Taylor, our youngest daughter, picked up her friend Felicia Vincent, and met us in Topsfield. When everyone arrived we’d met up with Tammy Morris and Dennis Kerekes, Laura Reay and Gilman Phelps.

Taylor, Laura, Felicia and Gilman have been hiking, camping and paddling the Waite and Talmadge area together for years. “For years” isn’t very descriptive or impressive until you know that the oldest of them is only 21. They’re old hands at loading up the canoes and kayaks and paddling several miles across a lake to camp on a beach overnight. They’re part of a larger group of outdoors kids who grew up to become outdoors adults, and who make me proud on a regular basis.

Tammy and Dennis started planning this trip six months ago; about the time they started planning their long-term future together. They made many trips down dirt roads along Route 6 in Topsfield and Codyville, looking for a place to put a canoe in and later take out. They invited us to go along. Steve’s plans to canoe the Machias River with friends changed and he was able to make the trip. I’m grateful he was there, and you’ll see why later.

We reached our destination and unloaded three kayaks and two canoes. While the men shuffled vehicles to the place we’d be taking out, the women put the water crafts in the stream and paddled around a little. It was my first day in the kayak this year and needed a few minutes to get comfortable again. It’s like riding a bicycle, only wetter.

Steve, Dennis and Gilman returned and the trip began. We didn’t know what to expect. Would there be a beaver dam to get over? I hadn’t thought of sand bars to get lodged on. Smelly things hadn’t occurred to me.

Starting out.

The day was uneventful, which is nice but not exciting. Nobody flipped, there was only one mild water fight between Steve and Taylor that got Felicia damp, and nobody had any problems. Well, Gilman and Laura’s canoe has a small leak so Gilman did a little bailing, but they weren’t any danger of sinking or even really even getting very wet. I think I heard Laura say “we could have taken my canoe” once.

Tomah Stream runs through a huge meadow. Trees along the bank are few and far between.

Tammy and Dennis paddle near the few trees along the banks of Tomah Stream.

We disturbed a few Canada geese along the way. I think I found paths to nests but I’m not sure. The vegetation was worn down and there were small feathers in the grass but I couldn’t see any nests or geese. Two American Bald Eagles soared in the updraft high over head, almost out of sight. A muskrat quickly disappeared out of sight along the bank. Taylor and I stopped to wait for it to reappear but wherever it resurfaced, we couldn’t find it.

The sun was warm while it was out, and we shed our jackets early. The breeze was chilly when the sun was blocked by clouds but paddling was enough to keep us from being cold. Thanks to the breeze, black flies weren’t an issue while we were on the water.

There are a lot of beaver lodges along the portion of the stream we paddled. None seemed to be active. There were no new sticks added and no activity in the stream. The only beaver I saw was on the bank, long dead. The stench was overwhelming, enough to bring me close to gagging. I picked up the pace, moving past it as fast as I could.

Gilman likes to make sure Laura is close enough to a lodge to get a good look at a beaver. This amuses Gilman much more than it does Laura.

We looked for Tomah Mayflies along the way. There was a hatch but they weren’t Tomahs, and that was a little disappointing.

Gilman and Laura

Steve and Felicia. Felicia served as the trolling motor a few times while Steve fished. She’s a good sport.

I spent most of my time behind everyone else. I headed toward the bank or turned with the current while taking pictures. When you’re the only person paddling you have nobody to keep you on course, and this made pictures a bit of a challenge. To get more than the backs of everyone’s heads I needed to get ahead of everyone.

Tammy and Dennis invited us to join in their trip down Tomah Stream.

“I’m on a mission,” I told Dennis and Tammy as I dipped and swished past them.

“You’re on a mission,” Dennis asked.

“To get pictures of everyone head on rather than back to.”

I paddled ahead and was almost ready to spin my kayak around when I heard Tammy laugh and yell, “She’s definitely your daughter.” I turned my head to see that Taylor, who heard me tell them what I was doing, turned her yak around and was paddling backward along side Tammy in the canoe. Smartbutt! Unfortunately I didn’t get that picture. By the time I turned my yak, she was facing me again.

Taylor earned the money to buy her Old Town Otter kayak by working with me at farmers market when she was only ten years old. She’ll be 20 next month.

Notice the orange sticker on Taylor’s kayak? We have them on all three of our yaks. These stickers list the owner’s name and two telephone numbers. If a craft is found without a person this sticker makes it easy to get in touch with the owner. If the craft drifted away a search can be avoided. If the person has turned the craft over, rescuers have a better idea of who they’re looking for. These stickers are free and they are the responsible thing to do. Send an email to cgpaddlesmart@comcast.net to request yours.

We spotted a red Chevy truck parked at the edge of the stream and for a moment I was disappointed to be at the end, then realized it wasn’t one of our trucks.  A man and woman were fishing just down stream. She caught a chub as I rounded the corner and said nothing else was biting. Steve didn’t have any bites.

This was an easy stream to paddle. The water moves slowly. There are a few sand bars you can get caught up on if you’re looking at something else but they’re easy to move off. When the water drops they’ll be obvious. Paddling felt a little bit like work for about 30 minutes when we paddled into the wind but it’s otherwise a relaxing trip.

We pulled out at the end of a dirt road that runs past “Croman’s Camp.” Locals will know where that is but I couldn’t point it out on a map.  Laura and I seriously considered moving further down stream to an easier place to get out. This spot involved walking through a marshy area. She wore hiking boots and I had just Keen sandals on my feet. I wished for my tall Muck boots. I’m completely grossed out by walking in mud and muck. I really….really didn’t want to get out of the kayak, fall in the muck, walk through the mess and possibly sink thigh deep the way Steve was sinking. I’m not usually spleeny about stuff but this is off my acceptability scale.

Steve came to our rescue (He’s great about rescuing me.). He grabbed our bows and pulled us past the gross part, into solid footing. The water was cold but it wasn’t muddy or mucky. As it turns out, if Laura and I had continued further downstream, we’d have made it to the old Tomah Dam site in 30 minutes. I think we’ll do that next time.

We had lunch on the bank before Taylor and the men drove back to the beginning to get the rest of the vehicles we left there. An uneventful trip down Tomah Stream with good friends was the perfect start to our paddling season.

Woodcock are a small migratory, wading, woods-living bird. They’re difficult to see, often not making themselves known until you almost literally step on them. They let you know of their presence by bursting up into flight a few feet in front of you, causing swear words and heart palpitations.

Photo taken in May, 2012 during a turkey hunt.

I don’t remember how many years I’ve been volunteering in the US Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife’s Woodcock Singing Ground Survey but it must be nine or ten by now. I run two routes, Amity and Danforth, both in Aroostook County, with help from Steve. He’s my chauffer and extra set of ears.

Woodcock start peenting, a nasally sound they make to attract females, around sunset during their breeding season. At the end of the peenting cycle they burst nearly horizontally into the evening sky. They fly as much as 250 feet off the ground during their dance. When they reach their desired height they fly in an erratic pattern (could be mistaken for a bat) for several seconds before returning to the ground to restart the sequence.

Counting begins 22 minutes after sunset if the sky is three-quarters or less overcast (sky condition). If the sky is more than three-quarters overcast, counting starts 15 minutes after sunset.

Counters record the time of sunset, the time counting starts, mileage, wind, sky condition and precipitation. Notes are made on anything that might interfere with our ability to hear. We don’t count in high winds or rain. If possible, we count in perfect weather conditions so that we can get an accurate count of how many males are in the breeding ground.

The route is predetermined. Each year you start in the same place and stop in the same ten spots. Each is four-tenths of a mile apart. You count for exactly two minutes.

We started counting at 8:09 pm because the sky was overcast. Stops one and two were quiet. I watched a snowshoe hare hoping around at the first stop. It’s unusual to not hear at least one woodcock at this stop.

Stop three started at 8:16 pm with three peenting males. This stop is on a long stretch that allows sound to carry. An oncoming car blocked out some of the time I counted but I’m confident there were three birds peenting. A barking dog in the distance didn’t block sound.

The number of birds peenting are counted, not the number of peents. Let’s say I’ve done this for ten years, always running two routes each year, each route consisting of 10 stops. In 200 stops I’ve seen one woodcock. We’re counting by sound. It’s easy to count the number of birds because they’re far enough apart to distinguish between them.

Stops four, five and six each had one bird. I wished the dog would stop barking so I could hear well. I admit, barking dogs are a pet peeve of mine. Stop six had a lot of loud frogs which might have kept me from hearing peents in the distance. This doesn’t change from year to year. There’s always a boggy area with a lot of frogs.

Stop seven turned up one woodcock and something, probably a deer, walking away through the brush away from us. A barred owl hooted the entire time. “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?”

Stop eight had two birds and was easy to count thanks to almost complete silence.

Stop nine had one, possibly two males peenting. I recorded one because I’m not sure of the second. Thank you, Mr. Barking Dog. I look at the ditch on the north side of the road for moose at this stop. We saw two young moose there several years ago, and I always hope there will be another. Highly unlikely that it will happen, but I hope anyway.

The last stop, at 8:41 pm, had one bird. That’s unusual.

There was less traffic than usual, and while loud, the frogs weren’t as loud this year as in years past. There was very little logging truck traffic. This was the best year for this route. It averages around 60% of the stops having birds to count, and this year it was 80%. I have no idea what this means for the woodcock population. Maybe the numbers are up, or maybe I happened to hit it on a good night. Or something else.

We usually see bear, moose or deer when counting. We heard what was probably a deer, and on the way home saw a yearling bear cub run from the side of the road into the woods. It’s the first bear sighting for me this year.

I’m counting in Danforth tonight. Of the two routes, this one is my favorite. I’ll be out toward the wind farm in an area with less traffic and more deer.

We drove to a spot close to home, got our gear out, walked into a great spot and got ready. Steve set up our decoys, Ethel, Lucy and Ricky. This was going to be the morning I got my turkey…my first turkey. I settled against a hardwood tree and Steve moved further into the woods, behind a few feet and to the right. He was ten feet away. It was just after legal time when we were ready to go.

Steve gave the first call. A tom gobbled before the yelping was done. I smiled. This was my day.

Something scurried in the brush right behind me. Skunk? It’s always the first thing to come to mind when I’m on the ground and hear something in the brush. It moved away, and I stopped thinking about it until Steve said, “Rob, look at the rabbit.” A snowshoe hare ate while we hid in the brush.

After a few minutes of back and forth yelps and gobbles it became obvious that there was more than one bird. They weren’t in a rush to get close. Steve called for ten minutes, then suddenly got no response. After the third unanswered call I wondered if they were moving toward us faster or were done with us. Seven or eight minutes passed before I heard a gobble further away.

I’ve been disappointed so many times when hunting (I’ve shot only partridge so far), and completely blown the one chance I’d had to shoot a turkey two years ago, that I don’t get excited when I think I might be going to finally shoot. Still, it was a let down when the gobble came from further away.  We didn’t have a lot of time this morning.

Movement in the woods caught my eye. I couldn’t see them, just movement through the brush. “Here they come!” I heard dead leaves rustle, watched, waited, watched, and was a little disappointed to see a whitetail doe step into a clearing. She looked at the decoys, first with her tail up, then down, her ears relaxed. “Deer,” I whispered so Steve could see her. He called again to find the turkeys, and it didn’t bother her. Then I moved, just a little, and she heard me. I stayed still while she stared. Busted. I was going to be busted by a deer. She took three steps toward me. Steve called again and this time, a loud round of gobbles came back. The deer continued to watch the decoys. There were several of them and they were much closer. After several minutes I moved to startle her, convincing her to leave before the turkeys were in sight. Flag (tail) up, she bolted toward the road, and a yearling I hadn’t been able to see followed her.

Steve called again and this time, a single tom gobbled back. It wasn’t from the birds we’d heard. This one was directly to my right and further away. I listened a couple of times and decided it was coming up the road behind us. Steve moved to put himself in position to shoot.

It didn’t occur to me that this wasn’t going to be my day after all. I was glad that Steve was going to get his first turkey of the year, and we’d be having turkey breast for supper.

This one meant business. He came into sight quickly, spotted Lucy, Ricky and Ethel, and strutted in circles, puffed up and displaying like he ruled the forest. Steve brought the shotgun up, ready to shoot as soon as the tom gave him an opportunity for a good shot. It walked down the narrow path, into the clearing, and I smiled. He was big.

Steve hesitated, lowered the gun a few inches, then picked it back up and looked down the barrel. It was interesting to watch this first hand rather than on television. I’ve never been with anyone when they’ve taken their turkey. The turkey walked directly into the clearing, neck stretched forward, head out for a perfect shot, and Steve lowered the gun.

He lowered the gun. He didn’t shoot.

The tom walked out of my sight, close to the decoys, and I didn’t see him again.

Turkeys came out of the trees to my left, which was then behind Steve, and into sight. I clicked off the safety and raised the shotgun, a Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector Steve gave me for my birthday last month. I made sure I didn’t have brush between myself and the birds. My strict rule: clean shot, or no shot at all. I counted twice; five jakes. They looked about the same size. No one bird seemed larger than the rest.

Steve hit the button on the call and gave another yelp.

Five jakes gobbled at once, 25 feet from me. That excited me. They hesitated as they looked at the big tom and three decoys 20 feet ahead of and to the right of me. Steve called again. One jake took the lead while the other four stayed still. I thought I’d wait until one bird stood directly in front of me so I could be sure I didn’t miss. The pattern is very tight with the turkey choke. I was turned to my left a bit. I could be patient, but opportunity knocked. One more call. The jake in the lead took a few more steps, put his head up straight and tall, and I pulled the trigger.

“I got him!”

“Where’d he go?”

“Right there!”

He didn’t go anywhere but down. One clean, perfect shot to the head. He didn’t know what hit him.

Eastern Wild turkey and Remington 870 Super Magnum Bone Collector

I did it. I got my first turkey. It really was my day.

I shot my first turkey today mostly thanks to Steve. Ya, I made a great shot that I’ll shamelessly brag about for a while, but I got to make that shot because Steve chose to pass on the big tom to give me a chance to see what was coming through the woods. I wouldn’t have been upset if he’d taken that turkey. We still have almost a month to hunt. I’d have been happy for him. He lowered the gun, and he let me have mine.

Me and my first turkey

My small turkey weighed 14 pounds, 14 ounces. I’m calling it 15 pounds. I have one permit left. It doesn’t matter if the next turkey is bigger. As long as the population is thinned so they cause less damage to my young fruit trees and gardens, weight is just a number.

Melissa, my sister, messaged me Friday afternoon to say that Kenny would take her smelting if he could find a net. We have a net so I offered to meet her at Flood Brook in Topsfield so they could use it. She’d never been smelting. We were excited. I changed my Facebook status to “Melissa and I are going smelting (we’re letting Steve, Kenny and Rick go with us, ha ha). Any bets on who gets the wettest? Falls in first? Uses the wrong end of the net?”

We parked in a growing line of cars and trucks along the side of Route 6. Two men were standing on the edge of the stream, looking in. I didn’t pay attention to their identity, assuming it was Kenny and his brother Rick. I couldn’t see Melissa. I almost yelled down to them, “Did you already push her in?”

You can start dipping smelts at noon and continue until 2 am. They’re supposed to “run” around dark. We arrived early and walked to the stream. Beavers dammed the stream and flooded a large area at the edge of East Musquash lake. We walked through a bog, in stinky mud, stepping on tufts of dead grass here and there. I was grateful for my almost knee-high Muck boots.

We reached our destination-something that resembled a puddle beside a tiny outlet created by the flooding the beavers caused.

This was not what I was expecting.

I’ve heard stories of dipping the net in three times to fill the two quart limit. That’s what I was expecting.

When everyone who hoped to go home with smelts that night showed up, there were 30 of us (no kidding) standing around a puddle and a tiny stream. With nets. I waited for the people who were there first to take their turn. I watched smelts swimming in the puddle. Nobody moved. “They’ll start running soon,” someone said.

Ryan Beers of Topsfield said he had his limit and was home by 8:30 the night before. I looked at the smelts swimming in the puddle again. Nobody moved to get them so I dipped the net in and aha! I caught three. Three smelts, not quarts. When I was done, an hour later, I had two cups worth of smelts in a two quart container. It was a sad sight.

I’m not disappointed in how the night turned out. We talked, we laughed, Melissa answered the question of “who will get wet first?” by being the first to get wet. Turns out I got the “stupid smelts” that weren’t smart enough to get back to the lake. That’s ok. It was fun!

My Bourbon Red tom and two Eastern Wild turkeys.

That’s the only picture of a turkey you’ll see here today. We saw one hen. In the spring season, hens are off-limits.

We rode up one road through the woods to get to a clearing. Steve said, “Look at the deer!” It took me a few seconds to find her through the trees.

We watched her for a moment. She was far enough away to not be too concerned by us. She looked back over her shoulder several times. I looked but saw nothing.

We drove away after a lot of photos and a couple of minutes and continued on to the clearing. We found no signs of turkeys and turned around to go on to the next place. On the way back Steve spotted the doe close to where we’d seen her earlier, and she had company. This is what she was looking for over her shoulder.

Her yearling fawn is still with her. They look good. If she’s pregnant now she’ll deliver in about a month and a half.

They’re not what we were looking for but I’m glad we found them.

Bob and Marge Chandler retired to what might have been a quieter life. Sons Bobby and Bart, and Bart’s wife Jamie, and now a third generation with the birth of Bart and Jamie’s daughter, are keeping Bob and Marge busy.

Chandler’s Sugar Shack, Rt 6, Kossuth

It starts here at the tree with a tap and the tubing that brings the sap to the pump house. The Chandlers use a vacuum pump to speed up the process.

Sap is collected in stainless steel holding tanks in pump houses.

Raw sap is held in tanks before going through reverse osmosis to remove a portion of the water from the sap.

The sap is transported to the evaporator to go through reverse osmosis before being drawn to the evaporator through more tubing.

Reverse osmosis.

This is where the size of the operation becomes most visible. It’s hard to picture 3,000 tapped trees. There are miles of tubing involved in the process. Tanks are huge. Reverse osmosis takes place in a small piece of equipment. And then, the sap moves into the huge evaporator.

The firebox is at the end of the evaporator, on the right. It’s filled every 45 to 60 minutes. Sap temperature is monitored on a display on the wall to the right. When the sap hits 218* and is 67% sugar, it’s automatically drawn off into the barrel on the right. Before bottling, the syrup is filtered through the machine on the left. It’s a series of filters that remove the fine sand (minerals) from the syrup.

You can learn more about Chandler’s Sugar Shack on their website.

The Sap Moon through maple branches and thin clouds. Taken with the Canon PowerShot SX50 HS.

The Full Sap Moon

The Sap Moon through maple branches and thin clouds.

• One serving of steak per person
• fresh mushrooms
• scallions
• salt and pepper
• butter

Take the steaks from the fridge and unwrap. Place them in a single layer on a plate. The single layer is important; you want the steaks to warm up. Very cold meat will constrict when it hits a hot fry pan and become tough. Salt and pepper each side to taste.

Clean the mushrooms with a dry paper towel. Avoid washing as water causes mushrooms to become soggy. Wash and chop scallions.

Melt butter in a medium-hot fry pan. Don’t let the butter smoke. Sear the steaks in butter, turning only once, approximately 60 seconds per side. Remove the steaks from the pan and set aside. Add a little more butter if needed and saute the mushrooms until almost done.

Return the steaks to the fry pan to finish cooking. Moose steaks are typically cut thin. I turn our steaks after three minutes, cook another two to three minutes and remove. The biggest mistake you might make is over cooking. Over cooking lean meats such as moose can make it tough.

Toss the scallions on top of the steaks a minute before removing them from the pan. Remove steaks, top with mushrooms and scallions and enjoy!

These steaks were cooked in a workshop I taught at Winter Skills Weekend for Becoming an Outdoors-Woman. They were so tender we cut them with our forks.

Fork tender

Mother Nature sided with the girls and everyone else running Saturday morning. The sky was clear. Lindsay was one of those runners who ran the extra 1.4 miles on the poorly marked route and ran closer to five miles than 5K. She was at the finish line waiting for Kristin and Jamie.

We watched and waited for our girls in pink to come into view. My heart skipped a beat when they got close enough to see their faces through the camera lens. No mom, even when her “baby” is in her late 20′s, wants to see pain on her child’s face.

The look of determination.  Kristin and Jamie.

I could see the look of determination as she got closer to the finish line. They’re approximately one-quarter mile from the end here. She’s been thrown from and kicked by horses, tossed in the air and caught other flyers as a varsity cheerleader, and worked hard in general. Kristin doesn’t quit no matter how hard something might be.

This photo is the story of a woman who is in pain but determined to finish, and a best friend who encouraged her through the last hard mile. “We’re doing this!” “Keep going!” May we all have a best friend who will help us through the hard mile.

Keep going!  Kristin and Jamie.

Big smiles! Kristin and Jamie seconds before they finished the half marathon.

I’m proud of these women. With little training time they ran a half marathon and 5K. They’re signed up for another race and probably one or two more.

Jamie, Kristin (my daughter) and Lindsay after running the 2nd Annual Chamberlain March Half Marathon and 5K

Quick, hardy and delicious

Line a 9 x 9 baking pan or pie plate with pie crust

Layer: (don’t mix)

2 cups of shredded cheese on top of the crust.
1 pound of precooked bear sausage on top of the cheese.
1 c chopped onions
2 c sliced fresh mushrooms
6 eggs, scrambled with 1 oz cream or milk per egg, pour over other ingredients
Salt and pepper to taste

Bake for 45 to 60 minutes at 350*. It’s done when a knife removes cleanly from the center. Let cool 10 minutes before cutting.