I took a trip to the local nursery and bought a bag of mixed seed hoping to appeal to all. I really had no idea what I should get. I just figured I’d get something that looked good to me.

I filled my caged tube feeder that hung from a tree in the backyard and waited.

The first day I watched from my kitchen window. Nothing came near my feeder. On the second day, still not a single bird stopped by for a snack. I wondered about the seed mix, was it right? Would the birds eat it? I looked good to me, but I wasn’t going to eat it.

On day three they came. It reminded me of the baseball movie Field of Dreams – if you fill it they will come.

I don’t know a lot about birds, I’m not a birder. But I like to know what I’m Looking at. I recognized the ubiquitous Black-capped Chickadee and the Tufted Titmouse, but after that I was stumped. I needed a bird book. So off to the bookstore for a copy of Sibley’s Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America. It sounded good. I’d at least have this side of the continent covered.

They continued to come. The next day I identified a White-breasted Nuthatch and after careful research in my guide and online I’m sure I had a Hairy Woodpecker out there.  Three days later when a Downey Woodpecker showed up I was surer of my ID of the Hairy Woodpecker as it is larger. A Red-breasted Woodpecker became a regular visitor.

The next day when I walked into the kitchen; a Song Sparrow was looking in the back door. From the window over the kitchen sink, from where I watched my feeder, I saw a Red-breasted Nuthatch. Like the White-breasted Nuthatch, these birds often feed upside down. I guess it helps when you’re picking bugs out of trees.

On the afternoon of day four as I glanced out the kitchen window, my collection of feeding friends scattered. It caught my attention, maybe the neighbor’s cat. I looked out the backdoor and perched on a high branch overlooking the backyard and my feeder was a Cooper’s Hawk. The big bird surveyed the yard and then swooped in closer. It perched on a dead tree just inside the tree line behind the feeder and watched. Somehow the birds knew it was there, because they were nowhere to be found. The hawk moved to another perch nearby and continued to watch in the direction of the feeder. It finally flew off. It was a while before the small birds returned to feed.

This morning as I made my coffee I looked out to see a Blue Jay hanging from the feeder. Below poking around in the dead leaves were two Dark-eyed Juncos.

So far, with the possible exception of the Hairy Woodpecker, the birds visiting my feeder were common. But this morning a bird arrived that was a challenge to identify.

I studied it, noting the color, the feathers, bill and overall size. When it flew off I pulled out my Sibley’s, but didn’t see anything that looked similar. I needed to see this bird again.

Shortly the little creature obliged and returned to the feeder for another snack, mixing in with the chickadees and nuthatches. Based on the feather pattern and coloration, the small black beak and eye-ring, my guess is that what I had out there was a female Ruby-crowned Kinglet. Six days ago I never knew they existed.

Reading about my favorite part of the Pine Tree State early last summer I learned of an archeological dig conducted by the University of Maine in the North Central part of the state. It was at a place since named the Windy City Site where they found evidence of a Paleo-Indian camp. I dug into the information a little deeper and learned that there was actually more than one. The Windy City at the thoroughfare between Chase Lake and Munsungan Lake was the main site; however, there were more throughout the Aroostook River watershed that seemed to parallel an ancient travel route.

Where Little Munsungan Lake empties into Munsungan Stream.

A little more research led me to Jim Carter and his camps on Little Munsungan Lake. I called Jim and mentioned that Chris and I were interested in the Paleo-Indian digs and were planning a visit to the area. Jim told me that the sites were all closed and on private property. Even though we were talking about an area well off the beaten path, he made it clear, that the property owners and the State of Maine did not want people poking around.

Jim must have sensed my disappointment because before our conversation ended he said, “My camp is one of the sites and I own it. I’m planning to do some digging this summer and if you’d like to come up and dig, you’re welcome.”

I didn’t hesitate. We made arrangements for Chris and I to visit.

As Jim Carter describes it, “The Munsungan area is famous as a source of Munsungan Chert, the most desired material in the North East for making stone tools, this coupled with the fact it was on a major travel route, has made the area one of the more famous for the study of those who came before us.
With the blessing and help of the state archeologist and some friends who are trained archeologists an on going dig and survey has been conducted of the area where the camps are located. This survey was published in The Maine Archaeological Society Bulletin. It is interesting to note that people have been using (the Munsungan area) since the ice age ended over 10,000 years ago. It’s still possible to dig and find material that was worked by humans some 9000 years ago.”

Jim has been digging in the area since 1953 and in fact there have been discoveries of artifacts as much as 12,700 years old. Paleo and Archaic artifacts of Munsungan Chert have been found as far north as the Gaspe Penninsula and as far south as Pennsylvania.

Looking at Jim's cabin from Little Munsungan through a field of Joe Pie Weed and Golden Rod.

The cabin we stayed in at Jim Carter's camp on Little Munsungan.

Jim’s camp was built by his father, who bought the land in 1938. Back then the only way in was to pole up Munsungan Stream. Later Jim was able to fly into Little Munsungan Lake, which sits at the foot of Munsungan Lake.

Munsungan Lake ranges over 1500 acres, while Little Munsungan is about a quarter of the size. People come from all over the world to fish these remote lakes. It is possible today to drive in, as Chris and I did, but many still fly.

The afternoon that we arrive we spent settling into our cabin and then joined Jim in his cabin for some conversation. Jim Carter is a non-stop fascinating storybook of tales of the Maine woods. He has spent his life there and has been a Master Maine Guide since the age of 13. He told us we could use his canoe if we want to, but it was just impossible to tear ourselves away from his stories.

Chris working his line off the dock.

This simple, but complicated man sat in his rocking chair that would normally look out the window down onto Little Munsungan. But when he had visitors, Jim turned his chair, lit his pipe and began to talk. The woodstove to his right was his ashtray as he banged the burnt tobacco out of his pipe and reloaded it frequently. To his left was an old radio that he had rigged to pick up the National Public Radio station in Presque Isle.  His politics are right wing. On the floor Jim’s dog of 11-years, a German Shorthaired Pointer named Martha snored. “When I went to get her as a puppy,” he said, “I asked the lady who had the dogs what her name was. She said Martha and I said, well, that’s what my dog’s name will be.”

The kitchen at one end of Jim's cabin. There are a couple of dozen jars of pickles on the table.

In the late summer Jim harvests the Dutchess apples from his small orchard and pickes enough cucumbers from his garden to put up about 60 quarters of pickles. He also prepares the filling for about 25 apple pies, which he’ll freeze and use over the winter.

One of the most fascinating things about Jim and his camps are the people that have visited over the years. Jim doesn’t do a lot of advertising, he doesn’t have to. People who are looking for remote hunting and fishing or just to get away, find him. One of the things he does is become friends with most of his visitors, thus making him one of the best connected people around. He knows more Fortune 500 CEO’s and corporate bigwigs from huge multi-national companies that I knew existed. In almost every case he had to explain to me just who he was talking about. Of the politicians, governors, senators, military officers and more I didn’t know many. Sports figures I knew. Ted Williams was a regular as were, and possibly still are, other members of the Red Sox. He talked about NFL players and broadcasters. Frankly, after a while I had a celebrity meltdown and don’t remember all the people he was talking about.

Jim did tell one story that I clearly remember. One spring day he had decided to go fishing. He put a small cooler with a six-pack of beer in his canoe and headed up Little Munsungan and out onto Munsungan Lake. Surprisingly, there was another boat on the big lake. Both men fished for a while and then Jim decided to meet the other lone fisherman on the big lake.

He pulled up and offered the man a beer. They sat and talked and shared Jim’s six-pack and fished together for the rest of the day.

“Well, who was it?” I asked. After hearing all the names of famous people that had visited the area I was expecting some well-known person.

“You may never have heard of him,” Jim said without giving me a name.

OK, so maybe it wasn’t someone I’d know; possibly a local politician or lumber baron. He’d had a few governors pass through and I didn’t know too many of them.

“He’s a nice guy, we really hit it off,” Jim smiled. “Flys his own plane up to fish in the spring.”

I was done asking. I just looked at him and waited figuring he’d tell me when he was ready. He certainly had my attention.

“He’s a guitar player,” he smiled. “Have you ever heard of Jimmy Buffett?”

Later that night a bat got into Jim’s cabin, but Chris used a fishing net like a tennis racquet and scooped the bat out of the air and took it outside. Jim was impressed.

The next morning Chris was out early with Jim digging. I organized our gear and cleaned up some things and joined them after about a half hour. By that time they were down about a foot and a half and Chris was collecting chippings.

Chris and Jim digging beside Jim's cabin.

Chris and Jim sifting through the diggings

When the Paleo-Indians would work a piece of chert into an arrow or spearhead, or some other sharp-edged tool, they chipped flakes off the surface of the rock. A person would sit in one place and chip away at a stone for some time creating a pile of chippings. Chris and Jim had dug into one of those spots.

Chris found something

Sifting the diggins through the screen.

When I joined them I helped sweep small piles of dirt into a flat pan, which we would put into the screening box. Chris would shake the box, screening the dirt which would fall through leaving the larger pieces of rock. The screened dirt went into Jim’s vegetable garden which was remarkable for its location in the middle of the woods. However, the man does have a degree in Agronomy.

As we dug more holes we would find things like broken glass, old square nails and tin cans along with old rusted spoons and forks. We even found parts of an old woodstove. These things Jim saved. Once down about a foot we began to come across chippings from the Archaic period of between 7000 and 9000 years ago. Around the foot and a half level and more we were into the Paleo era.

We dug up a thumb scraper which Jim immediately identified. Paleo-Indian women would use these scrapers to remove the fat from the inside of a musk ox or caribou hide. Jim guessed it was about 9000 years old and surprisingly it was still sharp.

Some of the things we found.

Jim also found an arrow or spearhead in his potato garden.

Over the years he has collected a large number of paleo and archaic period artifacts most of which are currently in museums.

Jim cooked us a nice dinner that night and poured me a couple of glasses of single malt scotch.

The next morning after pancakes, homemade maple sryup and home-grown bacon Todd the fire warden stopped by for some conversation. There aren’t many people out there to socialize with. While we were talking, Todd pointed out the window toward the foot of Little Munsungan. A number of ducks had gathered near the end of the lake and the beginning of the stream. Jim turned and looked in the direction Todd was pointing.

“Those are my fish,” he said as he stood up and pulled his 22 caliber rifle off the wall. Jim stepped out the front door and fired a shot into the water scattering the ducks which Chris thought was pretty cool.

The flag pole just outside the front door facing Munsungan Stream.

Apparently the site of Jim’s cabin was once a logging camp around the end of the 19^th century, which would account for the glass, tin cans, nails and utensils we dug up. He told us some of the history of the area and mentioned the fact that Theodore Roosevelt once visited the camp. And speaking of former presidents, he has also done some fishing with his namesake from Plains, Georgia. After his presidency, Jimmy Carter visited the area to do some fishing. Knowing his guide was a staunch republican, former president Carter said with a smile, “I hope having the same name hasn’t embarrassed you too much.”

Jim also told us that past winters he has found wolf tracks around his cabin. He even went so far as to track them and recover some scat, which he sent to the lab at the University of Maine. He sent scat twice and both times was told that it had been lost.

The fact is that the grey wolf is endangered and officials would probably rather not admit that the animal is making a comeback as the rules and regulations would create a mess.

When it came time to go, Chris and I knew we could easily stay at Little Munsungan for much longer, but our canoe was waiting at the Umsaskis Thoroughfare and we also wanted to get on the Allagash.

The view from Jim's cabin of Little Munsungan.

Jim Carter is 70 years old but plans to build a log addition onto his cabin next summer. He cuts down the trees, removes the bark, dries them and does all the work himself. In fact it would be the third log cabin he will build. If he goes through with it, maybe next summer he’ll need some help.

Currier’s Flying Service sits at the southwest corner of Moosehead Lake in Greenville Junction, Maine. It is owned and operated by Roger Currier who has been flying for most of his life. In addition to flying, Roger has an added passion. He restores antique airplanes.

Chris and I took a walk down to the dock where Roger ties his three float planes one morning. It only took me a minute to recognize the Beaver.

Chris on the dock next to the 1954 Beaver at Currier's Flying Service.

According to Roger Currier, his restored 1954 DeHaviland Beaver is the only one in commercial operation in the Northeast. Most of the Beavers still in service today are in Canada and Alaska.

The Beaver has become an aviation icon among bush pilots. Old-timers can become misty-eyed when remembering their days flying a Beaver.

The Beaver was first built in 1947 and was produced up until 1967. Over the years 1,657 were manufactured and many are still flying today.

The aircraft was built with a stock nine cylinder Pratt & Whitney radial engine, the roar of which evokes memories of a bygone day. The engine produces 450 hp and depending on the interior configuration, the Beaver can carry from six to eight passengers with a useful load of 2100 pounds.

In its day, and still today the Beaver is a no-nonsense bush plane, both functional and rugged.

We had to fly in the Beaver. We walked up to the office and asked if it would be possible.

“Come back at 1 o’clock,” the woman said. “Roger will be here then.”

When we returned a couple of other people were there looking for a plane ride. That spread the cost and Roger was more than willing to take us up in the Beaver.

Moosehead Lake is the largest lake in Maine. It is approximately 40 miles long and 10 miles wide with a coastline of over 400 miles and more than 80 islands. It was from Greenville in West Central Maine in 1846 that Henry David Thoreau began the first of his three journies into the Manie Woods. 

It was a beautiful day and the plan was to fly to the northeast up to Lobster Lake and then back down the west side of Moosehead Lake. We piled into the plane.

The interior was wide and well worn. There was plenty of leg room as the aircraft was configured to carry six people. The cockpit had single controls with all the instrumentation on the left side. Sitting in the water on floats it was impossible to see out the front. Chris and I were sitting just behind Roger.

Before starting the big radial, Roger announced that not only was it going to be loud, but that not all cylinders would fire at once.

“It may be a second or two before they all get going,” he smiled clearly in love with his plane.

Roger Currier restored his 1954 Beaver and being a federally licensed aircraft mechanic, does all his own maintenance. He says the airframe has about 17,000 hours on it.

With a chug-chug-chug-chug, followed by an increasing crescendo of rapid chugs each of the nine cylinders on the big radial engine lit off. A puff of smoke blew past my window. The last radial I was in was an old Beach 18 twin back in the 70’s. This was a treat.

Roger eased the throttle forward and the big engine smoothed out. It was louder than most single engine aircraft, but what a sweet sound.

We taxied out onto the lake and he nosed the Beaver to the north. When everything was ready he looked back with a smile and nodded. We were ready to go. Slowly he put the power to the 450 hp engine and we began to plow through the water. It didn’t take long before he had the plane on the step and we were skimming across the lake. He pulled back on the yoke and when she was ready; the 1954 Beaver broke free of the surface and took to the air.

Floats about to break free of the water

It was too loud to talk with the engine at full power. As soon as he could, Roger throttled back and we began a slow climb to the northwest.

We cut across Harfords Point headed for Sugar Island, the largest island on the lake. Roger had set the altimeter at zero on the lake surface, by the time we crossed Sugar Island we were level at 1500 feet and the Beaver was cruising along.

Climbing out looking at Harford's Point

Roger pointed out Beaver Cove and Lily Bay off to the east. We flew up Spencer Bay, across Spencer Pond. Off to the east we could see Little Spencer and Big Spencer Mountains. Far off to the east was the unmistakable outline of Mt. Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain.

Flying over Beaver Cove on the eastern side of Moosehead Lake

Flying up Spencer Bay

Little Spencer Mountain with Big Spencer in the background

Mt. Katahdin in the distance

At the top of Spencer Pond Roger turned between Little Spencer and Lobster Mountain. Ahead we could see Lobster Lake, one of the prettiest lakes in Maine and named thusly because of its lobster shape. We flew out over Lobster Lake to the west of Big Island. The shore to the northwest was all sandy beach, unusual for Maine and one of the attractions of the lake. Many people will paddle down the West Branch of the Penobscot into Lobster Lake to camp and enjoy the sandy beaches and surrounding mountain scenery.

Approaching Lobster Lake from the southwest

Flying up the west side of Lobster Lake with Big Island off the right wing tip

Looking north to where the West Branch enters the lake. The shore along the northwestern side of the lake is sandy.

Another view of the West Branch at the top of the lake and the sandy shoreline.

Heading North in the Beaver

Turning to the west at the top of the lake we headed out over Halfway Branch a tributary of the West Branch. Roger spotted a moose below browsing in the stream. He put the plane into a 60 degree bank and we circled above as the moose ignored us and casually continued to eat.

Looking down on a moose in Halfway Brook from 1500 feet.

We picked up the big lake again over Northeast Cove near Northeast Carry, where for years paddlers would land to carry across to the West Branch. We cruised across the lake to the western shore and Roger nosed the Beaver south.

Chris enjoying the view as we make our turn over Northeast Cove.

 We flew just to the east of the Moose Brook Islands and to the east of Farm Island. Roger headed for the eastern side of Mt. Kineo. He dropped down below the top of the mountain as we slipped by the 700 foot high rock cliff. The lake here is about 250 feet deep, making the shear rock face nearly 1000 feet above the lake bottom.

Approaching the 700 foot cliff on the eastern side of Mt. Kineo.

Flying to the east of Mt. Kineo.

Mt. Kineo from the southeast with the town of Rockwood and Blue Ridge Mountain in the background.

Native Americans once traveled great distances to Mt. Kineo to acquire its rhyolite, rock. The mountain is a peculiar geological formation of flint known as siliceous slate, or hornstone. It is the country’s largest known mass of this rock, once used by the Native Americans to craft arrowheads, hatchets, chisels, and other tools and weapons.

Roger at the controls of the Beaver

We cruised past Rockwood to the west and the mouth of the Moose River, then to the East Outlet of the Kennebec River. We stayed near the western shore until we were once again above Harford’s Point. From here Roger made a wide sweeping turn over downtown Greenville, Maine, no doubt a little advertising.

Flying over Greenville on an upwind leg as we make our approach.

Final Approach over West Cove Point

We descended to the east of Greenville and slipped back onto the lake just inside West Cove. As the Beaver slowed, Roger taxied toward his dock.

Splashdown back on Moosehead Lake

He pulled back the mixture and the big radial engine chugged to a stop. The airplane drifted toward the dock, slipping alongside and to a stop perfectly. Roger jumped from the float to the dock and tied it off.

Chris and I hung around for a bit and talked with Roger. It turned out that we had friends in common. Once the weather on Moosehead gets too cold to operate, he heads south down to Lake Ossipee, New Hampshire for the winter.

My son collected Nomar Garciaparra baseball cards from 1994 to 2004. His goal was to get every Nomar baseball card published during those years. He has books full of hundreds of Nomar cards from when he was with the Red Sox. In 2004 when he was traded to the Cubs, my son gave it up. He searched out the remaining few Red Sox cards from that season, then put it all in a box and put it away. In his mind Nomar was Nomore.
It was nice to see Nomar come back if for only a day so as to retire with the Sox. If anyone comes out with a card celebrating his one-day minor league stint with the team this spring, my son will probably dig out his cards and look for that one final piece.
Whatever Nomar’s motivation was for returning so as to retire with the Red Sox, he has done MLB a favor.

What Do They Mean?

What’s in a name? It would seem when it comes to sports, maybe a lot. Teams from high school to the pros all have nicknames, its part of their identity. Sometimes it is geographic or traditional and sometimes it makes no sense at all.

Let’s take a quick look at some baseball nicknames; it is after all the season. There are traditional names like, Red Sox, Yankees, Dodgers, White Sox, Athletics and Braves. We’re all familiar with those.

But, how about the less familiar nicknames? Sometimes you’ve got to wonder; “What were they thinking?”

Let’s begin with the Hellcats of Montana State University. What the hell is a Hellcat? Okay it was a World War II fighter aircraft (Grumman F6F), but do you think they named their sports teams after an airplane? Not likely. Whatever it is it sounds nasty and that’s probably their intention. Frankly, anyone that’s been married for any length of time knows what a hellcat is.

Moving on, how about Tulane University; the Green Wave. Regardless of what it’s supposed to mean, it sounds like something you’d see at an overflowing Super Fund sight. Not scary or intimidating at all. Oh my gosh, it’s the Green Wave!

What’s a Sun Devil? They probably know at Arizona State University. It sounds scary. There are the Tri-City Dust Devils (sounds like something under the bed) and Duke has the Blue Devils. I saw Blue Man Group and that didn’t scare me.

While we’re talking about colors what’s with the Browns, the Reds, and the Blues. These people have no imagination.

How about those Longhorns down in Texas? You only need to see a longhorn up close once to know you don’t want to mess with it.

Giants and Titans are always scary. It’s psychological. You know you’re in for it when you go up against a Giant.

Meteorology has a lot to offer in the way of nicknames. There are the Hurricanes, Twisters, Thunderbolts, Lightening, Cyclones and Storm; all scary. Who wants to mess with lightening or thunderbolts? Hailstones is a name seemingly still up for grabs. How about the Giant Smashing Hailstones, that ought to put a scare into the opposition.

Unless it’s a Shark, I suggest teams stay away from fish. Dolphins, Marlins, Rays, Catfish, Bluefish, Redfish, Blowfish and Carp aren’t going to intimidate anyone. Crawdads? What is that? Someone step on it!

Some animal names work. There are Bears, Jackals, Wolverines, Warthogs (not sure what it is, but don’t want to see one on the baseball diamond), Cougars, Coyotes, Grizzlies, Rams, Wolves Bulls, Broncos, Mustangs, Tigers and Lions. The idea of Lions, Tigers and Bears (Oh my!) put a scare into Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion to the point that it lasted for generations in the minds of any kids that watched the Wizard of Oz.

But some animals don’t cut it. Beavers? Who is afraid of a beaver? I like beavers. I know a guy who once saw a giant beaver on the side of the road on Cape Cod. Of course there was no giant beaver. It was probably just another hallucination, but he wasn’t scared. Maybe that’s a name, the Hallucination. Wow, you’d never know what was real with them.

But let’s not pick on those furry little creatures at Oregon State alone. Look at the University of Oregon. They call themselves the Ducks. Humm… a Beaver or a Duck? Really scary up there in Oregon. Can you see the other team, say the Cougars before a game? Oh gee, we’re facing the Ducks … oooh, scary!

In fairness to the University of Oregon, sometimes they are pretty tough Ducks.

And how about birds? Eagles, well, okay, big talons and they’re patriotic. Hawks? This is where it starts to get wimpy. Orioles, Cardinals, Robins, Owls (nope, not scary), Osprey, Pelicans, Canaries, Loons and Sparrows? Please, it’s embarrassing for those guys. Birds aren’t intimidating or scary unless you’re an Alfred Hitchcock fan.

I like Vikings (lots of pillaging), they’re scary and so are Dragons. Spartans sound mean as do Raptors and Vipers.

Snakes make for nasty nicknames. There are Rattlers, Diamondbacks, Sidewinders, Copperheads, Timber Rattlers and Blacksnakes. Opponents want to be careful when they play those slippery teams.

But then there are those nicknames that make you wonder; like the Lansing Lugnuts or Mosesto Nuts. Would you want to be a Lugnut? Hey, let’s go see the Nuts? Or worse you could play for the South Georgia Peanuts.

The Bradenton Juice might consider a name change in this age of steroids.

Someone needs to tell the Alexandria Beetles that a band back in the 60’s pretty much locked up that name.

There are the Beloit Snappers. What’s a Snapper? I think I use to know?

The Cedar Rapids Kernels don’t hold a rank. They’re named after corn, that’s right, a plant.

The Fort Wayne Wizards are cool, you never know what to expect from Wizards and Harry Potter has made it enormously popular to be a wizard. We have a wizard in our photography department (it’s the same guy that sees beavers).

Augusta Green Jackets? A baseball team that named themselves after the Masters Golf Tournament. Very thoughtful, but they play baseball not golf.

Who wants to be a bug? Come on guys sign up! There are Bees, Sand Gnats (itchy), Spiders, can’t leave out the Yuma Scorpions and Chiggers.

And there are those that don’t make sense to most of us. Unless you live in Wilson, North Carolina you’re not likely to know what a Tob is. The Wilson Tobs play in the Coastal Plains League, a summer collegiate baseball league. In the same league there are the Thomasville Hi-Toms. What’s that?

The Northwoods League, another summer collegiate baseball league, has the Rochester Honkers (probably named after geese. I can’t think of anything else called Honkers). In the same league, how about the Mankato Moondogs? Don’t know what they are, but the name is cool. The Joliet Jack Hammers play in the Northern League, that’s a tough name. You know you’re in for a game when you face a team named the Jack Hammers. There are the Chico Outlaws over in the Golden League, bad dudes no doubt. How about the Batavia Muckdogs, the Carolina Mudcats or the Toledo Mud Hens? These guys aren’t afraid to get dirty. Although dogs and cats are okay, hens are a bit weak. Do Mud Hens grow up to be Old Hens?

There are the Albuquerque Isotopes in the Pacific Coast League. It’s like you want to wear a radiation detector when you play them. The Las Vegas 51s leave a lot to the imagination.

The Huntsville Stars are a little presumptuous. You just want to beat them to prove that they’re not stars. They’re asking for trouble with a name like that. Also, the Lexington Legends. Any team facing them wants to kick the crap out of a Legend. The Montgomery Biscuits of the Southern League? Biscuts? Come on how tough and scary can a Biscut be?

There are cool names like the Traverse City Beach Bums and the Washington Wild Things of the Frontier League. Although if Traverse City went on a losing streak I guess they’d become just the Bums.

The list goes on. There are T-Bones, Daredevils, Stingers, Swampdogs, Bombers, Railcats, Roadrunners and more. But my favorite has to be the University of Southern California Trojans. You can believe the Helen of Troy mythology and the wooden horse crap, but every guy knows what a Trojan is. I carried one in my wallet all through high school.

A Trip Up Mt.  Washington

The first recorded baseball game on Cape Cod was played in 1865 in Sandwich. Did you know that possibly the first recorded baseball game played on Mt. Washington was just 13-years later in 1878?

Mt. Washington

The game was played on August 7, 1878 on the Cow Pasture (a level area at 5500 feet located between Ball Crag and Nelson Crag)) near the seventh mile-post on the carriage road, according to a letter written to the Editor of the “Among the Clouds” newspaper.

The letter went on to say that the game was played between teams from the employees of the Glen Coach Company and the Mt. Washington Railway.

“Extensive preparations were made for this game,” the letter writer noted. “The ground being cleared of rocks and the base lines laid out.”

The Cow Pasture today

The game began at 3:15 PM with plenty of spectators on hand to watch.

“The railway nine went to bat first,” the letter explained. “Mr. Taylor batting a terrific ball over the head of Mr. Philbrook, center field towards the Gulf of Mexico. Amid tremendous cheering Mr. Taylor reached third base in safety, and would have scored a home run, had not Mr. Philbrook, by wonderful exertion, secured the ball just as it reached the edge of the Gulf, and assisted him out at home base. The next two batters were put out on flies to Mr. McCormick at short-stop and Mr. Dresser at second base, and the nine was out without a score.

The same misfortune awaited the Glen nine, the principle feature of the playing being a beautiful fly catch by Mr. Morrill, right field. In the second inning Mr. Judkins, captain of the railway nine, made a remarkable heavy bat, sending the ball through the top of a coach standing at the other end of the field, and scored a home run. The two who followed him struck out. Mr. Horne made a run on errors, and Mr. Butterworth was put out by the catcher on a foul tip. Mr. Sands, captain of the Glen nine, excited universal admiration by a home run in the second inning. Messrs. Cameron and Twitchell each scored a run, and at the close of this inning the score was 3 to 2 in favor of the carriage road.

Area surrounding the Cow Pasture

In the third inning both side became dissatisfied and disgusted with the umpire’s rulings, and during the dispute which followed, rain began falling and the game was broken up. It was unanimously resolved to adjourn to Tuckerman’s Ravine, where a reception was given the players by their friends, in the spacious and elegant parlor of the Snow Hotel.”

It looks like baseball reporting hasn’t changed much in 131 years. Maybe it’s a little less formal with none of the Mr. stuff anymore. Fields are still prepared before a game and fans still come out to watch and cheer. Players and managers are still “dissatisfied and disgusted” (at times) with the umpires and it isn’t uncommon to retire to Tuckerman’s Ravine (or wherever) for a cold one after the game.

Most games today last longer than three innings and it still does rain, sometimes it seems for days. We have learned that playing baseball on a mountain is probably not the best idea, what with high winds, fog (or clouds in this case) and the chance of toppling off a cliff chasing after a fly ball and I don’t know if I’d want to play a game of baseball after climbing a mountain. I might be tired.

Mt. Washington in the area where the game was played

I think I’d start the game a little earlier than 3:15 PM. But maybe it took the players and fans most of the morning to climb or ride up the mountain. Likely, there were a lot of rocks to clear for the field and that could have slowed them down. Getting home (or to the bottom of the mountain) after the game could be dangerous, especially if it was getting dark. Mount Washington in places can be a pretty straight pitch down. Overall the game hasn’t changed much (except no more mountains), nor has the reporting.

Note: “Among the Clouds” the Mt Washington mountaintop newspaper was founded in 1877 and was published daily in the summer months. The newspaper continued to publish until June of 1908 when a fire completely destroyed the paper’s offices. “Among the Clouds” returned in 1910 and continued to be published at the base of the mountain until 1917.

The Home Of New Hampshire’s Only World War II POW Camp

That it existed at all has long since been forgotten. Time has erased most physical evidence, all that remains are the scattered stones that once comprised this most unusual place.

The town of Stark, New Hampshire, named after Revolutionary War General John Stark, who is credited with giving the Granite State its “Live Free or Die” motto was quite possibly never visited by the famous general. But in 1943 the remote logging village 22 miles northwest of Berlin became host to on of the state’s most unusual occurrences.

In 1988 Allen V. Koop, a Professor of History at Colby-Sawyer College and Visiting Professor at Dartmouth College took up his pen to chronicle the events in Stark between the years of 1944 and 1946, unique in that during that time the isolated, quiet village was home the only German Prisoner of War camp in the state.

In his book about the camp, Stark Decency, Koop describes the village that became home to hundreds of German prisoners of war.

“The mountains of New Hampshire’s North Country are not high, only about three thousand feet, but they are steep and rugged. Rocky ledges and sharp cliffs stare out of the dark green fir and spruce forests of their summits. Lower slopes hold the maple, birch, and aspen trees that flame red, orange, and yellow in autumn. The town has never yielded an easy living. In a few places the valley broadens enough to have allowed early settlers to farm rocky but fertile fields along the river, but the steep, forested hillsides and craggy mountains discouraged extensive settlement. Above Stark’s weather-beaten, white painted covered bridge and little white church, the 750-foot dark granite cliff of Devil’s Slide forms an imposing, even ominous backdrop for the quite town.”

Ft. Devens in Ayer, Massachusetts was also the site of a German prisoner of war camp. When the Brown Paper Company in Berlin was unable to meet the wartime demand for pulp wood, which had many military uses, because most of the available man-power was off fighting the war, it was determined that German POW’s would be used; but where to put the new camp?

About two miles north of the Ammonoosuc River, across the covered bridge and beyond the railroad tracks was an old Civilian Conservation Commission work camp on what was know as the Percy plains. Still standing vacant along Route 110 were five CCC wooden barracks, a mess hall and recreation hall.

As Koop notes in his book the small town of Groveton was six miles northwest and Berlin was 22 miles to the south east. Other than that, it was felt that nothing stood between Stark and the Canadian boarder but miles of empty forest.

In early 1944 men working at the Brown Paper Company mill in Berlin began to hear rumors about prisoners of war being used to cut wood. In mid January the U.S. Army sent personnel to examine the abandoned CCC camp. By March a stockade fence and four watchtowers had transformed the abandoned CCC installation into what was to become known as Camp Stark.

Barracks were erected across the road in a field leased from a local farmer to house military personnel.

Stark Decency chronicles the interaction of the German prisoners and their guards and the people of the village of Stark. Initially most of the prisoners were captives from the North Africa fighting and were older and mostly anti-Nazi’s. After the Normandy invasion, Camp Stark began to receive German prisoners captured in the fighting in western Europe, who proved to be younger, some as young as 17-years old; a sign that the manpower resources of the Nazi War effort were stretched.

Koop takes the reader into the woods with the German logging crews and their guards who worked year round regardless of the weather to meet quotas. He offers a glimpse of prison life behind the stockade fence and puts a human face on the war with the interactions of the prisoners and the people of the tiny village of Stark.

The prisoners were repatriated in May of 1946 with about half of them held for between six and 18 months in either Britain or France to provide labor in rebuilding the damage done by the war. Many corresponded with former guards and friends they had made from the village of Stark. The camp was dismantled, with some of the lumber from the barracks used to build a bowling alley in Berlin, which later burned down. Some of the lumber was used to build a new awning on the front porch of the Stark General Store.

Koop has written a social history that explores the themes that, during a world war, brought then enemy soldiers and the people of a small New Hampshire village together.

The friendships that grew out of the experience of such an unlikely scenario were renewed 40 years later when in September of 1986 five former German prisoners and their families returned for what the villagers of Stark called German-American Friendship Day. Speeches, parades, a visit to the site of the camp, which by 1986 was most a field of flowers, a cookout and church service in both English and German marked the happy reunion.

“Looking back,” Koop explains, from the perspective of 40 years later, it all “seemed less troublesome and more meaningful. Americans and Germans sympathized with each other, all having been tossed around the globe by a terrible war. They now realized clearly what years ago they only dimly perceived. They had done something special. In a difficult situation, they indeed had made Camp Stark an island of decency in a world at war.”

A trip to Stark, New Hampshire today reveals almost nothing of what happened in the tiny village during the war, with the exception of an historical marker. For two years, from 1944-46 there were almost as many Germans as Americans in Stark. Together they rose above the chaos as the war tore the rest of the world apart. It was human decency, extended within the roles they each were fated to play, transcending the strife making the legacy of Camp Stark a lesson we should not forget.Click here to see the video.

Today one can hike possibly some of those same areas harvested by the German POW’s during their years at Camp Stark. There is an un-maintained herd path that the AMC White Mountain Guide notes, “makes a very steep and rough ascent up the west slope” of Devil’s Slide (1,590 ft). There is also hiking in the Nash Stream Forest to the north with trails to the Percy Peaks, Bald Mountain with its exposed southern ledges and Victor Head with ledges that offer views of Lake Christine, the village of Stark and the Kilkenny to the south.

It seems the small Swiss state of Appenzell Inner Rhodes is under assault by naked Germans. Wearing just socks and hiking boots, Germans have been crossing the boarder to enjoy the sweeping natural beauty of the Swiss Alps, but leaving their clothing behind.

It doesn’t appear that the hills are alive with naked Germans, but apparently there are enough of them to force Appanzell Inner Rhodes this spring to impose what equates to roughly a $175 fine on anyone caught prancing, dancing, skipping through or just hiking the Alps within their jurisdiction without the benefit of clothes.

It appears the trend toward naked hiking is spreading and lawmakers in neighboring Appenzell Outer Rhodes are preparing similar legislation against “this shameless behaviour.”

Perhaps the Swiss could learn something from hikers here in the United States. The Summer Solstice brings a pretty important “holiday” to the hiking world. June 21st is “Naked Hiking Day, “a well-known holiday of sorts for hikers which some see as a chance to get out into the woods amidst nature and experience the freedom traipsing through the hills without clothes can bring. Of course there are still mosquito’s, black flies, poison ivy, thorns, sticks and ticks to worry about, and a naked hiker could run into a bit of trouble if he or she stumbled upon a forest ranger while prancing merrily down the trail.

The holiday is enjoyed mostly among Appalachian Trail hikers, who having begun their 2,160 mile trek to Maine from Georgia probably in March are about ready for anything to break-up the trip.

The Swiss argue that they are trying to protect their children from the immoral habits of these nude wanderers. There have probably been a few shocked shepherd’s tending their flocks along an alpine ridge or two that did a double take upon encountering a happy band of naked hikers. I don’t think we’re talking about Julie Andrews on a hillside in “The Sound of Music” with naked people dancing by, or Heidi coming out the front door of her alpine mountainside home encountering a band of naked Germans trying to find the trailhead.

“We simply try to tune into nature,” a boots only German hiking lawyer, who was sad to hear of the Swiss changes told a London newspaper. “It’s the most harmless pursuit possible.”

It might be traumatizing to Julie Andrews or Heidi. On the other hand it might serve to break up the day nicely for the lone shepherd.

But the Swiss don’t see naked hiking as harmless.

“We have been receiving many complaints,” Markus Dörig, a spokesman for the government of the Appenzell Innerrhoden canton said. “The local people are upset and we in the government share their concern. How would one feel if one was to go walking in nature and suddenly came across a group of naked people?”

Good question Markus, how would one feel?

“(It’s a) public nuisance,” Mr. Dorig added. “(It is) a foreign import. (The naked hikers) are definitely not people from the area, and I think many of them come from Germany.”

Those crazy Germans again.

The Appalachian Trail, which for the most part is off the beaten path, will be lined with naked hikers Sunday as they celebrate their hiking holiday. There is a very good chance that closer to home, especially in the White Mountains, you could find hikers enjoying the holiday as well, weather permitting.

Oh, and the Swiss authorities expect the hiker caught without their jockies to pay up on the spot. That could present a problem without pockets in which to carry your cash. Hint to naked Germans crossing the Swiss border; stuff cash in your socks. In the event a band of wandering nudists fails to pay the fine, the Swiss promise tough legal action.

All this from a country that waited until 1971 to give women the vote.

And for those who missed “World Naked Gardening Day” back on May 2, well, maybe that’s a good thing, what with power mowers, electric hedge trimmers and weed whackers. Ouch!

Down Around Midnight, a new book about the June 17, 1979 crash of Air New England Flight 248 by Robert Sabbag came out this month. Flight 248 ran from LaGuardia, NY, to New Bedford and then on to Hyannis. Sabbag was a passenger on flight 248 the night it crashed in the woods of Camp Greenough in Yarmouthport while on approach to runway 24 at Barnstable Municipal Airport. Of the 10 people onboard the DeHavilland Twin Otter (DHC-6-300) that night only one was killed – the pilot, Captain George Parmenter.

I read the 214 page book in an afternoon. Sabbag has his facts right, and of course the events that took place in the passenger cabin onboard the aircraft that night and in the woods after the crash, only he and a few others would know. Among his injuries, Sabbag suffered a broken back and pelvis as the twin otter hit the trees at 140 mph and ripped through the woods for 300 feet.

The first officer suffered sever life-threatening injuries and many of the passengers were seriously hurt. Shortly after the aircraft came to rest, according to the author, the emergency power failed, leaving the survivors trapped inside the fuselage, with the exits jammed closed by trees and brush, bleeding, some unconscious and soaked in jet fuel.

The book goes into the detail of that night from the perspective of some of the passengers. Others preferred not to reopen the 30-year old wound. Even with his broken back Sabbag managed to help kick open one of the rear doors enough for the passengers to get out and for those unconscious to be passed through to others outside. Miraculously, one of the passengers who had not fastened his seatbelt was launched through the front windshield of the aircraft, landing in the woods, and was still able to help with the more seriously injured people.

Reading Sabbag’s story leaves the reader wondering if he is not trying to make a case for PTSD (Post-traumatic Stress Disorder), although the other passengers he spoke with admitted that they had put the accident behind them and Sabbag himself was back on an airplane as soon as his recovery allowed.

The first responders interviewed, mostly Yarmouth Fire Department, handled the rescue with all possible speed and professionalism, although most admitted finding the downed aircraft and reaching it in the dark and thick woods was a tremendous challenge. It wasn’t until a 19-year old woman passenger, who went for help and was picked up on Route 6 arrived at the Barnstable Airport that the picture became clear.

I worked for Air New England for nine years doing a variety of things, mostly in flight operations. I moved from dispatching to crew scheduling shortly after the airline acquired Fairchilds (FH227’s) from Delta Airlines. I was working the night of June 17, 1979 in crew scheduling, two others were on duty in the adjoining flight control or dispatch office.

At the time Air New England had somewhere between 500 and 600 employees. It was a big family, everyone knew one another. With deregulation the company grew fast and so to did the presence of unions. By 1979 ANE was saddled with five unions with ALPA, the Airline Pilots Association being one. It seemed that there was always something going on between management and one or more of the unions.

Sick calls were always an issue. At the time the airline had probably 175 pilots and a couple of dozen flight attendants.

I don’t recall the scheduled departure time for Flight 247 that night, which was the leg from Hyannis down to LaGuardia, but it was running late because of the weather. Captain Parmenter had been on duty since earlier that morning and was scheduled to finish his trip in Hyannis. The aircraft was scheduled to make the final round trip of the night to New York with a fresh crew.

Reserve crews had a contractual two-hour window to report once assigned a trip. Two hours before the scheduled departure on Flight 247 it was clear that I wasn’t going to find a captain.

I walked into flight control two hours before the scheduled departure of 247 and told the dispatcher that I couldn’t come up with a captain and that we would probably have to cancel the trip. Fog was forecast to roll in later and already fog banks were visible over the water to the south.

I had one last option, so I asked him to give me a minute. I put in a call to the chief pilot and explained the situation.

I knew that Captain Parmenter was legal to fly the late round trip to NY. As a company vice president he was not a member of ALPA and not subject to the contractual flight and duty time restrictions. We would be within the FAA regulations as specified in Part 135 to have him fly one more trip.

I was told by the chief pilot to explain the situation to Captain Parmenter once he got onto the ground in Hyannis and ask him to fly the final flights.

That didn’t sit well with me. George Parmenter was an ex-marine, and while those of us that knew him understood that down deep he was a generous, caring and well-intentioned, hard working guy, if you pissed him off, you knew that you were in for a verbal dressing down that only a marine could deliver. More importantly, he was not a line pilot; he was management and wasn’t accustomed to flying those long days. He was in his 60’s and hadn’t expected to be in an airplane at all Crew scheduling woke him up early that day and asked him to fly.

I explained the situation to the dispatcher and we agreed that we’d post a delay on the flight to allow the captain a chance to get out of the airplane for awhile and have some dinner if he agreed to take the last trip.

I then called the Hyannis station and explained the plan to one of the ticket agents. I asked him to have George call when he came in off the inbound flight.

When the captain did call, I explained the situation and as expected George exploded. He wanted to go home and rightly so. He had already put in a long day. I told him that taking the trip was entirely his option; I wasn’t in a position to assign the trip to a vice president of the company.

He asked what the alternatives were and I told him that we would cancel the final round trip.

Passengers were in the terminal waiting for the departure of Flight 247 to NY and according to Sabbag’s book, they included Senator Ted Kennedy. Maybe George saw the senator and realized how badly this would reflect on the company if we changed the delay into a cancellation.

Within the context of going up one side of me and down the other, like any good marine drill instructor, George said he’d take the trip. I suggested, you didn’t tell Captain Parmenter, that he take time to have some dinner, but George was eager to get going. He wanted to get down to NY and back.

With my ears still ringing, but understanding George for the man he was, I went into dispatch and told them Parmenter would fly it and that he wanted to get off the ground as soon as he could. George knew the Cape and he knew the fog was probably going to roll in.

Once Flight 247 departed, we got the few remaining flights in the system put to bed and turned to the weather printers, focused on the route from NY to Hyannis.

The offices had quieted down; all of the staff had gone for the night. There was just me and the two dispatchers. They monitored Flight 247 into NY and the turnaround as it became Flight 248 coming home. I worked on filling holes in the schedule for the next day. The best we could do was to cover the early flights. I knew if the morning crew scheduler couldn’t pull in a favor, I was going to be in another fix the next afternoon.

I heard them say in the next room that New Bedford had gone down, meaning that fog had closed the airport. It happened before 248 departed NY allowing the ANE agents at LaGuardia to remove those New Bedford bound passengers. The dispatcher commented that now he could come directly to Hyannis, saving some time. His alternate was Boston, which we used as often as possible as we had station personal there. We told the people in Boston to standby in the event we had to send 248 their way.

The RVR, or runway visual range on runway 24 in Hyannis was indicating a half mile, with a 200 foot vertical obscuration as Flight 248 arrived back in the area. We had been though this hundreds of times before over the years. As long as the fog didn’t blow across the runway and lower the RVR, the airport was at minimums and Flight 248 could begin his approach.

About 15 minutes out 248 called on the company frequency with his ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival) alerting us and the gate agents. Air traffic control at Boston Center had handed 248 off to Otis Approach as he crossed Buzzards Bay. About five miles out Otis turned 248 over to the Hyannis Control Tower which issued a weather advisory and landing instructions. Of course, we weren’t privy to the ATC communication, but from their perspective it was pretty routine. We double checked with our Boston station making sure they were standing by, because if he missed the approach, he’d be heading their way.

Whenever something traumatic like this happens, time becomes warped. Later in interviews with the FAA and NTSB when they asked for specifics it was nearly impossible to nail down the minutes. When 248’s ETA arrived and he hadn’t, the station called looking for information. No sooner had the dispatcher hung up the phone when another rang; it was the Hyannis Control Tower. He advised us that Otis had lost contact with Flight 248 about two miles from the end of runway 24, did we wish to declare an emergency. We did immediately. As Otis Approach worked to pinpoint the missing airplane, the tower went into action notifying emergency personnel. We instituted our own emergency procedures and frankly, all hell was breaking loose.

The gate agents at the Hyannis station wanted information. We didn’t have it. Otis was working on the coordinates and local first responders were on their way to the Yarmouthport, Camp Greenough area. The Hyannis tower called again. They were now sure Flight 248 was down about two miles off the end of runway 24. They briefed us on what they were doing and we advised them of our efforts. The Hyannis gate agent called again looking for, almost pleading for any information. One of the agents on duty at the Hyannis station that night was the fiancée of the first officer. People awaiting those onboard 248 were looking for answers. The problem was no one had any. ATC could only confirm that the aircraft was down. We could only wait on the first responders, who tore into the thick dark woods of Camp Greenough like a tornado. Their problem was they didn’t know exactly where the plane was. The emergency lighting had gone out and fortunately the aircraft did not burn. It was buried in the darkness of the trees.

The first definite information anyone had about flight 248 was when the young woman, who had reached the mid-Cape, walked into the airport.

Like the friends and relatives that were waiting at the terminal for flight 248, we too reached a point where all we could do was wait. At that point it was up to the fire and police rescue personnel in the woods. We had two friends onboard, the pilot and co-pilot, but didn’t know the identities of the other eight passengers as that information had quickly been sealed in NY, Hyannis and at our reservations center in Boston. And then there was the agent at the ANE Hyannis ticket counter that night who was engaged to marry the first officer. She wanted to know, but no one had any decisive information. It was enraging to wait, but the difficulty in finding the plane and removing the survivors was turning out to be frustratingly time consuming. It wouldn’t be until word came back from the first responders that anyone knew fully the situation two miles off runway 24.

We all came back to work the next day, and the next, but it wasn’t the same. It was the first time as an airline that we had experienced a fatality and so much serious injury. Everyone was in shocked disbelief that something like this could happen. The sick calls let up as we tried to carry on surrounded by NTSB and FAA officials pulling records and asking questions. As a company we were very concerned about the passengers and co-pilot. Our representatives at Cape Cod Hospital provided continuous reports. We went over and over with investigators the events of that night reliving it a least once or twice a day. Within days everyone had a pretty good idea of what had gone wrong, however, it took about two years for the NTSB to issue their report.

Some of the things that took place that night and in the ensuing days will never be known. It was an unfortunate accident for which ANE accepted responsibility and expressed regrets over the impact the event had on the lives of those onboard Flight 248.

But, that PTSD that Sabbag speaks of, in whatever form it may manifest itself, wasn’t reserved only for the passengers and surviving crew member. Family members suffered. Many of those from the company that were there that night suffer the same reminders that 30 years has failed to completely erase. Because we were part of ANE at the time, maybe it wasn’t supposed to effect us as well, but it did. Maybe Mr. Sabbag should have considered the long lasting effects of that night on more than just the passengers and first responders. What about the dispatcher that released and monitored the fight or the crew scheduler that talked with the captain about taking the flight after a long day? What about the air traffic controller who saw the blip representing human life vanish from his radar, or the ticket agent who was waiting for her fiancée? How about loved ones of the captain or friends and fellow pilots? Mr. Sabbag chose to focus his book on the passengers as that is what he was and it is the angled from which he can best address the accident. Readers of Down Around Midnight should be aware, that many carry the emotional scars of that night when everything went so wrong. Many people who lived through that night carry those scars in memory of those killed or injured and they will last a lifetime.

Air New England, a regional airline at one point serviced cities from Columbus, Ohio, to Baltimore/Washington to Albany and New York City and throughout New England. The airline discontinued operation in 1981.