Window to the Woods

Amish Country in Aroostook County

Rhon Bell — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 22:35:15 GMT

A few miles down a country road from where I grew up in Aroostook County springs new life of an Amish community. And in what better place can you find rather inexpensive farmland and turn of the century farmhouses than Fort Fairfield, ME. Property values in the Canadian-border town are relatively cheap in comparison to the rest of the state. Simply yank out the electrical wires, slap a pump on the well and you’re that much closer to planting seed and looking forward to harvest. More and more Amish families have appeared in the last 10 years, bringing with them an influentially simpler way of life. More and more folks have begun taking interest in the simple, yet satisfying way of life. Self-sufficiency is something to be praised at this day in age. Here are a few snap shots from smiling pigs to homesteads.

A Sunset Kayak Trip | Scenic Maine Coast Photos

Rhon Bell — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 17:52:40 GMT

The Coastal Maine town of Harpswell is home to the world's only Cribstone bridge. Construction began in 1927 on a bridge connecting two island communities allowing strong tides and currents to flow freely. Gravity alone holds these stacks of granite blocks atop one another. Storms have constantly beat upon the thousands of pounds of local granite that make up the bridge, but she has held her strength - pausing just once for repair in 2010. Claims state that Scotland once held a similar bridge, but no proof has ever been found. Added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1975 - it's surely a unique place to photograph and visit. If you haven't planned your next trip, I would recommend it.

Unloading our kayaks, we strapped on our L..L.Bean life vests and explored the coves of the islands. As fascinating as it is to explore the coast by foot, it's even more exciting to take in the view from the Atlantic. After exploring the harbor, we exited via the passageway built into the bridge and paddled a few afternoon hours. The sunshine was adequate, wind calm, and swells minimal.

The ancient slabs of granite evenly balance a two-lane roadway.

Perhaps one of the only towns in America whose power is carried via ocean telephone poles. The underbelly of the bridge houses a gap large enough to allow fishing boats to safely exit the harbor for daily fishing ventures. A pretty unique sight.

Local colorful buoy houses.

Oceanic findings.

Photo from the kayak on the way out of the harbor.

After an afternoon paddle, we returned to load the kayaks and open a cold beverage. Sitting back on the shore, we watched the golden sun set beyond the village and we took in the scenery and of course chatted about plans for next weekend.

As sun sets on this historic bridge, I hope to cross her again soon. My body leaves tired, but I have plenty of photos to return home and sort through.

Truly a beautiful spot that makes Maine an ideal tourist destination.

Sunrise in Portland | Seaside Docks | Summer Photos

Rhon Bell — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 22:59:58 GMT

Being self-diagnosed with borderline ADD, I constantly attempt to pack my weekends with new sights and activities. Although most define adventure to be far from home, staying local isn’t something to turn your nose up at. Something new lies around every corner here in Portland.

We set out for a marsh hike along the coast of Maine. The morning sun shined upon the still bodies of water and the tall sea grass. The scent of the marsh infiltrates your nose with the scent of mud and sea salt. Today feels particularly warm considering that last week gave us nothing but rain.

The docks seem next door to downtown. Where it blends cannot be determined.

SummerMode of transportation.

Private fishing docks.

Favorite fish market on the ocean.

Bait shack at sunrise.

Sunrise over the marsh.

Remnants from the evening before still line the docks.

Remote Riverside Tenting Trip

Rhon Bell — Fri, 31 May 2013 13:44:08 GMT

The first warm weekend of each year means a special camping trip. Instead of planning an extravagant hiking or fishing trip – we simply choose a new, but beautifully scenic location and pack accordingly. These first adventures serve as a way to reconnect with the wilderness and familiarize ourselves with new outdoor gear purchased over a long and cold Maine winter. I like to call this a time to become “re-grounded in how life is meant to be”. Chopping wood, cooking three meals a day over an open flame, and listening to the rustling overhead as wind blows through the trees is serene.

Rifling through a New England atlas, we find a promising location along New Hampshire’s Swift River to make camp. Offering both mountainous views and, as the name would suggest, a wild river by which we’d make our weekend home. Located in the heart of the White Mountain range, our tent would be wedged between forty-eight 4,000 ft. mountains.

GPS coordinates lead us to a spot with just enough grass to park alongside a narrow country road. Tossing packs over our shoulders, we follow a compass into the woods and listen for the sounds of rushing water. The afternoon is young and within an hour the tent is setup. A stack of firewood begins to grow next to a circle of stacked rocks still caked with spring dirt and mud. This ring will serve perfectly for this weekend’s fires.

Afternoons are well-spent in a hammock re-reading several books by Henry David Thoreau snatched from the bookshelf on the way out the door. Warm rays of sunshine gleam through the forest ceiling. The sun, combined with a chorus of songbirds, soon finds the book resting softly on my chest and my eyelids closed tightly. True relaxation has set in and is hopefully placing a precedent for the remainder of this year’s camping trips.

Bacon and egg breakfasts, lunches of dutch oven pizza, and dinner-time stews adequately fill the void left in our stomachs from hours of exploring the lay of the land, chatting fireside and splitting wood. Entertainment is found in card games as well as a Frisbee we packed. No matter how you choose to spend your time in the woods – enjoy it and relax; these memories will stick with you for a lifetime.

As we exit the woods and begin the drive back home I mull over how my new axe proved to be as sharp as it is American made. The Swift River was as refreshing to quench our thirst as it was to wash our faces in the early morning. I can’t wait for next weekend…

Rustic Maine Farm Photos, Established 1778

Rhon Bell — Tue, 28 May 2013 22:24:14 GMT

Farming was, still is and hopefully will remain a vital part of the Maine economy for the forseeable future. Old farms always catch my eye when I drive through the countryside. The sometimes massive farmhouses and hundreds of acres of freshly plowed fields tell a story. Perhaps it's because my grandfather, who passed away last fall at the age of 92, was a hard-working Aroostook County potato farmer - but I think the appreciation of working with your hands and valuing hard work has been passed through the generations and deserves respect.

It's with open eyes that I stopped to photograph this Farmington farm. Built in 1778, this farm still provides crops to local towns after 228 years. The rustic barnfront is attention grabbing. Goats roam the pasture, adding to its character. Misaligned barn windows increase the allure. The property provides a flashback to how life looked so long ago - narrow dirt roads lined with ruts of carriage horses, expansive forests and undeveloped towns. The peace and quiet that went along with that is worth rememberance.

Here are a few photos:

Maine Made Axe: A Weekend Restoration Project

Rhon Bell — Tue, 21 May 2013 23:57:42 GMT

Whether you're searching for a conversation piece to hang above the mantle, or a sharp tool for your next camping trip - if you'd like a weekend project that reconnects you with the outdoors, you've come to the right place. An axe is a critical tool that if taken care of, can serve a lifetime. Very few companies still exist in the United States that source and build axes with 100% American resources and labor. Maine outdoorsmen may be familiar with Snow & Nealley, a Bangor, Maine company which began at the beginning of the lumbering era. After a very successful history, the company was recently sold. From my research, the last axe they completely crafted in Maine was 1995-96 so I set out on Craigslist to find one - and I did.

Hopefully you find an axe in fairly good shape, as I did. After taking a grinding stone to the edge, I put on a razor sharp finished edge with a leather strop - skills that can easily be learned on YouTube. I then set out to add a personalized touch to the axe. I drafted a paint pattern on paper and began taping off the design on the axe handle. After two days of painting and allowing the sections to dry, I covered the handle with a quality stain before applying several coats of polyurethane. New, quality USA axes can cost upwards of $120, or more. My weekend project materials, including the axe, totaled $66. Afterall, who doesn't want to get out of the house, work with their hands and build a conversational piece for outdoor adventures - all at a fraction of the price!

If you have any questions, shoot me an email at rhonbell (at) gmail.com or find me on Twitter (@BackwoodsPlaid).

Backwoods Camping in Maine

Rhon Bell — Thu, 16 May 2013 00:08:54 GMT

With a majority of the spring gardening underway, I tossed a tent into the pickup and headed for the mountains of Maine. As a few sprouts pop from the fertilized ground, I'll be fireside, with my feet up. We pulled into a remote campsite late in the afternoon and carefully chose the area in which to plot out our tent - flat ground, no rocks and not in a low area (in case it did actually rain). I feel that we've locked down our routine fairly well. I setup the tent and begin splitting wood. My fiance makes it a home - sleeping pads, sleeping bags, pillows and finding a nice spot for the dogs to rest in the shade. Equitable division of work.

Weekend home in a box.

A bit of starter fuel for this evening's fire.

Old faithful travels religiously wherever I step foot.

I tend to carry enough wood for all-day fires. I enjoy cooking meals over an open flame - it tastes better.

The bugs are beginning to surface and even through a plume of afternoon smoke, they drive us into the tent. Sometimes when you're deep in the woods - there is no safety.

Armloads of kindling.

Fuel for the fire addiction.

Any campsite you choose with access to decent fishing will be a trip worth taking. We find a few worms locally and take to the water. Trying several points on the lake shore, we cast and slowly reel in, throwing some movement into the line. Two small native brook trout take bite, but we catch nothing large enough to brag about, but the fun comes in the adventure!

Quiet Country Cabin - A Perfect Spring/Summer Get-a-way

Rhon Bell — Fri, 10 May 2013 12:13:06 GMT

Times are busy. Putting in an offer on our first home, planning a summer marriage, starting a new career, and buying a new Harley seem to take precedence and replace time wearing Plaid in the Backwoods. No fear. You can't keep a good man down, and I would say, in relation, can't keep a country boy from the woods. Trips are planned; campsites are booked. A cold, windy, wet Spring leaves Mainers anxiously awaiting Summer. Namely, the sole reason we rented a small cabin recently rather than springing for a 2-man tent on a damp forest floor.

A quiet dirt road, far from anything you'd call "the edge of town", brought us to our weekend home. Upon arriving at camp, one matter of business always comes foremost - unloading pre-split camp wood next to the fire pit. Followed promptly afterward by the first campfire. My inner boy seems to escape about this time. While I chop kindling, collect twigs, arrange my "tee-pee" style tinder bundle and spark what will become an all-night fire - other duties escape me (such as helping to unload the remainder of our weekend belongings and essentials). At least that's my excuse - she doesn't read my blog.

Afternoons are spent enjoying a local waterfall seemingly placed here for our sole enjoyment. Rushing water has the tendency, for me, to erase all earthly stresses and cares. The early sounds of spring fall into unison as the birds join in song and the wind rustles amongst the branches. Responsibilities are merely a drive back home; all the more reason to stay.

A Riverside Spring Camping Trip

Rhon Bell — Mon, 06 May 2013 13:49:56 GMT

Warmth is arriving in New England. It was a perfect weekend to pack the tent, a cooler and head out into the woods. We didn't need a reservation. We meandered down the back roads until reaching New Hampshire and enjoyed the chirping of the birds and the scents of spring. Landing along the Kanc Highway, we stopped at one of the last campgrounds and picked a secluded site.

We weren't the only campers this weekend, but it was relaxingly quiet. Nature lovers unite.

Taking an early afternoon walk and chasing down the source of the running water we could hear from our campsite seemed an appropriate afternoon activity. We headed down to the river and sat on its banks - as the white noise of rushing waters over rocks blocked out every other possible sound.

Having no schedule is one of the best parts of getting away from home. Whether a lake, river, or stream - there is something rejuvinating about watching and listening to moving water.

Lunch involves stoking a hot fire and boiling a couple cans of beans and roasting hot dogs. A full belly, warm fire and a cool afternoon breeze feel best with your feet up in a hammock.

Hammock views are anything to just shake a stick at.

I always bring a selection from Henry David Thoreau and the latest Maine Magazine. Reaching over hammock's edge - I push hard off the ground - sending my hammock into a five minute back-and-forth rocking session. It's enough to get me through a few pages before I reach back down to the ground.

Spending 48 hours trying to see how many antique covered bridges you can find is always a good use of time.The classic countryside is always enjoyable.

The fireside is a place where friends and families grow closer, where stories are brought forth and conversation knows no bounds. As one of the oldest gathering places, the fire is intriguing a place to cherish the memories that are made. As always, another treasured trip into the woods. Until next time...

Spring Hiking Destination | Mountainous Views | New Hampshire

Rhon Bell — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 23:03:53 GMT

Mt. Major holds amazing views throughout the entire climb if you're looking for a weekend escape. Scenic outlooks are often held for reward at the summit, but this is one mountain hike that doesn't require hours of toil and sweat for only a few fleeting moments of views. Located within the heart of the White Mountains, but only a short jaunt from Portland, you can't go wrong. Bring the dog.

The trailhead on Route 11 will point you on a 3.8 mile hike, with a steady incline. Remnants of a stone hut, dating back to 1925 still sit overlooking Lake Winnipesaukee. On our last outing, it served to break the relentless wind while we sat inside. Our ears thanked us. It seems as though you can see a majority of the 4,000 footers from a seat at the top, particularly special arethat of Mt. Washington.

Blue skies held strong overhead on our descent. With a few short breaks for the chocolate lab to lap up some fresh, cold stream water and photo opportunities, the hike took around 3 hours. An afternoon get-a-way and back in Portland for dinner - what else could a guy ask for?

Fly-in Spring Camping Trip

Rhon Bell — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 22:20:31 GMT

Back country camping offers the real sense of adventure often lost today. Booking a bush plane is more affordable than you may imagine - that's excluding the intangible benefit of unbridled explorations. Vibrant greens and blues fill the landscape below as we taxi off Acadian Seaplanes in Rangeley, Maine. Our Cessna stashed with three days of needed - wool shirts, a tent, and grub.

Aviation headsets quickly tune to XM radio. Hank Jr's "A Country Boy Can Survive" sounds best three hundred feet above the pines. A last minute plan, and first mission before landing, was to see a Moose. In a marsh, off our third lake, twenty minutes into our trip, we spot a large bull in his natural habitat. Two passes are made over a full-grown male feasting on lake vegetation before we coast in for a quiet landing.

From a distance, we observe the beauty of the mammoth Maine creature. After what feels like an hour passes, we take back to the air. A distant body of water comes into view beyond a old growth of white pines, high above the canopy below. Lower Richardson Lake will be our home for the following days. This is one of the largest in the state and home to only a historic guiding camp. A secluded sand beach awaits the floats of our plane. No time is wasted setting up camp and wading into the lake for a few evening casts. Each of us experience success before dusk by hauling in a glimmering salmon. The enjoyment is quickly shared before release, but the memories will surely last.

The night sky is soon filled with billions of blinking stars shining so brightly that mirrored reflections are present on the peaceful lake. A certain calm is brought to this world that is hours away from the nearest house or honking horn. This is a place I could call home. A cold beverage of choice and good company make for an entirely perfect camping experience.

Afternoons are spent exploring the wilds of a place rather untouched by man. The only part of landing at camp I look forward to is grilling thick steaks over the flames of a fire where the wood was chopped by my own hand. The crackling of an evening fire fills the only void that reading a quiet book leaves behind. My first bush plane camping experience is one for the books. Heading home can wait a few days...

Kennebunkport & Freeport's Wolfe's Neck State Park

Rhon Bell — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 00:31:00 GMT

A warm spring weekend calls for two things: an open sunroof and a journey down Maine's infamous Route 1. Highlighting jewels of Maine, scenic coastal towns and fishing villages weave along the rugged granite-laden coast. Today we headed down to Ogunquit for brunch at the Egg & I Restaurant, swing by the George Bush compound and play "tourist" and then wrap up our afternoon with a day-hike North in Freeport, at Wolfe's Neck State Park.

If you've never passed by the Bush compound, it's definitely worth a look if nearby. On a windy coastal road, past a security gate, on a large peninsula, sits a home with an unbelievably incredible ocean-panorama.

One of the tallest sign posts in Maine, filled with numerous color-coded directional markers and way signs. Kennebunkport offers so many options, it's seems impossible to declare boredom.

Although trees are budding across Southern Maine, the woods still appear a remnant of late fall. A glance from forest floor to tree tops is a brown convergence. Spring colors have yet to appear, but I'm patient.

The jagged coastline stands resiliently over the ocean's smooth waters. Although clouds fill the early afternoon sky, warmth is in the air.

Opening a ziplock bag of pistachio's, we plop down onto a rustic bench and listen to the birds chirp. A nest and two osperrey are spotted in a nearby tree, but today's lens won't reach quite that far.

Spring Camping

Rhon Bell — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 01:01:22 GMT

Heading Southwest, I meet up with a friend from Boston to explore New Hampshire for a weekend. We pick a remote campsite on the Kancamagus Highway and set our tents up by a nearby river. "The Kanc" is designated as a National Scenic Byway by the U.S. Department of Transportation. This back country road offers spectacular mountain views, steep hiking terrain, and plentiful wildlife. New Hampshire holds a lifetime of exploration for Mainers who wish to step out for a new adventure.

As spring slowly settles in to the area, chilled winter air gradually fades. The local ponds stand testament as the ice gives way to open water. Brighter greens of the forest begin to return. The only sounds heard are of chirping birds and peeping frogs. An evening rain sets in at midnight. We watch as our small campfire is dosed out and we retreat to our separate tents as temperatures drop to 34 degrees. Luckily my sleeping bag is rated for these temperatures. The early morning shows that fog still holds high over the hills on Sunday. A curtain of fog rests above the tree line in the distance. As the morning passes in front of our reignited campfire, I watch as the sun escapes from behind the clouds, dissolving cloudiness, and preparing us for our day of hiking.

Exploring Ice Caves

Rhon Bell — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 01:43:13 GMT

Most epic adventures aren't pinpointed and pre-circled for you on the crumpled pages of an old Gazateer. If it were that easy - "epic" would lose its meaning. The best trick for discovering hidden treasures is by talking to locals. On this particular outing I'd picked a spot on the map to go, but in an effort to round-out our stay - I called in folks from the area for help. It's useful to call up sporting stores, Bed & Breakfasts, and wilderness guides to simply seek suggestions for places off 'the beaten path'.

We learn of an area situated deep within the woods where glaciers left a tortured path. Giant slabs of glacial ice once traveled 'ore this land, carving out blatantly obvious paths. Expansive crevasses are torn into the earth leaving massive boulders unearthed and awkwardly exposed. One purely wild remnant is a millennium-old ice cave. An afternoon's kayak trip leads us to a small sign marked 'Ice Cave'. We dock our kayaks and strap on our hiking shoes. Two miles in, we spot what we've been in search of. A rather narrow opening in the surface of the ground leads to an explorable gift of mother nature. Equipped with a headlamp and courage, we drop down into the black hole.

The story goes that early native Americans used this ice cave to store moose, bear and deer meat throughout the heat of summer. Ice and snow remain inside until late September, just in time for the next round of winter temperatures to blow in and refreeze everything. We're told that locals only recently added steel foot-holds for the climb down in (after several injuries had occurred). The cold air instantaneously shocks the body while lowering ourselves down into the frigid sub-surface. The walls of the cave prop up the ungodly sized overhead boulders.

The cave stretches 50 yards into the mountainside before forming a 90-degree turn. I turn my headlamp on to its brightest setting. With wide eyes and careful footsteps over patches of ice, we explore inward. Imagining the history of this place and the people who've stood here is incredible. It makes you wonder how they happened across this patch of earth so many years ago. Headroom is soon limited. Clad in shorts and light-weight shirts, we both express the need to warm up so we decide to resurface.

Enjoy the outdoors and contact me for further details. Follow me on Twitter at @BackwoodsPlaid.

Popham Beach and Lost Lobster Traps

Rhon Bell — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 00:46:07 GMT

Lobstering is to Maine as Sunshine is to California. On a recent journey, I traveled up and down a few hundred miles of coast in search of "Lost Lobster Pots". If a rogue propeller snags the line connecting a pot to a buoy - it'll be set free. Almost like a message in a bottle, each pot washes onto shore telling a story. Some pots are mangled and multi-colored while others appear in-shape and fresh from the factory. Popham Beach has a real collection of oceanic marvels today.

Blue skies, white contrails of passenger planes, and a mix of rope and pots mark the beach. Windblown ripples of sand on the soft beach lead us, barefoot, to two pots twisted together. Crashing waves of the deep blue ocean silently slide onto shore, washing the sand from beneath our feet. Splashing foam precedes every wave that rolls onto the beach. Within moments, our feet are numb from the cold waters and our boots are back on. The wind blows with strength across the exposed beach. Each shell is blown to a standing position and protects a triangular shaped sand design.

The roads leading up to the beach community are dotted with fishing boats for sale. With a pocket of cash and a bucket of bait, you too could be embracing the ocean depths - leaving behind your office desk in its own lonely solitude. Sounds good to me...

Peaks Island Trip Part I

Rhon Bell — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 23:12:59 GMT

"Grab 2 tickets for the 4:00 ferry, I'm running late.", the voice said on the other end of the phone. Having been under the assumption we were going to miss our ride, I jump from my bench and run inside to purchase another ticket. Our destination, agreed upon late last night over Facebook messenger, is Peak's Island - a small island community fit with beaches and a year-round Inn. Most Portlander's are familiar with the Island, but for an Aroostook County boy who is still familiarizing himself with Southern Maine, it was a first time adventure, and a beautiful one at that.

The trip would be with my friend Jen and our weekend stay would be at her friend's home. Real island living.

Passing by Bug Light and Spring Point light houses and a historic fort, standing guard on smaller islands, our weekend destination is finally spotted in the distance. We ready our bags and descend onto new territory.

Visitors are greeted with brilliant colors from all angles. One island resident jokingly informs us, later at the hotel bar, that no Republicans live on the island. Without a care who inhabits the island - one thing is certain, it'd be a beautiful place to live.

This cozy cottage near the dock, owned by my friend's boss, will be our weekend home.

We are greeted in style. You can tell a lot about a person by their boots.

Instantly I realize that I can call this place home.

What proves to be my weekend reading chair with an oceanic view.

Afternoons are spent sipping wine and walking two chocolate labs on remote beaches. I could quickly acclimate myself to this lifestyle on a permanent basis, less the slobbery tennis ball caked in sand.

The island is quiet - no traffic and few sightseers. The waves come rolling in, slapping against the coast, as evening arrives. We plop ourselves down on the beach to enjoy an amazing sunset. The sun glimmering off the hull of the boat. We stare back towards the city we just came from - contemplating if we'll ever go back....

First Spring Hike

Rhon Bell — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 22:02:53 GMT

A feeling of ill-preparedness swept over me as I spotted two young ladies at the trail-head. Each was outfitted in insulated pants, gaiters, and winter boots. Would our journey to 3,000 ft. really have knee deep snow in April? Standing in my shorts, Timberland's, and a Helly Hansen jacket, I locked the truck door and made my way, sighing, across the parking lot. Leaping over the snow bank, where a plow truck had cleared the lot all winter, I landed swiftly on early Spring grass. And so went today's hike - snow, grass, a bit more snow, then a nice batch of mud.

Spring outings require planning (or, so says the guy in shorts). A check on the NOAA weather station revealed a high today of 55. Without so much as a cloud in the sky, shorts seemed in order. A good wool base layer, a warm fleece, and a soft shell jacket will make up for exposed legs. I like freedom to move anyway, plus I was told this hike would have a bit of scrambling over rocks and roots.

Peeling off outer layers is nearly an immediate response to the sun beating down upon our shoulders. The elevation gain teamed up with snow just soft enough to make putting one foot in front of the other a workout on the hamstrings and quads. The forest has a fresh look this time of year. The Spruce and Pine trees all seem to have a deep green luster standing out from that fading and dull-colored snow.

Left: Basking in the Sun. Right: Nature at it's best.

Fresh mountain run-off provides an ideal location to top off your Platypus water reservoir.

Blues and greens are winning the war over white. The heart of the White Mountains revealed itself to us with a 360 degree mountainous panorama. Winds picked up significantly rising above tree line, drying the hours of perspiration. The cool temperatures felt nice, for a short period of time, before we found our mid-layers again.

Before heading back down, I pause and gaze over to Mt. Washington, the jewel of New England. Still snow-capped, you can watch blowing snow whip about it's peak. For today, I'll settle for a hike involving shorts. Summer is around the corner, my tent is packed and I need some campfire for my soul.

Portland Waterfront

Rhon Bell — Sat, 30 Mar 2013 01:20:38 GMT

Warmer afternoons bring a bustling to Commercial Street in Portland. Winterized boats begin preperations to launch, bait buckets line the wharfs, and the hollering of lobsterman are audible from the sidewalks. The sun begins to beat down on our shoulders as this old town comes to life. As tides rise, your gaze turns to the brilliant sparkle of summer, that has been so missed, glinting on the ocean's surface. We walk the wharfs and downtown Portland before driving out to Portland Head Light. As tourists begin flooding in, it'll be nice to remember these quiet and private moments where silence and peacefullnes of the coast was soaked up.

Maple Syrup Weekend

Rhon Bell — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 00:54:08 GMT

Maple Syrup Weekend is a Maine Tradition and this weekend pancake-lovers celebrated. The warmth of Spring causes starches, that have been converted to sugar, stored in the trunks and roots of Maple trees to begin rising. And so begins the process of syrup production across our cold climate. Farms across the state this weekend held open houses and allowed the public to tour their shops. A behind the scenes look into a larger scale operation is interesting - trucks collecting that sap, large boilers, and the stacks of firewood fueling the operation.

We ventured out to a local farm. The country roads leading up to the old farm house make me feel at home. Grass sprouts in the fields among the leftover rows of melting snow. The air has a fresh scent that only comes as Mother Nature uncovers her beauty. We pull up along the driveway and park, quickly greeted by three horses (and a few ducks that meander around their legs). Syrup slowly drips into the metal collection buckets as we make our way into the heart of the operation - the boiler room. The farmer explains his tips and techniques and offers us a taste of his final product. So good that we walked out with a few bottles for friends and family.