of America’s greatest sculptors and, in my opinion, bore a striking and eerie resemblance to Dustin Diamond from “Saved by the Bell.”  (If Diamond ever gets his life out of the toilet, maybe he can be cast in a biopic of Saint-Gauden’s life.)   If you have ever held American coins or walked through any number of art institutes across the world, you have seen his work or the work of his students.

Born in 1848 in Dublin, he was raised in New York only to return to Europe as a young man to gain further study in sculpture.  Returning to New York again, he went on to receive a commission for the Admiral David Farragut statue that cemented his reputation as a sculptor on a world level.  Like so many artists, once you get that first piece out of the way, people will line up to have you do more.

His Standing Lincoln, William Tecumseh Sherman, Diana, the Puritan and the Adams Memorial are just some of the works he churned out in his lifetime.  

As a Civil War nut, I found myself in awe of the Shaw Memorial when I was in Boston Common a few years back. Low and behold, he did that, too.  Completed in the blazing fast timeline of 14 years (the same amount of time it will take the Republicans to field a good Presidential candidate), it is considered one of his greatest pieces and, by some, one of the greatest public monuments ever made.  The model of the grounds here in New Hampshire was much smaller than the 11’ by 14’ original cast in Massachusetts. 

If you are not familiar with who Robert Gould Shaw was, go ask Mathew Broderick. He portrayed him in what has to be one of the best Civil War movies ever made – Glory.  The Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor that year went to DenzelWashington.  Plus Morgan Freeman?  Really. Go see this movie.

However, for the layperson, Saint-Gaudens greatest contributions to American culture might be his work with coins.  A numismatist (say that 10 times fast!), he was invited to develop new coins for the US Treasury by President Teddy Roosevelt.  His Double Eagle $20 coin is thought by many to be one of the most beautiful coins ever made.  The original version, stuck 11 times to ensure maximum detail, can sell for over 2 million dollars at auction.  The fact that only 20 were made might influence that number, huh? This Ultra High Relief was not circulated as it was discovered that it did not stack well! A “squished version” of the coin (if I can use advanced vocabulary) was finally minted from 1907 to 1933. 

But his efforts with coins did not stop there.  A celebrated teacher, he used his home in Cornish, New Hampshire (the now National Park site) as a studio and school for students of sculpture.  The famous Buffalo Nickel and the Washington Quarter (the very same one that is possibly in your couch, creating that clunking sound in your dryer or gummed into the cup holder of your car) were designed by his students. 

The opportunity to visit this site was basically the only site-seeing opportunity of the day. After zipping through a covered bridge, we pressed on for the six hour drive to eastern central Pennsylvania.  The GPS had us perilously close to New York City (within 80 miles or so) so traffic was a bit thick at times and quite the contrast from rural Maine.  At one point, we were in New Jersey.  I’m still trying to get my IQ points back.  They got sucked out of my head when we crossed the state line.

Lodging was a tent site in the Blue Rocks Family Campground.  While our original thoughts suggested this would be the dreaded KOA clone with game rooms, swimming pools, screaming kids, RVs up the ying-yang and preposterous tenting options, we were mostly….right.  All were true except the camping. 

We found ourselves on a pleasant wooded hilltop site easily 50 yards from the next tent and well beyond the hubbub and chaos below.  Nice.  We might as well have had to the woods to ourselves.  We did share it with a Scarlet Tanager.  He “chick-burr”-ed his way into the sunset.

August 27: Whales and Tails

Breakfast was in a coffee shop in downtown Portsmouth. While we ignored the House Sparrows looking for freebies, I took a moment to snap some more pics.  Low and behold, I found myself looking at the cannons that were confiscated by Oliver HazardPerry after victory over the British in the Battle of Lake Erie.  1813 cannons in the streets of Portsmouth from a battle that took place a few miles from my house. I had no idea.

 

 

A short stop at a local state park provided glimpses of Northern Mockingbird (a critter I had no idea could be found so far north along the coast) and Least Sandpipers along the beach. I was hoping for a seal but it was not to be had.

The remnants of shoreline fortifications were obvious.  During the World War II years, there was always the fear of coastal invasions.  Artillery was in place for defense. While the guns are long gone, the rails that allowed for an increase in the arc of fire are still in plain site. I suspect someone could think that they were giant fire pits, but……

By 11:00am, Nat and I were ready for what would turn out to be a highlight of the trip (I don’t believe in the concept of the highlight, I have highlights).

We went whaling.

Aw, shoot. That’s not right. Whale watching.  That’s what I meant.   No killing for meat and disguising it as scientific research. Nope.  Just shooting…with cameras.

The purpose of the watch was two-fold.  One, to give Nat the chance to see a whale up close (her fat slob husband doesn’t count) and two, for us to do some birding and score some birds we’ll likely never see in Michigan.  Even though we were 13 miles off shore, there are still birds to be had.  Seabirds, to be exact.

Basically, these birds spend most of their lives at sea. If they nest in the south Atlantic, for example, they migrate for the winter by moving north, not south.  Therefore, they are found frequenting our coastal waters during our summer (their winter).  It all sounds kind of odd, but it makes sense if you think about it.

The four hour run could not have been more pleasant. We’ve all heard the horror stories of tremendous waves, flying vomit and the groans of those that wished they had died. That was not the case here.  Imagine a walk across your family room floor or a grocery store parking lot.  It was that smooth.  How cool.

I won’t lie. The birding was hardly spectacular. One of the tricks to seabirding is to “chum” by dumping buckets of fish guts into the ocean behind the boat.  The birds will smell it from miles away with their tremendous olfactory sense and follow behind the boat offering great looks. No chumming here. It was a whale watch, not a bird watch.

That said, we scored numerous Wilson’s Storm Petrels. Not much bigger than a Robin, they would saunter past the boat but my camera (or its operator) struggled to secure a solid auto-focus. I take that back - definitely the camera's fault.

The one best shot I had of a Great Shearwater was exactly what I feared. It moved between the boat and the sun. With no clouds and the bright sun reflecting off the water, it was backlit, but I managed to save the image (I think….).

The odd bird of the trip was clearly the Chimney Swift. Thirteen miles out?  Wow!

All that said, the highlight of the trip had to have been 0050.  That is the official identity of a very particular humpback whale. Whale researchers are able to identify whales based on a patterns of spots on the underside of the fluke or other key features (like an injury).  With specific identities known, migration patterns and locations can be determined for the greater scientific good.

When the whale holds its breath during a dive, incredible amounts of carbon dioxide are generated. Since the air above the water is can be colder and less dense than the water the whale is in, upon exhalation, the water condenses and becomes a cloud of water vapor.  Sometimes, they blow before they reach the surface. Extra water is thrown into the mix.  Big blows can be seen at incredible distances.

This next picture was just plane lucky on my part.  It is a very unique part of the whale known as the blowhole.  It is basically the nostril found on other mammals (remember, whales are not fish) but it is located on the top of the whale’s noggin. 

Even more cool, the blowhole is not connected to the animal’s mouth.  Unlike you and me, for example, air and food never mix.  Food entering their mouth is channeled to the stomach via the esophagus but it never comes close to the lungs. By the same token, whales never get a giant case of the belchs because they don’t swallow air. Their internal plumbing is not connected like ours. 

Cetacean researchers (fancy speak for whale scientists) have moved forward with a new vocabulary.  In light of the recent presidential issues, they have made a motion to rename the blowhole the Trump-hole.  This is reflected in the fact that the whale expels hot air and mucous every time is surfaces from the deep, dark abyss. When it does, crowds of people stand around with the obligatory cheers, ooohs and aaaahs, but really have no idea about what they are cheering about.

With a vomit-free boat ride behind us, except for that little girl who was horribly embarrassed when she urped on herself, it was time to move along. Had she, however thrown up over board, we could have called it chumming and maybe seen more birds!  After a quick stop to secure needed things, we pressed on the Vermont-New Hampshire border.  It was sad to the ocean disappear in the rearview mirror. So much time along the coast and yet we hardly saw it.

Lodging was in the town of Lebanon, New Hampshire. Imagine our surprise when we found ourselves basically right next door to a brewery.  The Seven Barrel Brewery was a fine place.  The Shepard’s Pie was damned good and good beer made it better.  The Quechee Cream Ale, New Dublin Brown, Red #7, Champion Reserve IPA, Oatmeal Stout, and Quite Ryeit (#1616-1621) were all average. The Wicked Dark (#1622), however, was outstanding.  Dark (duh), caramelly (is that a word?), smooth with a touch of alcohol tones on the finish…mmmmm.  A “5” for sure.