“Romeo and Juliet” by Steve Tobin, seen on exhibit at the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in Boothbay, Maine, in 2019. (Artist’s comment: “Cast bronze tree roots from two trees that fell and entwined in death.”) Other works of Steve Tobin may be viewed here.
The Jonah Center recently became aware of the artwork of Steve Cronkite, a longtime Middletown resident and artist. Steve is a semi-retired civil engineer who enjoys biking and paddling in our area. He and his husband Paul love to grow interesting trees and shrubs in their yard. Steve volunteers as a literacy tutor and is curating a new pinetum at Wickham Park in Manchester. Other paintings by Steve may be viewed on his Instagram page @s.n.cronkite_art . (The pinetum, an aboretum of pines or conifers generally, may be viewed on Instagram @wickham_park_tree_fan.)
The paintings below help us appreciate the special beauty in our own corner of the world. Do you know the scenes or locations featured below? Answers can be found at the bottom of this post.
Where is this paddler? What bridge is shown, from which direction?
What is the name of this hill, and where was the artist standing?
Can you guess what kind of tree this is, and where do these trees grow locally in abundance?
This type of tree is large and rugged. It thrives in an urban environment, even under harsh conditions.
- “Coginchaug Paddle” — on the Coginchaug River approaching the railroad bridge near the kayak and canoe launch from upstream.
- “Higby Nightscape” — Mt. Higby viewed from the Country Club Road bridge over Interstate 91.
- “Moondance” — Cottonwood Tree, common near the mouth of the Mattabesset River and on Wilcox Island
- “Sycamore” — Sycamores and their related hybrid species, London plane trees, are common in our area.
Answers, clockwise from upper left:
Green Wheat Fields, by Vincent Van Gogh; Uferlandschaft, by Paul Cezanne; Breton Landscape by Paul Gauguin; and Path in the Wheat at Pourville, by Claude Monet.
Chantal Foster, Portland resident, is an accomplished hiker. We are delighted to share her fascinating, humorous, and gripping tale of friendship, strength, trail sanitation regulations, and the effects of Acute Mountain Sickness as part of our “Alive Outside” creative writing initiative. Many of us are not capable of such an adventure ourselves, but this story will make you feel (almost) as if you were there.
Climbing Mt. Whitney, by Chantal Foster
Back in the beginning of 2018, esteemed hiker Bill Korp (aka Cupcake) came up with the harebrained idea of hiking Mt. Whitney in CA as a way of commemorating his 70th birthday. Apparently, he didn’t feel like doing it alone, so he asked three of his favorite, well, maybe not favorite but “good friends,” well, maybe not good friends, but he did ask Steve Crusberg (Shuttle), Gina Wildermuth (Nurse), and yours truly (Olive Oil) to tag along.
Whitney is the highest peak in the contiguous 48 states at 14,496 feet (or 14,505, depending on where you look) which makes for a busy trail — so busy that would-be hikers need to apply for a permit through a lottery system. Nurse and Cupcake coordinated the necessary paperwork to apply for such in February and in April, with luck on our side, we were awarded a permit to hike Whitney on the auspicious date of Wednesday, July 25th.
Travel and lodging plans were discussed, determined and made, and we proceeded to study how to hike “Whitney in a Day,” training accordingly while waiting for the big event.
Soon, mid-July was upon us. With much training, a couple of challenging “prep hikes” under our belts and a lot of anticipation, we flew into Las Vegas and made the approximate 5-hour drive west to the town of Lone Pine, CA where we would make our home for the next five days. On our way, we passed through Death Valley with elevations around three hundred feet BELOW sea level. We would be on both the highest and lowest points of the lower 48 during our trip.
by Tom Christopher
Garden wildlife reminds me of teenagers – the critters eat distressingly huge meals then leave without communicating about what they have been up to or where they are going. Except in wintertime, of course, when they (the wildlife, not the teenagers) leave a tale of tracks in the snow.
I’m no great tracker, but with the help of my Peterson Field Guide to Animal Tracks I can at least tell the difference between a fox footprint and that of a dog, trace the travels of the rabbit around my yard, and discover that it’s a porcupine that has been nibbling the branch tips off the hemlocks. There are all sorts of insights to be had from these vestiges. The dog, for example, is likely to wander, sniffing here and there, whereas the fox typically trots in a straight line – one is sure of an ample dinner while the other knows that it cannot afford to waste a single calorie in this harsh season. And by back-tracking the porcupine, I learn what crevice in the rock face across the road it has made into its den. That’s where I’ll set up my have-a-heart trap if the porcupines ravage my vegetable garden again next summer.
It was a string of five-toed footprints, each one not much bigger than a quarter, that told me to keep an eye on the wood pile. And my vigilance was rewarded one gray morning when I spotted a mink darting in between the logs, then re-emerging with a mouse in its jaws.
It’s a thrill to find evidence of such an uncommon (at least in my garden) species, but tracks of the commonest animals excite me just as much if they have a story to tell. A red feather and a spot of blood in a small snow crater told me all I had to know about the encounter of a cardinal and a hawk. And I still remember following across a snowy field next door to our yard the tracks of a Canada goose. Stooping to inspect, I found its toes had dug into the snow and the stride gradually lengthened until, suddenly, the tracks stopped – I, too, felt as if I had taken off. Continue reading