Bunnell Brook crashes over a waterfall in the distance, roiling itself into a whitewater frenzy and charging forth through the verdant woodlands in the hills of Burlington.
Many of Connecticut’s waterfalls were named long ago when they were at the heart of streamside mills driven by waterwheels or turbines. Some folks may have appreciated the natural beauty back then, but most probably knew them as busy places of industry where goods were churned out and livings were made. And in some cases, once those mills vanished and the waterfalls ceased to be places where livelihoods were earned, the names and stories behind each could become quite jumbled and obscure in just a generation or two.
Take the case of Bunnell Brook in Burlington, where there are two distinct waterfalls found about 600 feet apart. We know that one of the two waterfalls was historically called “Bunnell’s Falls”, but which one? An 1895 publication suggests it was the lower falls, though more recent publications tend to apply that name to the upper falls (which are seen in this piece). I don’t know who’s right, but in the meantime, I’ll just stick to Upper and Lower Burlington Falls.
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“An Eightmile Rhapsody” Eightmile Brook at Southford Falls State Park, Southbury, Connecticut
Cold shadows and the warmth of dawn coalesce at Southford Falls, where Eightmile Brook leaps from an old mill pond and stages a vigorous charge through the dark gorge below.
Although I produced this image back in late October of 2017, just as autumn colors were reaching their modest peak last year, it wasn’t until yesterday evening that I managed to process all of my work from that shoot. That’s pretty typical of my autumn imagery each year, the bulk of which tends to be processed only after colder weather takes hold. Why such a long turnaround? Well, the colorful stretch of autumn that we all hold dear generally spans just 5 or 6 weeks; it’s gone just as fast as it arrives, so I need to work quickly. That leaves scant time for sitting in front of a computer tweaking development controls.
I generally dedicate my time during autumn almost exclusively to field work right up until “stick season” sets in. Not familiar with “stick season”? It’s basically the second half of autumn -after the trees have lost their leaves but before winter snows have arrived- when the entire landscape looks like a mess of bare sticks reaching into the sky.
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The Housatonic Valley awakens to a chilly autumn morning as sunlight dapples the brilliant woodland canopy in the distance. Before us, cornstalks rise defiantly from a field besieged by frost; an unmistakable chill in the air foreshadows the coming winter.
But when it comes to cold New England weather, the chill in “Yankee Farmlands № 42” (above) and even the most brutal winters of the past decades can’t begin to compare to the disastrous chills of 1816… a time which would come to be remembered as the “Year Without a Summer”. Freezes killed the fruit tree blossoms in May. Come June, there were still reports of snowfall and slabs of ice drifted steadily down the Connecticut River. Frosts persisted well into August. By September, a reverend in Northern Connecticut lamented in his journal that “no person living has known so poor a crop of corn in New England… as now.” Famine engulfed the American Northeast when it became clear that there would be no harvest.
At the time, nobody could explain this perplexing weather: a day of frost in June might be followed by a day of seasonably sweltering heat, just to be followed yet again by a day of snowfall! Scientists now believe that a volcanic eruption in Indonesia had cast massive plumes of dust and ash into the Earth’s atmosphere which periodically blotted out the sunlight and caused the bewildering conditions.
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“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'”
-Lewis Carroll Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865)
As we move into the month of March here in Connecticut, the sentiment among most folks is that we’ve had more than our fill of winter. Temperatures have remained anchored below freezing in spite of our advance towards springtime and we’ve found ourselves knee-deep in a persistent snowpack that has certainly overstayed its welcome.
I’ve observed that we here in Connecticut have an interesting relationship with winter. We are charmed by the aesthetic range of our landscape as it transitions from the dazzling displays of autumn to the contemplative dormancy of winter. But, without fail, early March finds us increasingly eager to escape the frigid temperatures and meager daylight that we’ve endured for months on end. Our winter wonderland starts to feel more like a winter wasteland, and in spite of our experience and good sense, there brews in the back of our minds an irrational concern that the snows might never melt and the trees might never again bear leaves.
But with my new work, Winter on Eightmile Brook (above), I challenge us all to put aside our quarrels with the frigid weather, even if it’s only for a moment! Produced in Connecticut just last month, this piece brings us to the foot of Southford Falls where Eightmile Brook plunges a dozen feet before meandering through a snowy gorge that straddles the borders of Southbury and Oxford. The Sun hangs low on the horizon, peeking through the woodland canopy and imparting a feeling of warmth, even if there’s little it can do to banish the frigid air that has pooled in the gorge overnight. Winter on Eightmile Brook embraces all the icy bitterness of our tough winter and seeks to find something comforting —perhaps even inviting— in nature’s patient hibernation.
And don’t worry, friends… springtime is right around the corner!
To see more of my work featuring Southford Falls and Eightmile Brook, be sure to visit my Southford Falls State Park collection.
As part of J. G. Coleman’s Decor Series prints, all of the works seen here are available at Fine Art America. You are encouraged to visit J. G. Coleman’s Fine Art America eStore, or see all of Fine Art America’s snow art or forest art.
“Be like the sun and meadow, which are not in the least concerned about the coming winter.”
-George Bernard Shaw
Wildflowers are something of a staple subject for landscape photographers, not only for their vibrant color, but also for their exquisite structure. For while we can certainly find exceptional colors in a sunset sky or an autumn forest, neither can offer quite the same delicate complexity as wildflowers. However, incorporating wildflowers into an effective landscape photograph can be challenging. Timing is everything. Not only must a landscape photographer seek out conditions that are universally important for aesthetics, but he must also be especially attentive to the season in which certain species bloom. The trick is to seize those rare moments when weather, lighting, location and seasonal blooms intersect; that sweet spot is elusive, but it can potentially yield idyllic scenery.
Similar elements come together in a much different composition in Pomperaug Summer (at right), in which clusters of bergamot extend deeply into a meadow, mirroring in small scale the crown of the solitary, whimsical pasture tree that stands silhouetted against the distant, fog-laden forest.
Encompassing roughly a square mile of territory beside the Pomperaug River in Southbury and criss-crossed with some 15 miles of trails, Bent of the River Audubon Sanctuary is actually larger than many of Connecticut’s state parks! Quiet, forested hills cover most of the expansive property, while the area nearby the visitor center consists of the broad, open meadowlands portrayed here in my work. But if the scenic qualities of this place are readily evident, what is not so obvious is the story behind it’s perplexing name.
For nearly six decades prior to its ownership by the Audubon Society, much of the land was the private estate of Howard and Althea Clark. At some point, while perusing the old land records associated with property, they discovered an early 1702 deed that referred to a sharp turn of the Pomperaug River beside their driveway as “ye bent of ye river”. Passionate as the two were about living out in the countryside, surrounded by hundreds of acres of serene seclusion, it may well be that the Clarks found something romantic and nostalgic in this old-fashioned language, suggestive as it is of colonial-era New England. The novel reference made enough of an impression upon the couple that, when Althea passed away in 1992 and left the full extent of the property to the Audubon Society, one of her posthumous demands was that it should be called “Bent of the River”.
Although the Clarks were indeed wealthy, they seem to have accumulated this wealth early in life and were subsequently able to indulge in various artistic and literary pursuits. Howard managed to become a novelist and published at least a few books. For her own part, Althea enthusiastically took to photography, an art at which she is said to have excelled. Try as I may, I was unable to find any example of her work online. But given the bucolic surroundings in which she and Howard chose to live, it isn’t unreasonable to imagine that landscapes factored into her subject matter quite frequently. Indeed, I wonder if one day I might finally happen upon some of her old black-and-white prints and maybe… just maybe… I might find among them some vista of a broad, open meadow, sprinkled ever so delicately with sprays of wild bergamot.
