On this day last year, I had recently returned from a fantastic honeymoon in the Caribbean. My wife, Mary, and I had spent several days on the mountainous tropical island of St. Lucia, and even though we were back in Connecticut and had been back to work for a handful of days already, I probably still had a couple East Caribbean Dollars lingering in my wallet. Even now, a full year later, so many aspects of that once-in-a-lifetime getaway are fresh in my mind: breath-taking views of the thickly-forested Piton mountains, a rejuvenating ocean breeze sweeping endlessly over the coastline, a seemingly endless array of fresh food and drink… and all of it with the love of my life beside me!
So why the reminiscing? Because my latest piece, “Morning on Lighthouse Point”, comes to you from Lighthouse Point Park in New Haven, Connecticut. It was here at this seaside park on the Connecticut coast that my wife and I got married a little over a year ago in view of the old Five Mile Point Light. So while it may have been the distant beaches of the Caribbean where we celebrated our marriage for days afterward, it was the soft rhythm of the waves coming off Long Island Sound that serenaded our ceremony.
The lighthouse seen in “Morning on Lighthouse Point”, known traditionally as the Five Mile Point Light for its distance from the center of New Haven, was activated in 1847 after being constructed from a variety of locally-quarried stone. It had replaced an earlier lighthouse which was shorter, dimmer and terribly insufficient when it came to protecting sailors from running their ships into jagged rock outcroppings of New Haven Harbor. This newer lighthouse was a vast improvement over the older structure and cost roughly $10,000, a small fortune in the mid-1800s. Yet for all the improvements that went into the new light on Lighthouse Point, it’s usefulness was short-lived. By 1877, only three decades after its completion, it was rendered obsolete once the Southwest Ledge Light was constructed at a more visible point out in the harbor.
Despite being 166 years old and out of service for more than a century, the Five Mile Point Light probably enjoys a greater “iconic status” now than it ever did back when it was thought of as a mundane navigational aid. While it no longer acts as a beacon for sailing ships, it nonetheless serves as the centerpiece and namesake of a beautiful stretch of shoreline along New Haven Harbor, quietly watching over countless beach-goers and proudly standing witness to several weddings every year.
My new piece, “The Falls of Burlington”, features a stretch of exquisite cascades along Bunnell Brook which churn ceaselessly over rock outcroppings beneath the shade of a dense forest canopy. If we follow the wispy whitewater upstream, through a jagged rock gorge softened by carpets of moss, we catch a glimpse of early morning light as it sets leaves aglow on the distant horizon.
While these falls have long been known to a handful of locals in Burlington and adjacent towns, it would seem that they never received any official name and you won’t have any luck finding them on a typical map. Instead, they’ve remained a sparsely-visited gem known simply as “The Falls”. The writers of the Burlington Rambler’s Guide, a sort of source book for the natural sights of Burlington, referred to them a bit more precisely as Burlington Falls, though they noted that “we’re not sure if that’s the official name.” So although there may be some measure of confusion over exactly what they ought to be called, Burlington Falls certainly imparts a clarity that can only come from spending time in the woodlands serenaded by the sounds of rushing water.
Perhaps the most striking characteristic of the New England landscape is the dramatic way in which it is forever being transformed by seasonal rhythms. During the summertime, I find myself walking through thick forests that seem virtually tropical in their abundance of crowded greenery. Yet only months later, I revisit the same forest to find a drastically altered landscape. Lively greens have been replaced instead with an earthy mosaic of grey and brown tree trunks that emerge from a white blanket of snow and reach skywards with bare branches. In between these two extremes are myriad transitional states that blend into a seamless cycle of change. So although I am always seeking to imbue my landscape photography with what I call “a sense of place”, I am mindful of the fact that these places are in perpetual transition and can be surprisingly difficult to pin down.
In the spirit of seasonal transition, I will introduce you to my latest fine art prints in a chronology that follows the landscapes of Connecticut from the last days of Summer through the changing of the leaves during Autumn, culminating in the frozen landscapes of deep winter.
Early September on the Connecticut Coast Westbrook, Connecticut
In Southern New England, the early days of September find summertime in its final throws, with temperatures still just about warm enough for a comfortable walk along the beach. My new piece, “Seaside at West Beach” (below), foreshadows the dynamic and temperamental side of nature, qualities which become even more evident as the days pass and early September transitions into early Autumn.
“Seaside at West Beach” brings us to the shores of Westbrook, Connecticut where gentle waves engulf the shell of a long-perished clam. The entire scene possesses a certain surreal quality, owing largely to the way in which sunlight had managed to momentarily struggle through the dark clouds of a passing thunderstorm.
The shell in the foreground is that of a soft-shell clam, known colloquially as the “steamer”. These are rather common mollusks in Westbrook Harbor, thriving in the silty intertidal zone beside razor clams and quahogs. Some of my fondest childhood memories of the Connecticut coast involve digging for these clams on the sandbars in the very place where I produced “Seaside at West Beach.
Late September in the Farmington River Valley Peoples State Forest, Barkhamsted, Connecticut
With late September comes the first days of Autumn, and while it may be too early for the leaves to have started showing their fall colors, there are other indicators of the changing season. Local agricultural fairs are in full-swing all over Connecticut, even though the agricultural way of life has all but disappeared from much of the state. Connecticut farms began to decline sharply in number during the later half of the 19th-century, but aerial photography of the state from the 1930s reveals a landscape that was still heavily quilted with angular cropland in all but the most developed areas. Today, only a tiny fraction of those farms remain. Over the course of the last 80 years, most of them were subdivided to build neighborhoods or abandoned to become forest. Agricultural fairs are one of the last lingering cultural influences from a time when farmland was still a common sight in just about any Connecticut town. Late September is also the time when I usually head to the local orchard for a taste of real apple cider, a drink which has always been part of my “autumn ritual”, for it seems that it embodies the quintessential character of New England.
Yet another sign of the changing seasons is evident while I’m out on photo shoots. During the months of July and August, for example, I can hike comfortably through the wilds of Connecticut with little more than a t-shirt and jeans. Late September is a different story altogether, for although daytime temperatures may still be fairly mild, there’s an unmistakeable chill in the air when I’m hiking out to my destinations in the pre-dawn hours. Such was the case when I scrambled down the banks of the Farmington River in Barkhamsted, Connecticut to compose “Barkhamsted Rapids” (above).
Finding myself woefully under-dressed for the cool air of the river valley, I was shivering as I set up my tripod in the morning twilight. When the Sun finally began to rise behind me, illuminating the trees on the opposite side of the river, I could almost immediately feel a reassuring warmth permeate my body. I shot “Barkhamsted Rapids” only 15 or 20 minutes later, just as the sun had risen high enough to completely set the trees aglow, but while it was still low enough in the sky that the river itself remained bathed in cold shadows. The result is a piece that exhibits a strong contrast between light and dark… between warm and cool… between the summer months that are being left behind, and autumn months that lie in wait.
October Arrives in the Naugatuck Valley Black Rock State Park, Watertown, Connecticut
Even if September doesn’t show many signs of the changing season, October is sure to usher in the full momentum of autumn. Perhaps the most ubiquitous indicator of fall is the changing colors of the woodlands, when summertime forests transform into a brilliant display of reds, purples, oranges and yellows. Each year, Connecticut’s fall colors arrive at their own pace, governed by a mysterious blend of shortened days and varying patterns of temperature, humidity and precipitation. In many cases, these factors can differ starkly from one location to the next, so that the leaves in one forest may have started changing by mid-September, while the leaves in a forest only a few miles away might be held over until early October.
But by mid-October, about the time I ventured to Black Rock Pond in Watertown, Connecticut to produce “Mattatuck Mist” (below), the color change had hit nearly every region of the Nutmeg State. In many places, leaves were already beginning to drop from their branches by the millions.
In “Mattatuck Mist”, we find subtle cues that plant us firmly in the later days of October, such as the strands of reeds that delicately poke through a vivid mosaic of fallen maple and oak leaves which have settled in the shallows of Black Rock Pond. As our eyes travel through this piece, however, we enter an ethereal waterscape bathed in lingering mist, where the forms of towering evergreens crowd the pond and fade to hazy outlines in the distance.
Historically, the name Mattatuck was of Native American origin and referred to a vast swath of land in western Connecticut that we know today as the Central Naugatuck River Valley. When the English settled the region in the mid-1670s, they were content to continue using the term. But when the settlement of Mattatuck was officially incorporated as a town of the Connecticut Colony in 1686, it was decided that the place would be renamed “Waterbury” in light of the many streams and brooks that ran through the territory and emptied into the Naugatuck River.
November in the Connecticut Valley River Highlands State Park, Cromwell, Connecticut
As we move into November, the landscapes of Southern New England have already largely been transformed by progressively cooler temperatures and noticeably shortened days. The dramatic colors of autumn have run their course, and even though the season doesn’t technically give way to winter until the later half of December, the bare trees seem to have already thrown in the towel.
But when I stepped out upon the muddy banks of the Connecticut River on a brisk November morning, I found skies washed over with soft colors and broad, glowing clouds stretching from the horizon. My piece from that morning, “A Cold Day on the Connecticut”, is a testament to the inspiring displays of color that can be had even after the blazes of autumn have come and gone.
This particular stretch of the Connecticut is flanked to the west by River Highlands State Park, a swath of forested bluffs encompassing over 170 acres in Cromwell, Connecticut and rising as high as 150 feet above the river below. Incorporated into the state park system in 2001, “River Highlands” seemed a fitting title given the geography of the area. But if officials had been guided by historical precedent, we might know it today by a much different name!
Back when sailing ships were still a common sight along the Connecticut, this section of the river was termed “the Blow Hole”, owing to the unusually swift winds that pushed through the bluffs and gave passing vessels a brief boost of speed. But traditional lore, perhaps dating back as far as the 17th-century, suggests that the unusual name originated with some of the first generations of Connecticut settlers. Colonial-era Puritans are said to have named the area “The Devil’s Blowhole” on account of the ominous howls that were occasionally heard emanating from the bluffs. In all likelihood, they were simply hearing the wind whistle as it whipped through the terrain.
Despite centuries of precedent, state officials felt that “Blow Hole State Park” would sound downright silly and they ultimately decided against it. Thus, River Highlands State Park was born.
Early January on the Shepaug River Hidden Valley Preserve, Washington, Connecticut
By the time New Englanders find themselves in the thick of winter, the warm and lively landscapes of summertime seem impossibly distant. In Connecticut, daytime highs average in the 30s for a full three months, with cold nights oftentimes bringing single digits. The days are several hours shorter than they were in times of warmth and, in heavily-wooded areas, it seems as if the Sun struggles just to crest over the treetops. Yet, despite the ever-present cold and darkness, there’s a subtle beauty to be found in snow-covered landscapes and a certain introspective quiet engulfs the wildlands. My new piece, “Winter Bliss and River Ice”, is an intimate expression of these unique wintertime qualities.
“Grand landscapes” -that is, photographs that present a wide, sweeping view of nature- figure prominently in my work, but occasionally the most poignant image is to be had by focusing instead upon smaller details. In the case of “Winter Bliss and River Ice”, taken in January, I found these intricate expressions of winter along the banks of the Shepaug River in Washington, Connecticut. During prior cold spells, sheets of thick ice had formed on small boulders in the shallows. The rushing waters of the river carved these icy crowns into marvelously organic shapes and a light dusting of snow transformed them into soft, white sculptures. But what really breathes life into these otherwise monochrome patterns of snow and ice is the vivid yellow reflection of the morning Sun as it kissed the cold waters of the Shepaug in the first few minutes of dawn.
Photographing Connecticut’s wildlands in the dead of winter is no easy task. “Winter Bliss and River Ice”, for example, demanded a slow, laborious trek along the Shepaug on snowshoes. Three layers of clothing shielded me from the frigid air that pooled in the valley overnight. Dim morning twilight did little to illuminate the snow-covered trails, cloaked as they were in the cold shadows of hemlocks.
And yet, when a shot comes together just right, the challenges of the terrain and the hardships of the climate are effortlessly forgotten. For a brief moment in time, it’s as if all of the world is being channeled through the viewfinder. In these moments, it makes little difference if I’m at the summit of a mountain, in the crowded forests of a river valley, knee-deep in a bog or surrounded by sprawling meadows. My mind doesn’t wander to the rain or the heat or the snow. These moments somehow seem to swallow me up entirely, so that when the shutter slaps shut on the final exposure and I step back from the camera, it’s as if I’ve all of the sudden returned to my body from someplace else entirely. A true “sense of place” is born of these moments; they are nourished by every season, they are the fruit that nature bears year-round.
Tolstoy wrote that “one of the first conditions of happiness is that the link between Man and Nature shall not be broken”. It is my hope that the visions of the American Northeast that I create might strengthen, if not renew, that link. I wish all of my viewers a bountiful new year in 2013 and I look forward to bringing you fresh, new work from the field in the coming months.
Connecticut’s Northwest Hills, encompassing roughly 1,000 square miles and 20 municipalities, are oftentimes thought of as the “the backcountry” of the Nutmeg State. These highlands are largely a rough and mountainous terrain, deeply-furrowed with valleys and river gorges that cut between several of the highest summits in the state. Conspicuously avoided by Connecticut’s major highways, the region is largely traversed by winding, woodland backroads. It is perennially colder here than the rest of the state, usually receiving the most snow and being the last area of Connecticut to see that snow melt away in the Spring. The population density is unusually low at only about 140 people per square mile, fully five times more sparse than that of Connecticut as a whole.
Even if Connecticut’s “frontier days” came and went centuries ago, the Northwest Hills are nonetheless host to lost vestiges of that bygone era; places that feel as if they were somehow left behind as time pushed forward. My latest work from this corner of the state illustrates just a couple of the enchanting landscapes that draw me back time and time again whenever I am moved to head northwest, out of the population centers of the Connecticut River Valley and into these rural wilds.
White Memorial Conservation Center Litchfield, Connecticut
In my piece, “Ethereal Passage”, a seemingly endless boardwalk invites us to wander into a twilight dreamscape of lush wetland foliage. As we follow the dimly-lit pathway, we all but lose ourselves in mist-laden forest silhouettes beneath a sky painted with delicate wisps of clouds that foreshadow the approaching dawn.
Despite the surreality of “Ethereal Passage”, it portrays a place which is very real, indeed. These wetlands lie on the fringes of Little Pond, a small body of water within the vast 4,000-acre White Memorial Conservation Center in Litchfield, Connecticut. Encompassing more land than even the largest of Connecticut’s state parks, the White Memorial Conservation Center is a most impressive effort in the preservation and management of the wilds of the Northwest Hills. A varied array of plant and animal life flourish within the Center’s six square miles of forest, rivers and ponds, open fields, wet meadows, swamps and vernal pools.
The origins of the White Memorial Conservation Center revolve around Alain White, a wealthy man whose dedication to preserving natural places began in the early 1900s and ultimately saw him becoming one of the most influential figures ever to exist in the history of Connecticut conservation efforts. The story begins at the banks of Bantam Lake in Litchfield in 1908, where Alain is said to have had something of an epiphany while fishing with a good friend amidst the quiet countryside. As if all of the sudden realizing his life’s mission, he commented that it would be grand if the landscape could remain in its peaceful and largely-undeveloped condition well into the future.
In that day in age, the idea of setting aside land to be protected from development was still relatively new; many industrious Americans insisted that the practice was as preposterous as it was wasteful. And, if he was so inclined, Alain could’ve simply shrugged off his passing idea, finished his day of fishing, and gone about his life no different than before. But, as unlikely as it may seem, that fleeting thought seized upon his consciousness and blossomed into a far-reaching campaign of preservation. In total, Alain and his White Memorial Foundation contributed nearly 6,000 acres of open space to the State of Connecticut, mostly for inclusion in state parks and state forests throughout Connecticut’s Northwest Hills.
Roughly 4,000 additional acres of land, comprising the White Memorial Conservation Center in Litchfield, now surround Bantam Lake… the very place where, little more than a century ago, Alain White sat patiently with his fishing rod waiting for a bite, entertaining the lofty idea that there was something inherently important in ensuring that future generations could find peace in places of nature. Certainly, he drew from the same deep intuition as the great John Muir, who wrote that “everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.”
And with that, I introduce to you another of my new works from the White Memorial Conservation Center: “Bantam River Quietude”. In this work, we overlook the calm waters of the Bantam River as they depart from Little Pond on their way towards nearby Bantam Lake. Mirror-smooth water reflects the soft colors from above so strongly that it is almost as if the Bantam River is fed by the sky itself. Only the wetlands, alive with pickerelweed and grasses and softened by a lingering mist, frame the the scene and provide orientation.
“Bantam River Quietude” is an expression of simplicity and serenity; an attempt to access that state of peaceful contemplation that Alain White found on that fateful day beside Bantam Lake.
Housatonic River Kent, Connecticut
Our next stop in the Northwest Hills brings us to the banks of the scenic Housatonic River, specifically that stretch which cuts through the old Bulls Bridge section of Kent. In 1897, Francis Atwater wrote in his book, History of Kent, Connecticut, that “the lover of the beautiful can see something fortunate in the circumstances which protected Bulls Bridge from the roar of the great world and left it sequestered and almost as picturesque as in its pristine days before the white man came and made his wide clearings.” According to Atwater, the railroad never quite made its way to Bulls Bridge. So, while so many previously small towns in Connecticut began to blossom into small cities with the advent of the rail in the mid-1800s, Bulls Bridge seemed to have been left behind.
Although Atwater wrote those words over a century ago, little has changed in the interim. Even as the importance of the railroads began to atrophy with the popularity of personal automobiles, Kent has continued to remain mostly rural and sparsely-populated. And, indeed, we can still see “something fortunate” in the sheer breadth of natural beauty that has been spared within Kent.
Take my new piece, “Housatonic Summer”, for instance. Here we are treated to a view of the boulder-laden Housatonic River as it furiously cascades southwards on its journey towards Long Island Sound, still some 40 miles away. The dense forest which crowds the riverbanks glows with vitality in the potent sunlight of late-morning. High above, the airy clouds against a bold blue sky top it all off. “Housatonic Summer” is more than just a journey into this riverscape of the Northwest Hills: it is a celebration of those perfect summer days that we’ve all come to love, no matter where we may live.
But this particular stretch of the Housatonic is rather unique for a few reasons. Only a few hundred feet downstream from this vista is Bulls Bridge, one of Connecticut’s only two remaining covered bridges that are still used by traffic. One might guess that the old village of Bulls Bridge was named after this bridge, but the exact opposite is the case. For roughly 250 years, the Bulls Bridge area of Kent was simply a well-known locale where the Housatonic River could be crossed. There were at least a few different bridges built there, beginning with one purportedly constructed by the Bull family, which ran an ironworks closeby in the mid-1700s. The wooden bridges of those early days didn’t have nearly the longevity of modern bridges, so as one wore out another would be built. It’s not clear exactly how many different bridges spanned the Housatonic in Bulls Bridge over the centuries, but the current version was not constructed until the mid-1800s. Spanning a distance of more than 100′ across the river, the bridge eventually received modern metal underpinnings which have strengthened it enough to allow a single lane of traffic to pass through on a daily basis.
Perhaps even more impressive are the gaping, smooth-bored holes in the limestone outcroppings that flank the western side of the river beneath the bridge and extend about 300 feet upstream. Known as “giant’s kettles” or “giant’s cauldrons” (or occasionally just termed “potholes”), these deep pits are the result of abrasive detritus like sand and stones getting caught in depressions in the bedrock floor of the river. As eddies in the water swirl them around and around, they gradually grind more deeply into the depression. Over the course of hundreds or thousands of years, this gradual grinding action can carve some surprisingly deep pits in solid stone.
One of these cauldrons is prominently featured in my new piece, “Giant’s Kettle on the Housatonic”. Producing this photograph required a good deal of planning and patience in order to fulfill my vision for the the shot. While I knew that I wanted to highlight one of these remarkable limestone rock formations, I needed to find a perspective from which I could capture all the elements that come together to make this stretch of the Housatonic such a captivating place. After scrambling some distance upon the pock-marked riverside bedrock, I came to the kettle you see here, which seemed to offer the opportunity I’d been seeking. Something as simple as setting up the tripod was quite challenging, since the only surface available was deeply-pitted limestone. Even once I managed to haphazardly brace the tripod legs, I had to wait over an hour for the perfect lighting conditions: bright enough to illuminate the vicious currents of the Housatonic that carved these kettles, but also subtle enough that I could simultaneously capture detail within the smooth, shadowy kettle in the foreground, where foamy water still endlessly swirls away, grinding an ever-deepening cauldron in the stone. All of the time and effort certainly paid off though, for in creating “Giant’s Kettle on the Housantonic”, I was able to swallow up the full magnificence of this grand riverscape.
Want to See More of Connecticut’s Northwest Hills?
There’s little doubt that the Northwest Hills of Connecticut figure quite prominently in my work; acre for acre, I find them to be some of the most wild and picturesque places in the state. Several of the most stunning landscapes in this region are featured in my artwork, so I’ve listed some collections below that will bring you ever deeper into this magical corner of Connecticut. Also, be sure to check out two of my previous posts —”Rivers & Streams Emerging from Winter” and “Car Troubles on the Way to Kent“— both of which discuss Kent Falls (located in Kent, only about 10 miles northeast of Bulls Bridge).
Kent Falls is probably Connecticut’s most well-known and scenic set of waterfalls. I’ve spent more time here than almost any other individual park in the Northwest Hills, capturing views of the remarkable limestone cascades and the wonderful transformations that occur with each season.
Located mostly in Norfolk, this is the only Connecticut state park which is not entirely located within the state’s borders. The northern tip of the park juts into Massachusetts, which jointly owns and maintains the park.
Encompassing some of Connecticut’s oldest hemlock and white pines, the old-growth forest of Cathedral Pines Preserve in Cornwall has recently been dubbed a National Natural Landmark by the federal government.
These three nature preserves, all located within Washington, Connecticut and owned by the Steep Rock Association, are amongst some of the most beautiful open spaces in the state.
Located in the rough woodlands of Roxbury, Connecticut, Mine Hill was once the site of a 19th-century ironworks, not unlike those that operated all over the Northwest Hills in those days. The roasting ovens and iron furnace still stand eerily amidst the forest, even though the area is now a scenic nature preserve.
If you’ve read any number of my posts here on From the Field, you probably know that I get a bit nostalgic when it comes to thoughts of the “old days” of Connecticut. You know, the days before the railroads came through, before industry completely transformed the previous two centuries of ever-steady Yankee lifestyle; the days when the state was still a bucolic patchwork of small, quiet towns connected by rough carriage roads. While I’m well-aware that it’s dangerously easy to idealize those bygone days, overlooking the many hardships and inequalities that people of that era faced, I still find something deeply comforting in the thought of a time in Connecticut’s history when daily life didn’t move at the breakneck speeds to which we’ve become accustomed in modern times.
In the 1830s, the population density of Connecticut is estimated to have been only about 60 people per square mile, a far cry from the staggering 750 people per square mile that inhabit the state today. It is presently one of the most densely-populated states in the nation, coming in at fourth place behind New Jersey, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Indeed, things have certainly changed over the last few centuries. But perhaps a visit to Northern New England gives us a faint taste of what the Nutmeg State might’ve been like 200 years ago.
Fair Haven, Vermont
Take, for example, my new piece titled “Bird Mountain Countryside”, which brings us to Fair Haven, Vermont. Here we are treated to a broad expanse of meadows and pastures that lead our eyes towards the horizon where the monolithic slopes of Bird Mountain rise from a thick blanket of early-morning fog.
The lands of Vermont seem practically deserted in comparison to most places in Connecticut. In fact, the population density of the “Green Mountain State” is less than 80 people per square mile in modern times, rather close to the figure reported for Connecticut so long ago during the pre-railroad era.
After I finished developing this piece, I took a proverbial “step back” and found that it faintly reminded me of the 1849 painting of New Haven’s West Rock Ridge by Frederic Edwin Church, a 19th-century Connecticut-born artist. I won’t indulge in likening myself to this master of the Hudson River School, but I mention Church’s painting because, like my “Bird Mountain Countryside”, it portrays a classic, bucolic foreground coming to a certain crescendo at a prominent mountain in the distance. "West Rock, New Haven" (1849) Painted by Frederic Edwin Church
The big difference here is that my perspective of Fair Haven is current; if you were to stand exactly where I produced this photograph, you’d see the same fields, pastures and meadows. In contrast, Church’s idyllic agrarian New Haven has long ago vanished beneath increased urbanization and, especially, the concomitant phenomenon of suburban sprawl along city margins. In fact, the Hudson River School painters were known to “idealize” the otherwise real landscapes that they painted… so it’s tough to say if Church’s New Haven of 1849 actually even existed as he painted it. Maybe it did, but maybe there’s a measure of fiction blended into his portrayal. We may never really know for sure…
Ultimately, the point remains that what Church was trying to express in his “West Rock” -that is, an image of an agrarian society peacefully co-existing with nature- isn’t far from the reality that exists in modern times at the foot of Bird Mountain. Perhaps it is that the character of “Old Connecticut” is in some sense still alive within the valleys of the Green Mountains.
Killington, Vermont
Our next few destinations on this odyssey are within the town of Killington, Vermont… a place which is undoubtedly famous among Northeastern skiing enthusiasts. However, my latest works from Killington were produced in the warm, humid months of summer… long after the snow drifts had vanished. Indeed, the side of Killington I want to show you is little-known to those who arrive for a few days in the dead of winter and never leave the vicinity of the resort. If we venture elsewhere within the 46 square miles of territory the town encompasses, we find some rather beautiful places that lay off the beaten path.
“Mirror of the Shrouded Hills” (below), my new piece from Killington’s Kent Pond, features one of those scenic treasures. Here we find ourselves overlooking a landscape crowned by thickly-wooded hills and steeped in heavy blankets of lingering mist. Below, the hills are cast from the surface of Kent Pond as a soft reflection, out of which emerges the shadowy silhouette of a small, rocky island populated by only a few lonely conifers seemingly marooned from the surrounding forests.
What originally drew me to Kent Pond, though, was the outlet brook that departs from the body of water on its eastern shores. Some official maps call this stream “Kent Brook”, a name which is as sensible as it is unremarkable. Unofficially, this brook enjoys a much more interesting title: “Thundering Brook”. At the risk of exposing my childishly-excitable side, I will admit that any river called “Thundering Brook” is a river that I simply must see for myself.
My fine art piece, “Green Mountain Riverscape”, portrays a conifer-crowded glade scattered with boulders where Thundering Brook topples over tiers of terraced bedrock before disappearing some distance downhill. This piece was especially gratifying to produce, as I feel that I was able to faithfully capture the very wild and untamed aura that permeates the landscape surrounding the rugged watercourse of Thundering Brook.
“Green Mountain Riverscape” is, in a sense, a timeless vision of Vermont’s natural places, freed of any strict associations with modern times. As I look at the piece I wonder,” Could Thundering Brook really have looked much different 100 years ago? Or 200 years ago? Even 1,000 years ago?” Ordinarily, I dive deeply into the history of the landscapes that I photograph, for I feel strongly that understanding the history of a place brings me closer to its essence. But occasionally I am moved to forgo this craving for knowledge. This vista on Thundering Brook is not far from a well-packed dirt road… beside the brook runs a small-diameter pipeline of indeterminate use… and beside portions of the brook, the banks are well-packed by frequent visitors. But for all of these reminders of the modern world that surround Thundering Brook, there were inevitably instances in which I gazed in just the right direction from just the right perspective and, all of the sudden, it was as if I was looking not only at a river that receded into the distance, but also at a scene that receded deep into the past… so deeply that, for a brief moment, it was as if all the pesky considerations and attachments to clock and calendar, which are so much a part of our modern lives, vanished amongst the cacophony of cascades and waterfalls.
The calming waters of Thundering Brook, as they are seen in “Green Mountain Riverscape”, may not appear to be as furious… as violent… as “thundering”… as one might expect. I’ll admit that Thundering Brook was not exactly a roaring torrent on the day that I visited, a condition that I attribute mostly to the peculiar dry spell that dominated most of New England’s summer season. Every brook I visited this year, from Southern Connecticut to Central Vermont to Eastern New York, was generally at quite a reduced water volume. But given the circumstances, Thundering Brook still had a decent volume of water flowing; I can only imagine that it truly thunders during the springtime, angrily crashing through the forests of Killington as it hauls away meltwater. One source* states that Thundering Brook carries less than 10 cubic feet of water per second (cfs) in the summertime, but notes that “peak events” have seen that figure swell to a staggering volume of just under 800 cfs! Can you imagine the near-cataclysmic power being channeled through this brook?
But even if Thundering Brook was lacking the water volume required to truly live up to its name, the impressive waterfalls along its course were still quite spectacular. “Thundering Brook Falls”, a series of roughly three big drops along the course of Thundering Brook, were the first landmarks that really sparked my interest to conduct a shoot in Killington.
My new piece, “Parallel Worlds”, features the final and tallest waterfall of the bunch. What I found especially intriguing about the views of this 60-foot waterfall was the unusual contrast between the forest and the watercourse. Owing to the green-tinted light filtering through the coniferous canopy, the entire forest in the upper portion of the frame is steeped in warm color tones and the underlying rock is softened by lush carpets of moss. Yet, at the foot of the woodlands we find Thundering Brook Falls cascading over slopes of barren bedrock, jagged and angular and glistening with subtle reflections of the sky above. “Parallel Worlds” leverages this intriguing disparity, inviting us to simultaneously accept nature as both vital and desolate… a source of nurture and a force of hardship. Through the lens of civilization, nature seems to express itself alternately as the giver and taker. There on Thundering Brook Falls, though, these parallel worlds blended seamlessly into a landscape that tapped a more primeval vein of my unconscious. And as I sat by the gorge in the humid early-morning air, the Sun triumphantly breaking through the clouds and casting bright beams upon the woodlands, I was reminded of the words of John Muir: “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.”
To see larger versions of the Vermont landscapes pictured here, simply click on any of the photographs above and you’ll be brought to my online gallery.
To see all of my landscape work from Vermont, be sure to visit my Vermont Gallery at JGCOLEMAN.COM.
* Information on water volume was drawn from the profile for Thundering Brook Falls found on Waterfalls of the Northeastern United States, a website authored by Dean Goss. Be sure to check out his page for Thundering Brook Falls.
When the first fresh snowfall hits the ground, I’m truly immersed in the momentum of nature towards a certain serenity that comes with cold and quiet. But the frigid air and disconcerting lack of foliage that accompanies a New England winter always tends to overstay its welcome. Then, thankfully, springtime comes along, breathing vitality back into a landscape that has laid dormant and seemingly barren for months. Indeed, Spring has always been a special time for me; a time of rebirth and revitalization after a winter that’s felt just a bit too long. But with summer having drawn to a close and colder months around the corner, I find myself a bit nostalgic for those earlier months of Spring that seem so strangely distant now. And so I offer you my latest series of fine art print releases in the hope that they will bring back memories of the joyous reawakening of nature earlier this year.
Whittemore Sanctuary
Take, for instance, the fern-laden forest understory of Whittemore Sanctuary in my piece “Whittemore Woods”. During my visit in May, this 700-acre tract of woodlands beside Lake Quassapaug in Woodbury, Connecticut truly embodied the springtime transition: that time of year when ferns are beginning to burst forth from the ground in droves, but the trees are still staging their awakening and haven’t quite filled out yet.
Originally, these woodlands were owned by a private corporation… a scenario which can too often lead to natural places vanishing in a flurry of development and subdivision when it comes time to liquify some assets. Luckily, beginning in 1965, the land was leased to the Flanders Land Trust which, at that time, was a fledgling non-profit organization bringing fresh ideals of open space preservation to western Connecticut. Who would’ve thought that by 2012, after nearly five decades of tireless work, the Flanders Land Trust would have preserved 2,000 acres of land throughout Woodbury, Middlebury, Southbury and Bethlehem? As it would happen, the trust ultimately managed to pull together the funds to buy all of the woodlands that are now Whittemore Sanctuary, ensuring that scenes like those pictured in “Whittemore Woods” will last into perpetuity.
Another of my new releases, “Down on Pine Brook”, brings us 40 miles west of Whittemore Sanctuary to the banks of Pine Brook as it wanders through the forests of Haddam Neck. Our eyes can move effortlessly through this piece, beginning with picturesque cascades in the foreground where Pine Brook struggles furiously against the resistance of boulders. On the opposite bank of the river, sunlight filters through a dense canopy and floods the crowded forest understory in green-tinted light. The course of Pine Brook recedes far into the distance, its surface punctuated by boulders and marbleized with wispy, whitewater riffles.
Over 20 acres of this intimate riverscape are preserved under the auspices of the Haddam Land Trust, another of Connecticut’s many land conservation organizations that work tirelessly to ensure that nature will have a profound presence in the Nutmeg State well into the distant future. But if we follow the waters of Pine Brook after they leave the boundaries of the land trust preserve, a larger story of cooperative land preservation reveals itself. The “Salmon River Division” of the Silvio Conte National Wildlife Refuge actually abuts Pine Brook Preserve and protects hundreds of acres of land beside Pine Brook for the remaining mile of its course, right up until it empties into the larger Salmon River. Now carrying the waters of Pine Brook, the Salmon River continues a southward journey towards the Connecticut River, first making a wide bend around the 300-acre Machimoodus State Park in East Haddam. Less than two miles further south, the Salmon River eventually empties into the Connecticut River. In this relatively small stretch of Conneticut River watershed along Pine Brook and Salmon River, we find the combined land preservation efforts of federal government, state government and a local land trust. This sort of multi-faceted approach to open space is a refreshing development, indeed. Increasingly, local land trusts have sought to acquire properties adjacent those owned by the state and federal government, or even owned by neighboring land trusts, thereby helping to create even larger unbroken tracts of open space which are ultimately more beneficial to wildlife than smaller areas fragmented by roads and neighborhoods.
George Dudley Seymour State Park
“New England Oasis”, one of my new works from Connecticut’s George Dudley Seymour State Park, brings you to the banks of Axelson Brook at the height of the springtime awakening. A lush patch of ferns and false hellebore lead you to the quiet stream side, where banks lined with moss-laden boulders meander into the depths of brilliant green woodlands.
Encompassing more than 300 acres of forest and flood plains, George Dudley Seymour State Park lies on the eastern side of the Connecticut River in Haddam. Interestingly, within a system of over a hundred Connecticut state parks and forests, it is among a small handful named explicitly after a person. George D. Seymour was born in the mid-1800’s and, while still only in his twenties, he had achieved such success as an attorney that he was able to channel some of his resources into preserving land. He even set up a foundation which has continued making contributions to open space preservation up to the present day. Through his personal contributions of land, and the on-going efforts of his trust since his passing, Seymour “acquired all or part of seven other state parks” in addition to the full acreage of the park that now bears his name.
Another of my new pieces from George Dudley Seymour State Park, titled “The Clark Ruins”, features a long-abandoned stone foundation quietly being reclaimed by nature in the misty gorge of Axelson Brook. While it’s unclear who built the old structure or exactly what purpose it served, chances are that it would’ve been familiar to the Clark family.
Comprised of three brothers, the Clark family operated a rather successful business in Connecticut producing a range of agricultural equipment from the 1870s through the early 1900s. During much of that time, the family lived on the land that is now George Dudley Seymour State Park. In those days, however, it was named “Clarkhurst” and essentially functioned as the Clark’s private estate. One can only imagine that Clarkhurst would’ve been a magnificent homestead in its hey-dey, a generous swath of land where the Clark brothers and their families could enjoy their private slice of the countryside while rising each morning to spectacular views of the Connecticut River. But those days came and went long ago. One of the brothers, Henry, ultimately bought out his siblings and became the sole owner of the land, only to pass away in 1914 and leave the property to his daughter. She tried to maintain the extensive estate, even developing it as a golf course for some time, but it seems that these efforts simply didn’t work out as planned. By the time the 1930s rolled around, the various structures on property were falling into a state of disrepair and it was clear that Clarkhurst was beginning to succumb to the rigors of time. For another three decades, the property continued to deteriorate from its former glory, changing hands at least once along the way. By 1960, the George Dudley Seymour Foundation had come to recognize the value of the property as parkland and provided funding to help the Connecticut Forest and Park Association buy the old estate grounds. And so it was that this land, once a glorious private estate over a century ago, came to be George Dudley Seymour State Park: a place of natural beauty for the enjoyment of all.
Every time I’ve visited the state park, I’ve somehow found myself entirely alone there. Sometimes, as I pause for a quiet rest along the trails, I try to imagine what this place must have been like so long ago. I try to envision the Clark brothers standing on the riverbanks of Clarkhurst in the 1880s, secure in their achievements as they overlooked the wide breadth of the Connecticut, with the sun slowly sinking behind the hills that rise from the opposite shore and the sky rendered a glowing twilight canvas of wispy pastels. How timeless must such a moment have felt to them? How solid and permanent must their modest empire have seemed? Surely, they could never have imagined that, generations later, their buildings would be reduced to crumbling foundations, their estate would be bristling with forests and meadows, and some lone photographer would walk quietly through the remains in a world that would hardly be recognizable to them. It’s precisely that nostalgic feeling that I sought to capture with “The Clark Ruins”. On one hand, a pang of regret that those things which are important to us are always fleeting. On the other hand, a sense of renewal not unlike that of the springtime… a sense that loss is part of nature’s glory and that a renewed vitality is always just around the corner.
Arguably Connecticut’s most famous series of waterfalls, Kent Falls is truly a marvel of cascading water and an exquisite museum of natural rock sculptures that have been carved from its marble streambed over the course of millennia. The State of Connecticut began actively pursuing the conversion of the Kent Falls area into a state park beginning in 1915, after a donation of land from the White Memorial Foundation (which, to this day, encompasses its own 4,000-acre preserve in Litchfield).
Falls Brook is tucked tightly into a towering grove of hemlock that, as the Connecticut State Park Commission noted in its 1915 report, were obtained with the “timber undamaged by cutting, which it narrowly escaped.” As can be seen in one of my latest pieces from this park, “Falls Brook Stairway” (right), the view from the foot of Kent Falls reveals a successive series of waterfalls and cascades that emerge from the shadows of conifers and descend powerfully over terraces of time-worn limestone.
Only after reaching the summit of the rocky gorge does the largest waterfall come into view. Here, Falls Brook takes its first leap into the gorge, plunging some 70 feet over sheer-walled cliffs dotted with swaying ferns and grasses and jacketed with moss. You can see these larger falls in some of earlier work from Kent Falls State Park such as “Silken Falls” and “Pristine Cascades”.
My latest piece from Oxford’s Jackson Cove, “As Winter Melts Away” (below), captures the essence of Connecticut’s wildlands as they transition from the deep-freeze of winter to the Spring revival. Cedar Mill Brook, swollen with meltwater, can be seen frantically spilling over mossy boulders on its way to Lake Zoar. Above the commotion, strings of melting icicles hang like natural jewels from fallen branches and tree trunks. For only a few fleeting minutes, the Sun was marvelously cast through one of these icicles, producing a gleaming star that foreshadows the warmer months to come.
For information about prints or licensing, head over to my landing page for “As Winter Melts Away”.
Enders State Forest, a 2,000-acre swath of woodlands in Granby and Barkhamsted, encompasses what is surely one of Connecticut’s least-known natural gems. It is here that Enders Falls can be found, a series of six majestic waterfalls formed as Enders Brook descends jagged ledges of bedrock into a deep, shadowy ravine. Each successive waterfall possesses a distinctly unique character from the last and visitors are apt to lose themselves in studying the myriad plunges, chutes, veils, horsetails and slides.
One of my latest print releases from Enders Falls, “Ice and Ferns” (above), captures plumes of water cascading into the gorge during pre-dawn twilight. Icy snow blankets the far wall of the gorge, a testament to the cool micro-climate that endures here even as temperatures begin to rise in anticipation of winter’s departure. Perhaps the most striking feature, though, is the unexpected juxtaposition of lively green ferns dancing in the breeze upon the nearest rock ledge. Known as Christmas Ferns, these resilient evergreens audaciously defy Connecticut’s harsh winters and, it is said, were once incorporated into Christmas decorations in earlier days since they were among the only leafy green plants that could be collected in December.
Peculiarly, Enders Falls has never enjoyed the same level of popular acclaim as Kent Falls, despite being arguably just as spectacular. Perhaps its because the trails along Enders Brook aren’t as well-developed as those of Kent Falls, or maybe the terrain is too rugged. It might simply be that Enders Falls, unlike its counterpart to the southwest that goes by “Kent Falls State Park”, is buried within state-owned land whose name cleverly disguises the waterfalls of Granby as no more than a “state forest”. In any case, it would seem that these very qualities which cement the obscurity of Enders Falls also make the experience and sensation of being in this remarkable place even more unexpected and impressive.
Some of my newest fine art prints come from places in Connecticut that, while surely beautiful, are nonetheless only known to a few locals and exist outside the consciousness of 99.9% of the state’s residents. These can be somewhat challenging places to find, but they also offer the potential for photographing small nooks and crannies within the state that very few have ever seen.
One of these places is the Koons Nature Preserve, a shaded ravine gurgling with cascades that flows through a quiet, 40-acre parcel of forest in Southbury, Connecticut. My piece, “Spruce Brook Twilight”, features the soothing waters of Spruce Brook as they meanders their way through angular bedrock under the bluish light of the pre-dawn hour.
About 50 miles to the northeast, in Mansfield, one finds the larger watercourse of Fishers Brook. In my piece, “Late Winter on Fishers Brook”, the rock-strewn waters can be seen coursing beneath tight stands of conifers which provided enough shade for remnants of past snows to persist beside the stream.
My latest fine art prints come to you from an exceptionally scenic stretch of the Natchaug River in the northeastern corner of Connecticut. Boulder-laden and crowded to the banks with dense forest, the Natchaug River is one of those exemplary gems of Connecticut’s wildlands. In this new series, I’ve portrayed the Natchaug River cloaked in a thick blanket of mist, accentuating the remote atmosphere and rugged beauty of these waters in a unique way that imparts both serenity and mystery.
In “Diana’s Last View”, the Natchaug River boils with whitewater while coursing beneath rocky ledges just upstream of a popular hole known as Diana’s Pool. These days, Diana’s Pool is a nice place to a launch kayaks or go fishing on the Natchaug River, but legend has it that this was the stage for a classic tragedy long ago. It is said that a woman by the name of Diana, heart-broken over a former lover, leapt from the ledges beside the Natchaug River and met her fate in the rock-strewn rapids. Another version of the tale holds that she plunged into the river only after accidentally slipping upon a puddle of her own tears. “Diana’s Last View” is a fitting addition to this legend, possessing an atmosphere that is serene and remote, but also melancholic and almost foreboding.
The wild essence of Connecticut is subtly evoked by “Natchaug Mist”, in which a stand of fog-shrouded conifers loom in the distance over the wispy rapids of the Natchaug River below. The introspective quality of this piece, as well as the others in this latest series, demanded hours of hiking along the river and composing photographs in the pouring rain. And yet, despite the oppressive conditions, I felt a peculiar kinship with the river that day. As I scrambled atop boulders in search of just the right views, I couldn’t help but notice that my wet clothes weighed heavily upon my frame and water-logged boots made each step feel labored. These days are rarely the type that we share with the forests and rivers of our home. Indeed, we tend towards communing with nature only on our own terms… whenever she happens to offer us blue skies, fluffy white clouds and t-shirt temperatures. But there’s something uniquely fulfilling about joining the trees for a chilly, sobering rain shower. It was almost if I and the trees, for just a few hours, were of a single mind… both of us silent and soaked through, but without the desire to seek shelter or escape to comfort.
There’s something especially macabre about a place called “Massacre Island”. Indeed, my latest print release, “Tidepool at Massacre Island”, embodies a certain tension between the soothing and the unnerving. On one hand, this new work features the beautiful sandy shores of an island that sits amidst the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. On the other hand, you have the dark tones of pre-dawn twilight, a palette of especially cool colors and the ripples of a wind-swept tidepool which suggest anything but an idyllic day at beach. “Tidepool at Massacre Island” expresses a subtly anxious mingling of those contrasting qualities.
“Massacre Island” is actually a historical name for modern-day Dauphin Island, a small barrier island in the Gulf of Mexico just off the coast of Alabama. Connected to the mainland by a bridge, Dauphin Island has been a beloved beach hangout for many decades. The eastern end of the island even boasts a small town of the same name. But the earliest record of European visitation to the island reveals a much less inviting first impression.
In 1699, French explorers Pierre Le Moyne and Sieur D’Iberville anchored their vessels off the coast of what would one day be called ‘Alabama’ (at that time, it was part of a large swath of territory called ‘New France’). When they landed their longboats on a narrow island of more than 20 miles in length, they were aghast to discover heaps of sun-bleached bones upon the beach. Surely, they imagined, this had been the scene of a terrible slaughter and it made perfect sense to call this place Isle Du Massacre, or “Massacre Island”. Although the island was officially renamed Dauphin Island in 1707 (after the great-grandson of King Louis XIV of France), it was still popularly known as Massacre for many years. In modern times, more than 300 years later, few people have ever heard of this gorgeous place being referred to as Massacre Island… but the foreboding feeling of my latest print seems to hearken back to those earlier times when the European mind thought of North America as a place of mystery, danger and uncertainty.
In time, the French eventually learned that the supposed site of the “massacre” for which Dauphin Island was originally named had only seemed like a terrifying place because it was interpreted out of context. Shortly after the voyage of Le Moyne and D’Iberville, more Frenchmen began arriving in the area and making contact with local Native Americans. In their discussions, it became clear that the heaps of skeletons upon the beach had simply been unearthed from a burial ground by wind and waves; there had never actually been a massacre on Dauphin Island.
