In my latest piece, “Yankee Farmlands № 39”, dawn breaks over weathered barns beside a chilly pasture where dew-speckled grasses shimmer like a verdant, green sea.
In an era such as ours, when most of us are no longer tethered to our land for crops and livestock, it’s understandable that farming would be romanticized to some degree. An intimate relationship with the soil, bucking cubicles and corporate bureaucracy: sounds great, right?
There are myriad things that can be said in praise of the farming life, but the labor is often hard, the money is sometimes uncertain and the work can be quite dangerous. Consider the bitter case of the Rufus Norton Farm, which is seen in this piece. “Rufus was killed in the 1930’s by one of his bulls,” recalled a Wolcott historian. “His wife kept the farm going by working as a school bus driver.”
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Century-old iron girders frame the marvelously symmetrical trusses of the Old Drake Hill Bridge. The imposing metal structure stands in stark contrast to the airy clouds above and enjoys a palette of colorful blooms growing from planters and hanging flower pots.
Wooden covered bridges dominated the Connecticut landscape throughout most of the 1800s. But as the turn of the century grew closer, the reign of the wooden bridge was literally crumbling away as floods, fires and the rigors of the elements laid waste to Connecticut’s aging crossings. State-of-the-art iron bridges arose wherever old covered bridges required replacement, oftentimes sitting upon the very same abutments.
Such was the case with the iron Drake Hill Bridge in Simsbury, which was built over the Farmington River in 1892 as a direct replacement for an earlier covered bridge. Owing to its durable metal components, the Drake Hill Bridge remarkably carried traffic for 100 years, its term of service beginning with horse-drawn carriages and spanning all the way to Chevy pickups and Honda Civics. By 1992, it was finally decommissioned after a new concrete bridge was built nearby. In its retirement, the beloved Drake Hill Bridge now takes it easy, carrying only pedestrians and being adorned every year with a gorgeous array of flowers.
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Faint clouds cling to hills and pastures of the Coginchaug River Valley in Central Connecticut. Warm, morning sunlight struggles to permeate the heavy air over a complex of old barns and sheds clad with weathered planks and crowned by sheet metal and shingles. Nestled into the buildings is a cozy barnyard, bound by split-rails and cloaked in shadow beneath a shade tree.
Throughout most of Southern New England’s agricultural past, barn roofs were dressed with wooden shingles. Self-reliant farmers of that era could hand-split these shingles, or “shakes”, off logs harvested from their woodlot, thus eliminating the need to buy anything besides the necessary fasteners. With only a few exceptions, wooden shingles were the perfect solution in those early days, providing a durable, homemade roof which could potentially last two or three decades.
Perhaps the only glaring difficulty presented by wooden shingles was the simple fact that they were highly flammable. Fire could quickly lay waste to timber-framed barns and roofs clad in wood only hastened the destruction. For that matter, farm houses were oftentimes roofed with the same wooden shingles as their companion barns, so if either structure caught fire, all it may have taken was a few stray embers to set the other building ablaze.
Alternatives to the wooden shingle such as metal barn roofing, often in the form of corrugate sheets, didn’t arise until the late 1800s and grew in popularity after the turn of the century. Northern New Englanders, possibly owing to their harsher winters, adopted metal roofing a bit more readily more than their neighbors in Southern New England who instead tended to favor slightly less resilient asphalt shingles.
In “Yankee Farmlands № 37” (above), we see a range of roofing materials that have likely been applied as needed throughout the decades. The largest barn is capped with old, wavy tin sheeting, while a small shed on the perimeter of the barnyard sports a more modern steel roof with patterned ribs. Asphalt shingles have also managed their way into the mix, covering the addition beside the large barn and even capping the old silo.
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Towering cumulus clouds, their exquisite contours etched into a deep blue sky, soar over the crest of Talcott Mountain in Northern Connecticut. Broad shadows cast upon the ridge top engulf the distant, century-old Hublein Tower, a monolithic structure rising high above the forest canopy.
At roughly 700 feet tall, Talcott Mountain (seen in my newly-released piece above, “Talcott Cloudscape”) climbs prominently from the forests and farmlands of the Farmington River Valley. But perhaps it is Hublein Tower, at a height of 165 feet, which lends a better sense of scale to the vast, airy spectacle of clouds overhead.
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A thriving pear tree, its branches bowing with the weight of ripe fruit, arches over a fieldstone wall at the edge of an orchard in Northern Connecticut. Distant apple trees promise an equally generous harvest as gentle clouds soar overhead.
An 1838 book, The New American Orchardist, commented that “next to the apple, the fruit tree most generally cultivated in New England is the pear.” The author went on to explain that, despite looking very similar, pear trees are actually quite different from apple trees. “The pear tree”, we are reminded,” also differs essentially from the apple in its superior longevity.”
Indeed, the oldest cultivated fruit tree still alive in the United States is the famed Endicott Pear Tree in Essex County, Massachusetts. So named because it was raised by John Endicott, the first governor of Massachusetts, the tree is believed to have been planted roughly a decade after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. To this day, at an age of about 385, it still produces fruit.
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Dawn breaks over farmland in Western Connecticut on a humid summer morning. A bale elevator is perched silently at the open door of a barn overlooking woodlands in the valley below which glow with a luminous mist as sharply-angled sunlight pierces the canopy.
Photographing agricultural landscapes can occasionally be tricky, for unlike the wildlands that I shoot, farms are essentially private, man-made landscapes where the presence of a photographer wandering around in the wee hours of the morning is not always welcome. But from time to time I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and speaking with farmers that seem to understand intimately what draws photographers such as myself to their fields, rolling pastures and rustic barns.
Much like landscape photography, farming in New England generally isn’t easy or particularly lucrative work: farmers do it because they love it. They appreciate being on the land and being attuned with seasonal rhythms. A Connecticut tobacco farmer once explained that farming “isn’t a job, it’s a life.” That brand of passion, commitment and sincerity could just as easily explain the fervor with which the most dedicated landscape photographers approach their art.
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With the recent weather here in Southern New England mercifully cooling, it seems timely to remind everyone to enjoy what’s left of the summer. If there’s a lingering shred of superstition in your bones, you’ll take heed that the Farmer’s Alamanac calls for “copious amounts of snow” during the coming winter with the “coldest outbreak of the season” predicted for late January.
I produced the piece seen here along the wintry banks of the Housatonic during the final week of January earlier this year. The riverscape that morning lent a certain presence to nature’s penchant for paradox; awakening with splendor, yet still so very dormant… at once, both enchanting and foreboding. “Schaghticoke Rising” (above) was my effort at capturing that bewildering contradiction as it unfolded in the minutes before dawn.
For the curious minds out there, the title of this piece hearkens back to the earliest days of Kent when the remnants of declining native tribes across Connecticut took refuge from encroaching Europeans in the rough, wooded hills of the township. Calling themselves the Schaghticoke (usually pronounced Scat-uh-cook), this amalgam of native peoples became one of the largest indigenous nations in Southern New England. They were also granted one of the earliest reservations ever created in the New World, obtaining some 2,500 acres from the Connecticut Colony in 1736.
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Giant sunflowers crowd a verdant field in Connecticut’s Eastern Uplands as sprawling clouds drift across the summertime sky. The vista featured in “Yankee Farmlands No. 34” (above) is the latest installment in my project which celebrates the agricultural heritage of Southern New England through Connecticut’s scenic farmlands.
Among North America’s ancient food crops, the sunflower was widely cultivated by Native Americans for at least 4,000 years before Spanish explorers first laid eyes on the plant in the 1500s. Specimens were brought back home to Spain and, from there, spread throughout Europe.
Russia can be credited with breeding the gargantuan sunflowers with which we are familiar today. But while sunflowers had grown popular in Europe, they had fallen out of vogue as crops in North America. So even though sunflowers began their journey as food crops thousands of years ago in the Americas, the modern practice of farming them in the United States didn’t really take off until Russia shipped their huge sunflowers overseas in the late 1800s.
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In my latest piece, “Rings of Northgate”, foam churns away at the foot of Northgate Falls, swirling ceaselessly amidst a shallow, mossy gorge beneath woodlands in the northwest of Simsbury.
Even fairly small waterfalls such as this one, found along a nameless branch of Bissell Brook, were a boon to settlers as they migrated throughout the wilds of Connecticut in the early days. The hollow that was formed when a brook descended abruptly into gorge meant that a relatively small dam could impound plenty of water to operate a stream-side mill.
After discovering old fieldstone retaining walls lining the gorge at Northgate Falls, my curiosity was piqued. I used computer software to carefully overlay a hand-drawn map of Simsbury from 1868 upon modern satellite imagery. Sure enough, the 19th-century map shows a dammed pond labelled “Saw Mill” at the exact location of Northgate Falls; it’s likely that the mill site was already quite old even at that time.
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Perched on a seaside bluff where the Thames River empties into Long Island Sound, Avery Point Lighthouse is painted by warm, sunrise light against the deep blues of a cloudless canvas.
For much of New England’s history, lighthouses were always in short supply. They were expensive to build and required ceaseless maintenance. Yet, with each beacon that was finally completed, it seemed that seafarers could think of two more places where new lighthouses were still desperately required to guide vessels through treacherous waters.
For Connecticut, though, that all began to change in the 1900s. There was only a need for so many lighthouses along the shoreline, and for the first time in the state’s long history, it was safe to say that they had all been constructed. The Avery Point Lighthouse, erected during World War II in 1943, would prove to be the last beacon built along Connecticut’s 100-mile coastline.
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Bark peels from the trunk of a fallen birch wedged into the boulders of a gorge in Western Massachusetts. Just ahead, Goldmine Brook Falls descends 40 feet into the ravine amidst ancient, weathered rock faces softened by jackets of moss.
Drive through the quiet, wooded town of Chester, Massachusetts where I produced “Deadwood at Goldmine” (at top) and it might seem hard to believe that area was historically bustling with mines of all sorts. First came the early iron mines; later, in the mid-1800s, a somewhat rare, abrasive mineral known as emery became the object of commercial efforts. Yet the name “Goldmine Brook” is still a bit puzzling, since there doesn’t seem to be any record of sincere attempts at mining the precious metal at any point in Chester’s past.
While there is undoubtedly gold in the valleys of Western Massachusetts, it’s been scattered too broadly and too thinly upon the landscape by the prehistoric advance and retreat of glaciers. Suffice it to say, the amount of gold you might get after a day of panning a creek in Southern New England wouldn’t even cover the cost of driving home.
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In the latest addition to my Yankee Farmlands project, wrinkled plumes of kale climb over encroaching weeds on a swath of sunny cropland in the hills of West Granby. Warm, summertime air drifts lazily through the field, the breeze too faint to stir the still forests along the farm edge.
Vegetables such as kale, collards, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, kohlrabi and brussel sprouts are popular greens that occasionally even share the same field. But would you believe that every one of those vegetables represents the same species? That’s right… even though they may look dramatically different, they all possess genes which are virtually identical to those of a weed known as “wild lettuce”.
How was such a diverse array of vegetables derived from a single species? Thousands of years ago, early farmers carefully selected generation after generation of cultivated wild lettuce to promote certain desired traits: long stems for kohlrabi, enlarged flower buds for broccoli, broad leaves for kale and so on.
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