Photo Story: The Wharf at Thurston's Lobster Pound, Bernard, Maine

Thurston's Wharf

Olympus E-M1

Olympus 12-40mm F2.8 @ 15mm (30mm equiv.)

1/60s, F8, ISO200

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Photo Story

I recently picked this image to submit for a Photo Club critique.  Not sure why I picked it. It certainly isn't a "fine art" image.  I guess it is more of a documentary image. But I like it a lot, and I thought I'd post it here along with a bit of the Bernard story.

Thurston's Wharf and Thurston's Lobster Pound are located side-by-side in the Village of Bernard, Maine on Mount Desert Island (MDI), Maine.  MDI receives millions of visitors each year because of Acadia National Park. However, I should point out that Acadia is mostly on the right side of the island, along with the heavily visited Bar Harbor.  Bernard is on the left side of the island.  The left side is often called the "quiet side".

We've traveled MDI off and on for thirty plus years and have always enjoyed our visits.   But it was not until three years ago that we found (accidentally) the road that leads to Bernard. It barely exists on the maps but is worth finding.

The main attractions in the immediate area around Bernard seem to be Bass Harbor and Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse.  The lighthouse is on the to-do list of any serious photographer and the village of Bass Harbor (confusion here: there is the harbor call Bass Harbor; the village called Bass Harbor lies along the eastern shore of the harbor) is the terminus for the Swan Island Ferry and the Frenchboro Ferry. Access to the lighthouse, the ferries, the village and the harbor is along route 103.  

On the “other” side of the harbor is the Village of Bernard, where this photo was taken. To see the village (and dine at Thurston’s!) you will need to get off route 103 and head south on a secondary road called, you guessed it, Bernard Road. It's easy to miss. If you are in the  area be sure to put Bernard into your GPS or cell phone navigator.  The GPS  coordinates are: Latitude 44.240766; Longitude -68.352143.

Bernard is a fishing village.  Our first visit there was about 3pm in October a few years ago.  At that hour the lobsterboats were streaming into the harbor with the day’s catch. It was great fun to watch the unloading of lobsters. However, this particular picture was taken during a subsequent visit. It was 1pm when this photo was taken, just minutes after we dined on Lobster Rolls at Thurston’s.  

Before I forget, Thurston’s has a great tag line: “Thurston For Lobster”. Get it?  Thurston, as in thirstin’!

Photo Story: Second Blizzard of the Season

Blizzard Conditions

Olympus E-M1

Olympus 12-100mm F4 @100mm

F8, 1/15sec, ISO200

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Photo Story

We had our second blizzard of the season last week.  Cancelations (including our local schools and my workplace) started the night before, as the storm was predicted to arrive just in time for the morning rush hour and to be heavy right through the evening rush hour.  We were right on the border between a predicted 12-18” snowfall and an 18-24” snowfall. Ultimately, we ended up with 12" of windblown, wind-packed, rain impregnated snow. 

Laurie and I had no reason to drive anywhere … so we didn’t. And except for photographing this scene, we stayed indoors, watching the storm develop while sitting by a comfy fire. Our generator was all gassed up in case we needed it, but we never did lose electric. 

Wind gusts reached 60mph, but our trees stayed upright. I would say "just" a few branches lay around the yard when it was all done, except that one of the branches with a 2" diameter was buried under the snow in the driveway.  After hitting that with the snowblower, I was glad I had an extra shear pin!

I mentioned at the top of this post that this was a blizzard.  I always like it when the meteorologists remind us of the technical definition of the term, as I always forget.  (This time I created a “note” in Evernote for future reference.)  To be a blizzard, these three things must exist:

Winds with a minimum speed of 35mph

1/4 mile visibility due to snowfall

3 hours of the above conditions

Notice there is no snow depth requirement.  My guess is that we had these conditions for about 9 hours.

Photo Story: The Mönch at Sunset, Switzerland, 1968

The Mönch at Sunset, Switzerland 1968

Kodak Retina iiiC

Schneider 50mm F2 lens

Kodachrome (ASA 64 or 100)

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Photo Story

The Monch is a frequently climbed mountain on one side of the Jungfraujoch. (To find out why I was there in the summer or 1968, see my prior two posts.)  It was first climbed in 1857. Along with the Jungfrau (rising on the other side of the Jungfraujoch) and the Eiger, the three mountains form what is called the Berner Trilogy. The Jungfraujoch is a saddle (about 11,371' elevation) between the Jungfrau (13,642') and the Mönch (13,445'). The neighboring Eiger has an elevation of 13,020'.

The best time to climb is said to be from mid-June to the end of September.  Many make this a day trip by taking the first train from Kleine Scheidegg to the Jungfraujoch, the highest railway station in Europe. 

The easiest route to the Mönch summit is along the ridge seen here to the right of the summit. Beginning at the inside-the-mountain railway station (maybe a couple of hundred yards from where I am standing to take this picture), the trek starts with a fairly safe traverse (off to the right of this photo) across the glacier to the base of the Southeast Ridge route. From there, the vertical distance to reach the summit is 1,400 feet.  The summit has an altitude of 13,445 feet. 

Much of the climbing is along an exposed and narrow ridge that is typically cornaced.  I have a decent photo of the mountain taken while standing on the glacier, which I will scan and include in my next post.

Even in summer, the ascent is mostly over snow and ice. There are some rock climbing sections, too. Though I understand that the route is technically straightforward, there are some dangerous sections because much of the climbing is along an exposed and narrow ridge.  

In fact, a group of three Americans were killed that summer, falling from the ridge and 2/3 down the side of the mountain.  A small rescue helicopter was needed for the recovery, and I recall watching the operation through binoculars.

Please note that I have not climbed the Monch.  What I know is based on what I was told or have read.  I only ventured as far as the glacier traverse to the base of the Southeast Ridge route.  Though a fairly stable part of the glacier, watching out for crevasses was all the danger I wanted!

Photo Story: Sunset From the Jungfraujoch, Switzerland in 1968.

Kodak Retina iiiC

Schneider 50mm F2 lens

Kodachrome slide film (either ASA 25 or 64)/Scanned

Sunset From the Jungfraujoch, Switzerland in 1968

In my last post I included an image from the Aletsch Glacier showing the Hotel Berghaus at the Jungfraujoch, Switzerland, the highest (at the time, and presumably until it burned down) hotel in Europe at an elevation of 11,000-ish feet. During my two months living and working there, afternoons and evenings were often socked in with clouds.  But occasionally we had spectacular views and sunsets.

The photo below was taken in the evening, in July or August (I was only there in the summer) of 1968, sometime after dinner. Obviously at this altitude, the sun sets late!  

One thing which the photo could not record, but which I remember distinctly, was the sound of cowbells in the valley below. Even on clear evenings (i.e. not socked in with clouds) like this one, it was often too windy to hear anything but the howl of the wind. But, on this particular night, the air was still, and the view looking west and the sounds from the valley below had me smiling.

Photo Story: Nearly 50 Years Ago I Was In Switzerland

Today I'm going back about 50 years, to the first time I borrowed my dad’s “good” camera. I was on my way to a summer in Europe.  The camera was a German made Kodak Retina iiiC rangefinder with a 50 mm F2 Schneider lens.  By today’s standards that would be a fairly limited kit; but back then it was all I had and I really enjoyed it.  

The main venue was Switzerland in 1968, during a college summer break.  I had a job at the Hotel Berghaus atop Switzerland’s Jungfraujoch.  This hotel was carved into the rock and was at the head of the Aletsch Glacier.  It was located in the "saddle" (joch) between two mountains, both of which are climbing destinations: the Jungfrau and the Mönch.  The Eiger is also nearby. 

The hotel has since burned down; but at the time it was the highest hotel in Europe.  The elevation of the hotel was 11,000 feet.

Access to the hotel by tourists (and there were many every day) was by an electric powered train that traveled through a winding tunnel inside the mountain. The entrance to the tunnel is at the base of the Eiger, in Kleine Scheidegg, and it winds for six miles inside the Eiger and Monch mountains to the Jungfrau terminal, the highest train station in Europe.

Along the tunnel there are two stops.  Passengers can get out at these stops and see through windows cut into the north wall of the famous Eiger.    

What did I do in the hotel?  I worked in the kitchen. My specialty was pommes frites (French fries). Seriously! I made them by hand, using a hand operated machine that drove a whole potato lengthwise through a grid of blades. 

Lunch was a madhouse as hundreds were served daily (unless we were in the middle of a cloud or snow storm, conditions which usually meant very few would invest in the long and expensive train ride to the hotel).  Generally this was a day-trip destination, with very few visitors spending the night or staying for dinner.  As I recall, the best views were in the middle of the day.  In the afternoon, the clouds often rolled in and visibility could go to zero. 

I took the photo below after skiing down to the glacier from the hotel. There is an exit to the mountain just out of sight to the far right. Notice the roof to the hotel in the background.  It's barely noticeable because it blends so well into the rock. 

Seen in this picture is single-engine plane which crashed while flying low and slow so that photographers could take some photos.  All aboard were killed.

Kodak Retina iiiC

Schneider 50mm F2

Kodachrome slide film (ASA 25 or 64)

Photo Story: Sea Smoke on Penobscot Bay

I don’t claim to be an expert on fog, smoke or steam.  My prior post called “Fog on Penobscott Bay” was about a photo I took one early morning in August.  I did a bit of research online and found that there are several kinds of fog.  My conclusion based on the definitions given, was that the summer fog we experience along the Maine coast is “advection fog”. It requires warm air over cold water.Well, today I explored online the concept of “sea smoke”. I had seen a number of photos of sea smoke, though mostly they were taken along the Maine coast in the winter.  Nevertheless, I was pretty sure that is what I saw one cold morning last October.

Sea smoke can occur when cold air moves over warm water.  (It seems this is the opposite of the conditions that lead to fog.) I think this is what happened in the image shown below. 


This image was taken on a cold October morning.  I am presuming that the air temperature was colder than the water surface temperature.  It was about 6:45 a.m. and the sun had just begun to show itself.  I’m thinking this created the required layer of moisture-saturated air above the water that then cools and condenses. 


Of course I could be wrong about this, but it nevertheless was a pretty picture.

Olympus E-M1

Panasonic 14-140 F3.5-F5.6 

@ 140mm (280mm fffl)

1/2500s

F5.6

ISO 200

Photo Story: Fog on Penobscot Bay

Fog and the Maine coast go together.  This is especially true in the summer, when the prevailing southwest breeze can bring moist warm air off the land which then passes over the cold ocean water, causing the moisture in the air to condense.  If you spend a week on the Maine coast, you will need to be prepared for a few days of fog. Even in summer, this means fleece jackets or wool sweaters, and sometimes both.

I have read that there are several kinds of fog.  From what I can tell, the type of fog I have described above and which is shown in the photo below is called “Advection fog”.  Advection refers to the wind bringing moist air over a cool surface. Advection fog can also occur when warm air passes over thick snow-pack.

Olympus E-M1

40-150mm kit zoom F4-5.6R

@ 102mm (204mm fffl)

1/250s

F8

ISO 320

Into the Fog

The photo was taken in August at 7:00 a.m.  The location was Penobscot Bay.  An hour earlier, the morning was beautifully clear, and I witnessed an outstanding sunrise. I knew that it would be an interesting morning because I also saw in the distance a thin band of fog. It made the horizon look much nearer, and it began coming closer. Then, coming around a point of land to my right, and outside the field of view of the camera, flowed a white “tongue” of fog gliding across the surface of the water.  As you would expect, this did not seem to phase the lobstermen seen here heading out to check their traps. A moment after capturing this image, the lobsterboat disappeared into the approaching fog.  I guess that’s no big deal for those who know the sea. 

Another few minutes went by and then I, watching all of this from a rocky beach, was fully engulfed by fog. It was then time to walk back to the cabin, put on a sweater, and have another cup of coffee.

Below is a black and white version.  It’s the same photo, but converted to black and white in Adobe Lightroom. 

Photo Story: A Bluebird Day on the Slopes

I’m not sure how prevalent is the term “bluebird day”, nor do I know where it came from.  But it’s a phrase well known to skiers. I do wonder if it came about after the song “Bluebird of Happiness”, which was composed in 1934. I don’t know the lyrics, but I can say with all certainty that a blue bird day on the slopes makes me happy.  On bluebird days I will even chuckle excitedly to myself as I ski down the mountain.

Bluebird days just make a skier smile... or they should!  They are defined as days with a solid blue cloudless sky, made all the more remarkable by the contrast against a snowy landscape.  Polarized sunglasses help, too. (Note that a polarizer was not used in the image below.)

For many people, the above definition is complete.  But in my opinion, a bluebird day needs something more.  I am sure many western skiers would agree that a blue bird day in its highest form requires there to be a fresh thick coat of overnight powder.  Of course, here in New England we need to make some adjustments for our lighter snowfalls and the fact that so many ski areas these days have all-night crews rolling (i.e. packing) the snow.  Seen below, there’s about six inches of new natural snow, some of which has been rolled and some of which has not. Regardless, I was happy and smiling and chuckling all day!

Panasonic DMC-TS3 waterproof, shockproof, dustproof P&S camera

4.9mm focal length (28mm fffl)

1/160s

F10

ISO 100

Blue Bird Day at Mt. Sunapee

Photo Story: Old But Not Handicapped

Imagine the smile on my face when Laurie and I turned into a Dunkin’ Donuts in Searsport, Maine for a cup of coffee and saw these two parked “old timers”. The sky was so beautiful and the cars were so shiny!  They were the only cars in the parking area, so I knew I had to act fast.

Every year when we travel Maine's Route 1 coastal route, our routine is to stop in at the same Searsport Dunkin' Donuts behind the Sunoco station. There are plenty of quaint local coffee shops along the way, but every trip we nevertheless stop at the same Dunkin' Donuts for caffeine refueling. I think it is all about timing.  We seem to drive through Searsport at the same time every year, between something like 2-3 pm.

Before going inside to order coffee I quickly grabbed my camera to capture the scene before more cars pulled into the parking area or before the owners drove off.  I love the colors here.  The blue car and blue sky look so good together, and the red car provides a nice contrast. Everything is so bright and shiny. I liked the sky so much that I dropped to one knee to get this low-down angle that allowed me to capture the cars and a big patch of blue sky.  The 4:3 aspect ratio of my Olympus camera helped.

But there is also something about the two cars parked with the empty handicapped parking spot between them that made for a story... and gave me a title for the photo: Old But Not Handicapped.

Olympus EM-1

Olympus 14-54mm v.2

@14mm

1/200s

F8

ISO 200

Old But Not Handicapped

Photo Story: Mt. St. Helens Ground Squirrel

This is perhaps my favorite photo from our trip to Mt. St. Helens in June.  This surprises me because it is not exactly a big beautiful sweeping panorama (though I do have some of those too, here).  What I like about this photo, other than the cooperative ground squirrel, is the nature story that goes far beyond the squirrel.

Mt. St. Helens is a volcanic peak in western Washington that blew its stack in 1980.  The main blast resulted in the largest landslide in recorded history, causing the entire north face to slide away following an earthquake, and removing 1300 feet off the top of the mountain.  The debris avalanche that ensued traveled more than 13 miles at the speed of 110 to 155 miles per hour. The blast was followed by a volcanic eruption that spread ashes over a dozen states and sent a plume of ashes 15 miles into the atmosphere.  

The aerial photos I have seen taken afterward show denuded forests looking like boxes of matchsticks all stacked together, lying side by side in one direction.  No vegetation. No color. Just de-barked tree trucks.

I think with that information as a backdrop, this photo becomes very interesting.  From what I read at the visitor center, it was the burrowing animals, like the golden mantled ground squirrel, that were among the first to come back.  It was said that some did survive by the fact that they were underground. 

In the background of this photo you will see lots of colors.  These are wildflowers.  At the time of our visit wildflowers were everywhere.  Many of course are not species originally found in this area, but now that there is a different soil chemistry and there are no forests to block the sunlight, wildflowers are able to thrive.

I recently entered this image in a “contest” at my photo club.  The judge did not like the bleached wood in the foreground. He did not explain, but I suppose he found it a bit distracting. I guess I understand that. But I like it, as it is an important part of the story. This log was a standing live tree in 1980.  Huge swaths of the region are still covered with tree trunks lying in a direction leading away from the blast.  Old denuded and sun-bleached logs are part of the Mt. St. Helens story. Neither the judge nor the squirrel likely understand this.

Mount Saint Helens Ground Squirrel