SCENIC SUNDAY

Lubec, Maine March 31, 2011

(remember that to see this image full screen, all you have to do is click on the image)  

Spring Flowers

I took all of these shots yesterday after clouds had moved in. I find that a slightly overcast day is best for shooting flowers. The blue tones resonate through and sublte colors are not washed out by the sun. These are all flowers in my gardens. Top left to right, clockwise are Johnny Jump Ups, Shooting Stars, a foliage-only show of thyme, Lady's Mantle, ajuga and Midnight Reiter geranium, buds of Oriental poppies, another Johnny Jump Up with Kenilworth Ivy and Corydalis lutea. The combos are random and seeded themselves that way. Sometimes, those are the combinations I like the most. I hope you find them as lovely as I do.
  For the photographers in the room, I shot these all with my Canon 50D with a Canon 100-400mm telephoto zoom lens, hand held. It does have image stabilization, but those of you into photography 'technology' will recognize that this breaks most of the rules for this kind of photo. This kind of work is usually done with a much shorter lens with a wider angle and on a tripod.

Shadblow And Alewives

 
     Amelanchier canadensis
The Service Berries are in bloom. The diaphanous shrubs almost look like puffs of smoke across the marshes and meadows. Indigenous to North America, the small trees are not only lovely, but important to wildlife for the fruit they bear. I just planted one for a gardening customer at the bottom of their serene meadow. It’s in a perfect setting where the soil is consistently moist and the flowers will be back lit by the evening’s setting sun. It has plenty of space to send out suckers and make a clump which it prefers to do. Maybe I’ll talk to them about putting in some ferns around it’s legs. It’s also fiddlehead season, so it seems like an appropriate combination; they like the same conditions. The tight fisted crosiers of Ostrich ferns are a traditional Maine spring food. Like the flowers of the Service Berries, they are only around briefly before they unfurl and aren’t edible any longer. It has been a record breaking warm spring making us tend to forget that often at this time of year, there is still frost in the ground in the deep woods and in Aroostook County - “The Crown” of Maine. ‘Service Berries’ were given the name because their bloom coincides with when the ground has thawed and can reliably be dug to inter those who died when it was still frozen. When the Service Berries bloom, winter is over. They are also called Shadbush and Shadblow because they bloom when the shad or Alewives run. ‘Blow’ is an old fashioned word meaning full bloom. The Alewives have just started to run. When I was young, my father took me up the coast from here to Damariscotta Mills to see them. Alewives are a type of herring that lives out at sea, but travels up freshwater rivers to breed and spawn. Damariscotta Mills is narrow so thousands of the fish can be seen clearly from the shore. The Osprey, gulls and eagles go crazy feeding. At night, the raccoons come around for the dead ones that line the shore. For many of us, like eating fiddleheads, it’s a spring ritual to go there to see the fish and birds. I remember kneeling down and putting my hands in the water to feel them when I was a kid. The water was so thick with them you could literally grab them with nothing more than your hand. So many people go there now that there is a parking lot and traffic jams. When I was a kid, though, my father and I had to climb down the banking through the bushes risking poison ivy and a slip and fall on wet rocks. We could hear the water and feel the cool mist from the little falls above the pools of fish before we came through the bushes. It was thrilling!  Alewives are caught en masse by netting. Today they are used mostly as bait fish for lobster trapping. When eaten, they are usually smoked, though I’m told they have a very mild flavor. Traditionally, a little vinegar is served with them which is true of fiddleheads, too. I can only imagine, back in the days of our settlers in the late 1600s and early 1700s, how thankful folks must have been after surviving winter to have fresh fiddleheads, bountiful fishes and to be able to bury their dead. They must have wept when the Shadbush bloomed.


                                                                    

Technorati Tags: Robin Robinson photography, Maine, fiddleheads, Ostrich ferns ,alewives, shad, shadblow, Service berry

Bad Neighbors - Red-tailed Hawk Attack

Crows make lousy neighbors. They throw wild parties in the middle of the day and make ungodly rackets. They harass everyone else in the 'hood and steal from them every chance they get. We are fortunate that we have great neighbors, though we do have crows. Some of our neighbors hate the crows with passion. They have wished them ill, too. If one is not a morning person, crows in residence suck. They start screaming and yelling and fighting at first light and keep it up until dark.  This one is making the life of a Red-tailed hawk miserable. Don't adjust your television set. The photos are soft due to the distance. The Crows are such agile fliers that they don't hesitate to take on the biggest guys out there, either. They seem to know that they can escape if counter attacked. They're mid-air acrobatics can be stunning.    

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This is a crow fighting with a raven for food. The raven has a Red squirrel. These shots were also taken at a long distance.

Now matter how rude they are, nor how annoying and disruptive to the ambiance of the 'hood, it is nonetheless, illegal to shoot or otherwise harm crows. They are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. Some times, ya just got to put up with lousy neighbors.

  "Swing low, sweet chariot,
"I'm comin' fo' to carry you home!"

When I found this crow on the ground, I thought immediately of the dreaded West Nile Virus. Crows are the most prevalent carriers. The link underlined above has a phone number for whom to contact if you find a crow or other bird that has died without explanation. When I picked the crow up (I was wearing gloves, but not my bathrobe), I saw right away that it had been shot. Under its wing was a bullet hole. Is was not stiff or buggy, so I suspected it had been shot in the air then plummeted unceremoniously through the trees to its death. It seemed a tragic ending for the magnificent flyer that irritated its neighbor just one too many times. American crows are the birds most susceptible to West Nile Virus. WNV causes neurolgical symptoms and encephalitis. It can be transmitted to humans from the birds by mosquitos, but NOT from the birds directly. Holster your weapon, please.

Click on this link for More Crow Stuff - good reading!

Payload In A Pond - Painted Turtles, Tapoles and Great Blue Heron

Look at the sexy claws on this guy! 

These are Eastern Painted Turtles. They are common in the southern part of Maine. They like to hang out, or 'bask' in the sun in ponds with still water. These were in Bath at the Oak Grove Cemetery pond. I had gone there hoping to find the Wood ducks. I didn't find them, but there were dozens of Painted Turtles. Generally, turtles are shy and will plop back into the water the minute they become aware of a predator. I pulled the car to the side of the road, left it running and then crept out around it, using it like a big rock. I was able to sneak up on them. These turtles spend the winter bumating (hibernating) in the mud at the bottom of the pond. It seems early for them to be out, but the water temperature in the pond is up to 60 degrees already. That's what it has to be for them to start feeding. They are omnivorous and eat plant material as well as crustaceans, small fish and tad poles. The pond is also teeming with the tads. The turtles would be mating already, though I didn't witness that. When they are a courtin', the boy and girl float and go nose to nose. The boy strokes the girl's cheeks with his enormous claws with a trembling, shivery movement as he does it. If she's into him, he grabs her shell and pulls her to him, face to face. I'll leave the rest up to you. In a couple of weeks the moms will lay eggs in sand around around the margins of the pond. The tadpoles will have developed into frogs, too. The whole place will be just a jumpin'! Herons like tadpoles and turtle babies, too. I'm expecting to see them stalking around poking into the water for these morsels. Raccoons also are a major predator of the turtles and tadpoles. Raccoons and skunks will both dig up the eggs for a rich, runny snack. This postage stamp of a pond supports a tremendous diversity of wildlife.

The tadpoles were big. This one was about 2 inches, so I'm guessing they are Bullfrog babies. I'll be checking.

This Great Blue Heron ("GBH") has all of his breeding plumage on display. He was shaking off water after poking his face in the water. Whatever he had hoped to skewer he missed.

For more information on turtles in Maine, check the Maine Herpetological Society 
web site. Sounds kind of Gothic, doesn't it? And, thanks to Wikipedia.

Singing "Happy Birthday!" Song sparrow

Yesterday, March 22nd I photographed this Song sparrow nearly singing its head off. I think I heard it singing "Happy Birthday." It was David's birthday, so that would make sense. Our good friend, Ted was also celebrating his birthday. I happened to speak to Ted on the phone, otherwise, I would not have realized it was his birthday as well. When it came to light that the guys  shared a birthday, I was dumbfounded that I didn't already know this. After all, we are good friends with Ted and his wife and have been for years. The second I finished the phone conversation with our friend, I reached for a notebook in which I make note of birthdays, anniversaries and the like. I also keep the paper handouts distributed at funerals we attend.  Sometimes, I have it in my head that people are still alive when they are not, which can be socially a little dicey. This way, I can check. It's the kind of information that, once upon a time, people kept  in a family bible. I knew if I waited to enter this significant data that I would forget, so I did it immediately. And low and behold, I was stunned to find that I had put Ted's birthday in there some time before and even made note with a jolly exclamation point that the boy's shared the day! It unnerved me that, nonetheless, when I talked to Ted, I had no recollection of this at all. As if this wasn't bad enough, I discovered on the same day that for a year, I've been lying about my age. David is nine years, eleven months and two weeks older than I am. For the two weeks between our birthdays, I lord it over him that he is ten years, an entire decade, older than I am. This year, I couldn't make sense of this mathematically. The numbers didn't come out right when I subtracted 53 from 64 (which is eleven, in case you are looking for a pencil). I thought, "Oh my god! All this time he's really been eleven years older than I am for that two weeks!" How could it be that we've thought all along that he was nine years older than I am? I had this queasy feeling like I was experiencing a tear in the universe. Now, this had my full attention; I had to figure it out right then and there. I mumbled to myself, "If he was born in '46 and I was born in '55, then.........." And that's when the truth came crashing inward, like a meteor busting through the atmosphere and slamming into the earth's crust - in two weeks, I will be fifty five! For a year, I've been telling everyone that I'm fifty-three! It's not that I have been deliberately lying about my age. If I had been going to do that, I would have picked a good old block of time, at least five years, not one. How stupid is that? I have actually had it in my head somehow that I didn't age 365 days last year. Last night, I confessed this to David. It seemed only right since every year, I've given him a ration of crap, albeit good natured, about his being a decade older than I am. He told me he had known for quite some time that I was telling people I was fifty-three, not fifty-four. Shocked, I asked, "Why didn't you tell me?" He said he didn't think it was important. "What difference does it make? I didn't want to embarrass you. I love you no matter how old you are," he said.  I wondered, "Is this what happens to people when they are fifty-five?" The mind begins to go, one lapse at a time, and no one tells you. You keep records to remind yourself of things, but don't remember to look at the records. You make grocery lists, but forget to take them with you, lists of lists which you then can't find. You watch the same T.V. show several times because you don't remember that you've seen it until you're into the third commercial break. You spill food on your clothes and people let it go. And so it goes - you slip down the rope, one knot at a time, spelunking into the abyss of blankness. This scares the snot right out of me, I'm telling you. I've watched this happen to people I've known and loved. In fact, almost everyone I know has a family member that's struggling with this. My ninety-nine year old grandmother started out like that until today there's nothing left of her mind at all. She has to be fed because she can't cognitively connect the dots between hunger and getting  food to her mouth anymore. I'm not sure I really want to know if this is what's happening to my brain. Or, I'll just keep getting younger every year, as I've been claiming, so I won't be effected. I've read that there is virtually no dementia in Liechtenstein or Macau, so maybe I'll just move, if only I can find my keys.......

"Happy birthday to you,"

"Happy birthday to you!"

"You look like a monkey,

"And you smell like one, toooooooo!"

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Dementia Darling

"Where are my keys,"

You asked of me

Once, twice, three.

Weary, I repeated

"Wherever you left,"

What happened to you?

Trying to get home,

You lost your way.

Button your shirt,

Zip your fly,

On your chin- breakfast dirt.

You've become

Someone unknown.

I saw your look,

When you lost my name,

I hoped it was a game.

You're not pretending

As you're slipping

Each day toward the ending.

We are both so angry

You with disconnected rages,

The doctors say

just one of the phases.

                                                  

                                                                                      Robin Riley Robinson

Et tu, Wood Duck?

Wood ducks are perching ducks that nest in trees over water. They reportedly nest readily in nesting boxes provided for them over water, though I've never seen a Wood duck in residence. They are usually set up when ponds are frozen over as it's easy to get out onto the pond surface on the ice. A box was placed on Center Pond this winter. I think it looks really stupid. It's tilted for one thing, and constructed of new wood, it's a conspicuous man-made element stuck into the middle of the pond. I suppose I'll get used to it, eventually. When the boxes are placed too closely together, multiple hens will lay as many as 40 eggs all in one nest. They do not incubate. It's a phenomenon called "nest dumping." There are lots of Wood duck boxes scattered around Phippsburg. The day the baby ducks hatch they leap from the mouth of the nest to the water below unaided by the mother that does no more than call encouragement. The ducklings can fall as far as 290 feet without injury. Now that's a leap of faith! That's why they usually nest over water; it makes a softer landing. In Maine, Wood ducks are migratory. They pair bond in January before they get here. By the time we see them, they are already hooked up.


I took these photographs on March 15th on Oak Grove Avenue in Bath. The ducks were perched over the same cemetery pond where I took the recent Mallard butt shots. The 'pond' is just a wet scrap of swampy land, not really a pond at all. A toddler could wade it without incident. For little more than a mosquito breeding hole, it hosts an amazing diversity of birds and other wildlife. I went by it when I was on my way to meet with my tax preparer. It was raining. That made it difficult to photograph the ducks as it was very dark and dismal, a good day for taxes but not a good day to photograph birds. I had never seen Wood ducks before and so I was nearly trembling. Or, my trembling may have had to do with the taxes. Either way, the photographs are not good, which was very dissapointing to me. I so wanted to share really good Wood duck photographs. I went back five times in two days trying for them again, but for not. To have seen them and only be able to get crumby photos was almost worse than never having seen them at all. I love photography beyond anyone's wildest dreams, but sometimes that thing I love betrays me. I am haunted by Wood duck dreams and will not be quite content ever again until they day I can get some good shots of them. You just wait.
March 15th is "The Ides Of March," the day that Marcus Junius Brutus supposedly killed Julius Caesar in 44 B.C.  "Et tu, Brute?" may be one of the most famous three words in the English language and epitomizes the concept of betrayal. As the story goes (historians contest this), and as William Shakespear's play went, that's what Caesar exclaimed to Brutus when he realized Brutus had betrayed him. Caesar was regarded as a mentor by Brutus and they were good buddies - Rome's own "homies." When Caesar came into power in Rome, he got a little carried away with himself and his power. Rather than wanting the Roman senate to rule, he thought he should be the boss all by himself. He even compared himself to the gods, for gods' sake! He thought of himself as an emperor with a big 'E',and had the ego to match.  Though Brutus loved him, he loved Rome and freedom more. The day came when the senate attacked old Julius and when they did, Brutus gave him up in an act of betrayal to save Rome. "Even you, Brutus," were The Big J.'s dying words.
When my camera and my skills as a photographer fail me in a moment like when I saw these Wood ducks, I feel betrayed, too. It's my own little Shakespearean tragedy.  

Skunk Heads - Surf Scoters- One Funky Duck!

I spent some 'pier time' today as it is about fifty-five degrees and sunny. There is a brisk, off shore breeze, so I admit to donning more than my bathrobe. There were plenty of sea birds around, but few of them were close enough to photograph well. Exceptions were these Surf scoters. This chunky diving duck is called "Skunk-Head Coot," or "Skunk Head" because of the white patch on the back of the head. I don't usually see them in this close to the shore, but rather, out at sea in groups of a dozen or so. They are easy to identify from a distance as the white patch is very noticeable against the dark of the sea. Like the skunk mammal they get their name from, you don't have to see them up close to know it's them! These birds nest on freshwater lakes in Canada. The males circle around the females while on the water protecting a moving territory. When the chicks hatch, they hit the water really quickly. The mothers don't do much for them other than to protect them. Frequently, the little Skunk Heads get mixed up from one mother to another, so they may be raised by a mother other than their own. None of them seem to mind this. Surf scoters spend the winter on shallow marine shores like Maine, New Jersey and California where they can dive for crustaceans and mollusks. Spring has also brought out the other kind of skunk. The unmistakable smell of burning tires is riding heavily on the night air of late. Perhaps it's a good thing there was a stiff breeze down on the pier, in case those Skunk Heads sprayed me. Now that would be a bad birding adventure! Get out the tomato juice!

This Herring Gull stole the crab from the Skunk Head, then tore it limb from limb, breaking it down to a consumable morsel.Can you imagine the conversation between them?


And here we have a little "happy dance!"
Sick, really sick.


Thanks to David Allen Sibley -The Sibley Guide To Birds, Wikipedia and allaboutbirds.com for the information. Another terrific birding site I've discovered is 10000birds.com. It was very informative and I shall be referring to it again in the future.

The Outdoor Shower Season - Day Light Savings, Red-Winged Blackbird & More

This Canada goose has a mate and they have been coming to the shore right in front of the house every day. I think they may be scouting out a nesting site. They make a tremendous honking racket. When I've been on the phone I've been asked if there were geese in the yard as the caller could hear them.  I'm assuming they are a mated pair as I've heard her call him "Honey" and he calls her "Babe."
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It's official! This morning, I lurched awake and immediately, looked at the clock. It said it was quarter to eight; I had grossly overslept! Nonetheless, I felt, as my father would have said, shot out of a canon. What was going on here? What was going on was that for my brain and body, it was actually quarter to seven. David, in his state of glee over Day Light Savings, had leaped from bed before daylight and made busy changing all of the clocks. He has drained the anti-freeze from his outdoor shower and had his first of the season outdoor eye opener. It's thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit and the wind is blowing thirty-five miles per hour. He is prancing around, whooping and hollering that I should try it, "It's exillarating!" He shouts. "No thank you," is my polite subdued response. There are primroses and crocuses blooming in my gardens, but they don't look enthusiastic to me. They are healthy enough, but they don't look like they really mean it. They don't look like they want to be out of bed this early either. It is official, though. Spring is here even if we get a foot of snow, which we could. The lists of projects are being compiled, the lawnmowers are being tuned, blades sharpened and the migratory birds are arriving. There will be no peace in the Robinson house until November.

                                                                  Northern Cardinal in all of his glory. He has a girl friend here, too. Even pigeons are pretty if seen in the right light.

This Cedar Waxwing was one of twenty feasting on rose hips on the Popham Road yesterday. I looked, there were no Bohemian Waxwings in the bunch. A reader told me that I had erred in my previous post about the Black Guillemot. I had said that they turn white in the summer, which is not true; they turn black. The good news is that meant the one I photographed had molted to its summer plumage about 75%, a sure sign of spring.
 
This is a Red-winged blackbird. Its epaulets are concealed. It does have bright red under the scapulars, the median coverts. They show the red in flight and when they are flexing the pipes for girls and to impress other guys. They are very migratory, so it's a sure sign of warm days to come.

Maine Photography Show

Burnt Coat Island

Lakeside

Gold Dragonfly Blue Water

For three years running, I have entered the Maine Photography Show. These are the images I submitted this year. None of them were chosen by the juror, John Paul Caponegro. What do you think?
All of them were shot in Phippsburg. The first one is of Burnt Coat Island. It was shot very early on a summer morning. Our dog had run off in the middle of the night and we were out searching for him. He wasn't there. I'll never forget the anxiety of not finding him, nor will I forget the delicious morning light in that cove.  The second one, submitted in the black and white category, was also shot on a summer day, but in the afternoon. It was hot and I had been working in a garden 'Weeding For Dollars.' To cool down, I walked to the edge of the lake for the bits of breeze and shade that there were to be had. The view of the lake seemed perfectly framed by this huge ash tree. Coincidentally, the dragonfly photo was taken on the same lake. It was the middle of the day when everything seems to shimmer and the cicadas whine is almost intolerable.
Entering photography contests can be most disheartening, especially when I've got no idea where these images failed. So, it would truly be helpful if some of you would wade in to tell me what you think of them, because there's always next year. Unless I can learn from this I'll just make the same mistakes, whatever they may have been, over again. I'm funny that way.

White-winged Scoters, The Crab Wars

These are White-winged Scoters and an American Herring Gull eating crabs. There are three kinds of Scoter, Black, Surf and the ones shown here. All of them visit the Maine coast in the winter, but breed further inland. White-winged scoters are easy to pick out by the white comma on their eyes. I wonder how their spelling is. At about twenty-four inches long, White-winged scoters are the largest of the scoters which are all a type of diving duck. They dive to the bottom, propelled by their bright pink feet where they take mostly mollusks. As you can see, they like crabs too. They will also eat small fish, aquatic insects and some aquatic plants. Totman Cove, here in Phippsburg, is a feeding ground for lots of sea birds. The bottom is sand rather than mud, but the shore is all  rock with lots of seaweed. This provides two types of food. The White-winged scoters prefer sandy bottoms. I don't. I like to be able to rinse out my bathing suit if it fills with sand, but they like it. As my mother liked to say, "There's no accounting for taste." Lately, there has been lots of sea bird action here, so I have done some 'pier time.' That's when I actually get out of my bathrobe, put on a jacket and sit on the end of the 118 foot pier until my hands are too numb to press the shutter or my memory card is full. Sometimes my battery runs out which happens faster than usual because of the cold. Yesterday, it was all three plus it just got too dark. That's winter wildlife photography for you! In addition to the scoters, there were Atlantic Eiders, Red-breasted Mergansers, American Black Ducks, Common Loons and Common Golden-eyes. I have yet to see a Barrow's Golden-eye in here or a Pacific Loon, both of which would be real birding catches. I do watch for them every day, though. The Herring Gulls do not dive, but hang around the diving ducks to steal their catches. They rely on those guys to do the diving, then bomb them from above and steal their catch when they drop it. The crabs start to sink really fast so the gulls are equally fast at snagging them before they sink out of reach. Even though it's only January, there is courtship behavior happening between male and female birds. All this diving, fighting, splashing and stealing gets the attentions of the Bald eagles. Two of them appeared making it additionally difficult to photograph the birds. When the eagles show up, many of the birds take flight and the rest bunch together and move away from the shore line as fast as they can. Oh, the drama!

Red-shouldered Hawk

"Red Rover, Red Rover,"
"Send Robin On Over!"

     I hated that game. Played on hot summer nights with neighborhood kids, I always felt like I was on the wrong side. Helpless, tossed, given up; I felt like a loser. I don't remember what the rules were, something about being called out of a group to physically break through a line of opposing kids. I distinctly recall the red-faced panicky feeling. I could never break through the line which was why I was always called. My head swam and my heart raced as I was flung from one side to the other, kids shouting, me nearly falling down when whipped across the line. I was not an athletic child. I was scrawny with tangled hair and huge, chipped beaverish front teeth. I didn't get breasts or my first period until I was  nearly forty. I was a geek before there were geeks!
     I liked science and could name the organisms floating in pond water under the microscope, a gift from my father. Knowing things was how I got a charge and often times, was how I was used by other kids. I was rarely invited to birthday parties or sleep overs but regularly asked to give the answers to tests or homework assignments. Knowing the answers to things was the one thing I could do that gave me an edge. But these days, when I see something like this hawk, I feel like a winner. Seeing it was exhilarating! I was driving home from the post office when out of the corner of my eye, I saw this beast on the utility line. I conducted a U turn on Route 209, camera on the passenger's seat, at the ready, and wound down the window. I knew right away that this was not a hawk I was familiar with.
    At first, when I looked at the photos, I couldn't believe that what it looked like could possibly be true. My palms started to sweat. I recognized right away what it was, but then did not trust my gut. I'm not the most experienced birder, plus I lack confidence in what I do know. I second guess myself. When it comes to hawks especially, I've fallen and I can't get up! In the world of birding it's important to pay attention to details and not jump the gun on identification; credibility is at stake. After all, when making bird identifications there's rarely DNA available. It's what the birder sees that counts. In my case, I'm a photographer as well, which gives me an edge, but not proof positive. When and where the photo was taken is as important as the subject itself.
    I poured through The Sibley Guide To Birds, The Audubon Society Field Guide To North American Birds, Roger Tory Peterson's Field Guide To Birds East Of The Rockies, then consulted the web sites Whatbird and Allaboutbirds. My head was spinning! "Red Rover, Red Rover........." I could hear them screaming and feel myself falling as I churned the pages. Still not confident, I sent the photos to CHIT, my top secret, crack, hawk identification team. When I e mailed the photos, I held my breath and committed that  I thought it was a juvenile, Red-shouldered hawk, highly unusual in Maine in winter. I gulped, pulling the neck of my shirt away from my throat. "Oh God, I'm going to look like a total idiot," I feared. I thought I was going to pass out! Give me a mean spirited kids game over birding any day! At least kids grow out of it.



Red-shouldered hawk with suicidal Chickadee      Juvenile, Red-shouldered hawk - I broke through the line!

All photographs used in this blog are the work of Robin R Robinson.

I OTTER Be Thankful

A few days ago, I was "driving to town," as we say around here. That means going to Bath, which is fifteen miles north. During the winter, it's where we have to go for all supplies, food or a restaurant meal as everything in Phippsburg is closed. I was on a mundane mission to a medical appointment and then to loiter around at a pharmacy for a prescription. Christmas is upon us, but I had done very little shopping. My mind has been elsewhere. While driving in a dismal funk, I turned on the radio. I was really annoyed to hear Christmas music. I knew I had to drag myself out of this mood eventually, but I was so deep in my personal wallow that I didn't know what could wrench me off my glowering mark. I have very little to complain about in my life, honestly. But that fact sometimes just makes me feel even more petulant and  bitchy, like a child that won't let go of a toy it doesn't want to play with, but only possess. I was feeling very sorry for myself, "It's mine and you can't have it, so leave me alone" my toddler brain grumped to myself. Then, I saw them! Three River Otters were cavorting on the ice of Center Pond. I wheeled the car around deftly executing a smooth u-ee. I watched them for a minute and saw that they were jumping into the water then back on the ice repeatedly. The seconds they were under the water would give me the chance to get closer for better shots. I began to move down the embankment each time they submerged. Tangled raspberry canes pulled my clothes and raked my skin; burdocks adhered to my pants as I creeped toward the ice edge. Positioning myself, I held stock still, camera aloft, waiting. It was eight degrees with a ten mile per hour wind. The below zero wind chill quickly turned my cheeks, lips and fingers numb. I wanted to get closer. "I wonder how thick this ice is......." I mused, looking at my feet on the edge. Peering through my view finder, I saw that the otters were making their way along the ice line as they fished and frolicked and were progressing in my direction! Great luck as the ice was way too thin to support my rolly-polly middle aged self. They came to within about 100 feet of me. My heart was racing I was so excited! I had never seen otters before and that I was getting to photograph them was almost too much to bear! Then, one got up onto the ice. It looked directly at me and vocalized repeatedly, a rasping, throaty cat's hiss. Its whiskers were enormous and so were its teeth. My delight shifted to anxiety as, hissing, it advanced toward me. At about four feet long, it was big, big enough to take me down if it wanted to. I looked away from the view finder to see where the others were. Looking like dogs, they were swimming around and peering over the edge of the ice at me. If the curious one decided to run at me, I was at a real disadvantage for escape having clambered down the brushy embankment to the ice edge. These members of the weasel family are fast on land and can run at 15mph. River Otters are solitary unless a mother is with her young. This was probably mom up on the ice investigating me while her youngsters were swimming. They have big teeth for eating aquatic organisms, fish, mollusks, crayfish and the like. Otters have a high metabolic rate so have to eat a lot every day. They will stay in an area as long as they can get food and where there is open water. I will continue to look for them at Center Pond as there is a race of open water where a stream comes in all winter. Their presence speaks to the health of our pond as otters will leave a polluted area. In the wild, they live about 10 years, so they could be with us for years to come. I can tell you that there's nothing like a little otter to get you off your pity pot if you are feeling sorry for yourself. I know I "otter" be more thankful for the richness of my life than I sometimes am.