“The birds have a right to complain of misplaced confidence, and so have we, since the blandness of spring the day before deluded us into regarding her intentions as honourable,” wrote Charles Whiting in 1903, lamenting a springtime snow in New England not so different from the one we endured a few days ago here in Connecticut. Indeed, one could scarcely discern this April vista of Roaring Brook from wintry visions of a January blizzard.
But even Whiting had to concede a certain admiration for the waning wiles of winter. “It was really very beautiful snow, and whether dissipating in the sunshine or shining in the moonlight, it was several degrees whiter than the average. Less meteoric dust in it. Spring snow always looks so very young, and it is a blessing to the new grass and young grain,— one of those blessings that brighten as they take their flight.”
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The Hollenbeck River winds lazily through peaceful woodlands clothed in the heavy snow left by a vicious March Nor’easter.
Historians and linguists have debated the origin of the term “Nor’easter” for decades. All can agree that Nor’easters are storms which usually arise during winter and rake the Eastern seaboard with winds gusting from the northeast. But what can be said about the peculiar spelling of this term?
“Nor’easter” may seem, at face value, to be a phonetic spelling of “Northeaster” as it would be spoken with some New England accent. Indeed, the implication is that this spelling is an authentic product of New England society. But it is the omission of ‘r’ sounds that really characterizes coastal accents of Massachusetts, Maine and Rhode Island, so that doesn’t quite add up.
Surprisingly, research suggests that this bizarre spelling predates New England altogether, with “noreast” being found in English texts dating back as far as the late 1500s!
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With spring having arrived just about a week ago, it’s about that time for my on-going Yankee Farmlands project to make the change, as well! Next week’s addition to the series will be the first springtime farmland imagery this year. In the meantime though, I’ve released two final pieces from the very tail-end of winter.
In “Yankee Farmlands № 59” (at top), antique plows rest silently beside an elaborate, round-roof barn in Eastern Connecticut. With winter drawing to a close, the snows have melted away and soft clouds soar through the blue skies overhead.
If you were to briefly glance at this barn and expansive farm while driving by, it might be difficult to tell that it’s no longer an ordinary commercial operation. Roughly 16 years ago, the last of the previous owners donated the 170-acre farm –barns, machinery and all– for use as a unique “farm museum” where visitors can observe a broad range of both historical and modern farming equipment in use.
“Yankee Farmlands № 58” (immediately above) captures one of winter’s final blows to the Connecticut landscape. Tractor tracks impressed in frozen mud guide us past wagons and wrapped hay bales into a snowy expanse of farmland in Western Connecticut.
For all of the advancements in mechanization that have revolutionized farming over the centuries, the typical hay wagon has actually changed very little. After all, they are basically just cargo trailers for hauling hay… there’s only so much room for innovation beyond improving materials. If you could drop farmers from the early-1800s into a modern farm, machines like tractors, disc plows and balers would be completely foreign to them. Hay wagons might be among the few pieces of heavy equipment that they’d recognize fairly easily.
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A jacket of snow-dusted ice clings to shallow boulders along the banks of the Housatonic River in Connecticut’s Northwest Hills. Further upstream, against a backdrop of foggy woodlands and steep hills, a long covered bridge faithfully spans the frigid gorge.
At more than 170 feet in length, the West Cornwall Covered Bridge is arguably the most impressive bridge of its type left in Connecticut. Given the cost of maintenance and increasingly heavier loads it was forced to endure since the mid-1800s, it’s nothing short of a miracle that the bridge has survived to the present day.
There were low points along the way, of course. In 1945, a tanker truck broke through the bridge floor and crashed into the river below. A couple decades later in the late 60s, state officials contemplated tearing it down, but were met with vehement opposition from the surrounding community. Instead, it was reinforced with carefully-hidden steel underpinnings, ensuring the bridge would stick around for several more generations to come. The project was a marvelous success, even earning Connecticut an award from the Federal Highway Administration for exemplary historic preservation.
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Winter snows descend upon the farmlands of Northern Connecticut, blanketing hay wagons and a time-worn pasture shelter. Bare shade trees dot the landscape beyond, eventually giving way to the hazy silhouette of distant woodlands.
At first glance, snow-laden farms may seem rather dormant: tractors sit parked, fields lay barren and barns slumber away the winter. But historically, tireless New Englanders found ways to keep busy on the farm even during the colder months of the year.
With no fields to tend, farmers set off into their woodlots to fell trees which would eventually be used in the springtime to build and repair barns, fences and sheds. Seems like a terrible time for such strenuous outdoor labor, right? Maybe so, but there was an important advantage to this approach: it was far easier to haul heavy timber back to the farm on a sled over the snow than it would be to overload the frame and wheels of a creaky, old wooden cart in the summertime.
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Cast from the lustrous, hazy sky above, sunlight floods a frigid, snow-laden field in the Connecticut River Valley and throws long shadows from the stubble of last season’s corn stalks.
Although modern-day Enfield lies in the northernmost reaches of Connecticut on the east side of the Connecticut River, that wasn’t always the case. An early survey conducted in 1642, just as colonists were beginning to gain a foothold in New England, determined that Enfield was part of the neighboring Massachusetts Colony.
More than five decades later in 1695, a new survey determined that the old boundary between Massachusetts and Connecticut was entirely incorrect. Enfield and a handful of other towns, which had been part of Massachusetts for two generations, were actually part of Connecticut! Things moved slowly in those early days, though: it would take another 50 years before Enfield managed to officially secede from Massachusetts and join the Connecticut Colony in 1750.
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Clouds glow like airy jewels in the early morning as they drift over a dormant farm on the outskirts of Bristol. Down below, light snow clings to a dirt access road which winds past hay bales and a bare shade tree before vanishing behind the barn.
The last installment of Yankee Farmlands brought us to Colebrook, a rural town which was largely reclaimed by sprawling woodlands as farming declined throughout the 1800s and 1900s. Bristol represents the opposite case: as old farmland there was abandoned, it was rapidly repurposed for city expansion and residences. So while Colebrook and Bristol encompass roughly the same amount of land, the population of Bristol has swelled to be about 40 times greater!
Remarkably, a handful of farms have endured on the periphery of the city and manage to feel a world apart from the nearby suburbs and the bustling streets less than two miles to the south.
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Frigid waters leap eagerly over the precipice of Knife Shop Falls amidst an otherwise quiescent, snow-laden forest in the Litchfield Hills.
This forgotten gorge in the sleepy, old village of Northfield was once the site of a prominent knife factory which arose in the 19th-century, its machinery driven by the falling waters of this very brook. After opening in the 1850s, the aptly-named Northfield Knife Company gained worldwide renown for its superlative cutlery in just a few decades. But in spite of this promising reputation, changing times saw the factory shuttered in the 1920s and quiet woodlands eventually reclaimed the ravine.
On an unrelated note, I produced this particular piece in mid-December last year. While it seems that we’ve mostly dodged any significant snowfall this December, I’ve no doubt that 2016 will pull a few punches right out of the gate.
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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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Springtime in the American Northeast was described perfectly by Pennsylvania-born author Henry van Dyke in 1899:
“The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month.”
Judging by the stillness in the cold air and the snowpack lingering upon the barnyard of the Glastonbury farm in my new piece, “Yankee Farmlands № 25” (above), it would be tough to tell that a season of renewed warmth is upon us. Then again, fields that were covered a yard-deep in snow just a month ago have since thinned out to less than a foot and we’ve had some forgiving temperatures lately.
This much-awaited break in the winter weather is already presenting some fresh new shooting opportunities. Recent warm spells have melted substantial amounts of snow, causing brooks and rivers all over the state to swell. Waterfalls which have been snow-caked and encrusted with ice since January are finally awakening from their seasonal slumber. The woodlands and farmlands alike are still fairly dormant this early in the year, but as snow vanishes from road shoulders and trailhead parking lots, I’ve been delighted to find that I’ve finally got a place to park my truck again!
I’ve eased my cabin fever over these past couple months by putting together a new list of exciting shooting locations in Southern New England; I’m more than eager to get back out into a lively green landscape! So here’s to another long winter being behind us… and another glorious spring ahead!
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Be sure to check out my Yankee Farmlands collection, the fruit of an on-going project which celebrates the agricultural heritage of the American Northeast through the breath-taking farmlands of Connecticut.
“I saw, as for the first time, what a severe yet master artist Winter is. Ah, a severe artist! How stern the woods look, dark and cold and as rigid against the horizon as iron!”
-John Burroughs
“The Snow-Walkers” (1866)
What better way to kick off the New Year than celebrating the quietly beautiful snowscapes that are a hallmark of wintertime in New England? My new piece, Mad River Lullaby, was produced only a few weeks ago and portrays a broad bend on the Mad River as it snakes through snowy woodlands just down the road from my home in Wolcott, Connecticut.
The Mad River is impounded downstream of this vista to create the 120-acre Scovill Reservoir, so the serpentine meander featured in Mad River Lullaby is typically inundated. In this rare instance, however, the reservoir had been drawn down several feet, allowing the Mad River to briefly reclaim its more natural footprint. Freshly-fallen snow, courtesy of a December storm, delicately frosted the bare trees and “tidied up” the muddy cobble left behind as the reservoir receded.
Throughout 2013, I managed to travel all over Connecticut and Western Massachusetts and even enjoyed a couple jaunts into Vermont and Eastern New York. Nature was not so shy during many of these travels, presenting several opportunities to capture rare and intimate glimpses of her beauty wherever I set off into the landscape. But, as nature photographer Moose Peterson once said,” The real prize is what you bring home in your heart, not on your memory card.” Indeed, when I browse through my work from this past year, I recall countless fulfilling days of being out in the wilds. Those experiences… those memories… are the reason that I love this art form so deeply.
To all of my viewers, I wish you and yours a bountiful and memorable new year in 2014!