A breath-taking vista, wrought in endless peaks and valleys and lined with wild forests, unfolds before the humble front porch of a rustic, old cabin nestled amidst Vermont’s Green Mountains.
I produced my latest release atop the 2,400-foot Hogback Mountain, a majestic overlook in Southern Vermont fittingly dubbed the “100-Mile View” which peers deeply into the neighboring mountainscapes of Massachusetts and New Hampshire.
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In a small field in northern Connecticut, rows of freshly-planted sprouts dance in the breeze amidst cloud-marbled skies and nearby woodlands.
Modern farming represents a fascinating blend of old and new. After all, there’s something refreshingly timeless about a quiet pasture dotted with grazing cattle or a sprawling orchard of wizened apple trees. But advances in technology and technique have also enabled farmers to be more efficient and productive than ever before.
Case in point: the use of plastic sheeting, known as “plastic mulch”, seen in this field. Covering crop rows with plastic prevents the growth of weeds and better retains moisture, meaning less field maintenance and less water usage throughout the growing season.
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Morning sunlight filters down through a hazy mesh of clouds, falling upon the warm springtime landscape below where trees at the periphery of the farm are freshly-clothed in leaves. With planting time fast approaching, a farmer guides his tractor in broad loops around the field, churning the soil in preparation for a crop of soybeans.
Although most folks tend to refer to any disturbance of field soil as “plowing”, farmers can tell you that’s not entirely accurate. The tractor seen here, for example, is pulling an attachment called a “cultivator” which turns a much thinner layer of surface soil in a process known as “cultivation”.
Why not just plow the field instead? Plows aerate and distribute nutrients very deeply in the soil, a crucial step for growing crops that produce deep roots. But the soy beans that will be planted in this field produce shallow roots which can’t access nutrients that are buried too deeply. In this case, cultivating rather plowing keeps all of the good stuff close to the surface where it can offer the most benefit to the bean crop.
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Virginia creeper and poison ivy climb in tangles, competing over a weathered fence post at the corner of a quiet barnyard in the south of Connecticut. Barns in the distance flank a towering concrete stave silo, likely retired from use years ago but still faithfully standing sentinel over the farm.
Silos are undoubtedly among the visual staples of farm country, but they are quickly approaching the end of their era. These unmistakable towers rose to popularity in the late 1800s as a means of preserving nutritious livestock feed for use during colder months. By the 1920s, nearly a half-million silos dotted the dairy regions of the United States.
But the purpose of the silo was to keep feed in an air-tight environment, a task accomplished far more easily these days by simply covering bunkers or feed piles in long lengths of plastic sheeting. Indeed, modern plastics have made farm life quite a bit easier, all the while tolling the death knell for the classic silo. Most of the silos that you see these days aren’t used any longer; they’ve been empty for years, in fact. Even those increasingly rare farmers who still use their silos admit that they can’t imagine ever building any new ones once the old ones are worn out and retired. It’s quite probable that within a century, the once ubiquitous silo may all but vanish from the countryside.
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Barns nestle into the bottom of a broad ridge in Northern Connecticut, the adjacent pastures already thick with grasses by early May. Woodlands on the hillside have taken to “greening over” as recent rains nourish buds and emerging leaves.
In modern times, Canton is a prosperous township of nearly 9,000 in the Farmington River Valley. Even as early as the mid-1800s, the renowned Collinsville ax factory brought growth and industrial might in the southern reaches of the town.
But the earliest settlers of Canton, said to have arrived there in the 1740s, didn’t fare quite so well. So toilsome were their efforts at building a life in this hilly, wooded frontier that they saw fit to name their founding village “Suffrage”. One can only imagine that, for these struggling pioneers, a time when their hamlet would enjoy comfort and convenience seemed impossibly distant.
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As the farms of Northern Connecticut settle into springtime, grasses and tiny wildflowers sprout up at the periphery of the fields. In just a couple weeks, imperceptible buds on the distant shade trees will burst into a fresh crown of leaves… but for now, the branches still seem just as bare as the old, cedar fence posts nearby.
Even though I very much enjoy the winter aesthetic in New England, it never fails that I spend the entire month of April holding my breath in anticipation for “leaf-out”. Stripped forests and dormant fields, in all of their unlikely audacity, never fail to brazenly trespass upon several weeks that rightfully belong to spring!
But especially fitting of my Yankee Farmlands project is a line by late French author Alain-Fournier. “Life on the farm is a school in patience,” he explained,” you can’t hurry the crops or make an ox in two days.” Landscape photography tends to demand a strikingly similar brand of patience, equanimity and perseverance… and the harvest cannot be rushed.
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Remote woodlands of Central Connecticut emerge from the grip of winter, channeling fresh spring rains through a sprightly brook which tumbles through the hills. The forest floor is obscured beneath a dense blanket of leaf litter, remnants of last autumn that have only recently thawed after several frigid months bound up in ice and buried by snow.
Depending on whose metric we use, there are anywhere from a dozen to as many as a hundred waterfalls in Connecticut. But because so much of the state is criss-crossed by roads, most of them are can be seen with a fairly short walk from the blacktop. Some are even visible without leaving the roadside.
“The Cascade”, a 15-foot horsetail on Carr Brook, is among the few that aren’t quite so easy to reach. This waterfall demands a ¾-mile drive down an old dirt logging road, then a mile long hike through the hills.
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Amidst sandy beaches and gently swaying reeds, the iconic Five Mile Point Lighthouse rises from the shores of New Haven Harbor.
Five Mile Point Lighthouse, built from countless tons of locally quarried brownstone, was completed in 1845 to replace the original wooden lighthouse established on Morris Cove in 1805. But long before even that early lighthouse was built, the shores of this cove hosted a desperate battle which is remembered to this very day.
In 1779, as the American Revolution raged, British troops landed on this beach to launch an invasion of New Haven. Patriot forces fought back and the British are said to have buried their fallen troops quite close to where the lighthouse would eventually be constructed decades later. Although the redcoats managed to push forward and burn several houses and farms, they suffered such heavy casualties that the decision was made to abandon their advance on the city.
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Hazy clouds glide over flatlands in Northern Connecticut where we find a sprawling farm bounded only by the soft contours of distant hills. Before us, a herd of dairy cattle mingle about, some wandering casually while others are content to lounge upon the ground in the warm springtime sun.
Ask just about anyone to describe a cow from memory and they will almost certainly mention the blotchy, black and white pattern of the iconic Holstein. This exceptionally popular breed accounts for 90% of the dairy livestock in the United States, owing largely to its remarkable knack for milk production. The average Holstein yields around 25,000 gallons of milk per year; exceptional specimens can supply 70,000 gallons!
And while we’re on the topic of impressive numbers, it’s worth mentioning that the Holsteins seen in this piece are just a handful of the 4,000 kept on 2,800 acres at Connecticut’s largest dairy farm. An operation of that size is remarkable for a small and crowded state like Connecticut, especially when you consider that the average US dairy farm only keeps around 200 cows.
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Windswept coastal grasslands crowd a weathered boardwalk which ushers us towards the beachfront along the Connecticut coast. Out over the ocean, morning clouds stage a stirring display.
While the unspoiled beauty of coastal areas like Milford Point may be the prime draw for many sightseers, the most essential purpose of these protected beaches lies in providing breeding habitat for migratory shorebirds.
By the mid-1900s, some 120 million acres of waterfowl habitat had been lost to development in the United States. The federal government highlighted that very figure in a 1941 report, noting that “for many years most species of migratory game birds have been in a precarious situation”. Perhaps ironically, bird hunters of the era brought some of the earliest attention to problem, reporting dramatic reductions in available game compared to earlier decades. Luckily, these observations and subsequent studies spurred many early efforts to create a system of refuges to accommodate migratory birds, lest they decline to extinction. The work continues today.
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Cattle wander aimlessly through a silent pasture veiled in heavy fog which clings to the Litchfield Hills. Though springtime arrived a few days earlier, dormant woodlands at the farm edge still reach skyward with bare branches.
As if the leafless forests weren’t a stark enough reminder of colder months past, Connecticut is expecting another few inches of snow today. In the words of 19th-century author Edgar Nye: “Winter lingered so long in the lap of Spring that it occasioned a great deal of talk.”
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Sunlight and blue skies reveal a small New England hamlet glazed in icy snow left by an overnight storm. A weather-beaten covered bridge spans the gorge ahead, guiding us over the frigid river towards a white, steepled church in the distance.
When heavy rains began to fall on Central Massachusetts in early October of 1869, folks in the town of Conway probably thought nothing of it. What they couldn’t have known was that the downpour would last for two days straight, inundating the South River. Things went from bad to worse when a mill dam in town broke under the strain of the swollen river, causing a disastrous flood that demolished fourteen bridges downstream.
The covered bridge in the Burkeville section of town was the only crossing over South River that remained after the deluge. But in spite of its admirable resilience, it endured damage which was too severe to be remedied by simple repairs; the lone survivor was disassembled and a new covered bridge was built the following year. That very bridge, completed in 1870 as Conway struggled to rebuild, still spans South River to this very day. Staying true to its legacy of endurance, it is now the only covered bridge in the entire region to have survived the onslaught of progress.
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