Cape Cod: The Provincelands

"To my mind this region is at its best in twilight, for its dun floor gathers the dark long before the sunset colour has faded from the flattened sky, and one may then walk there in the peace of the earth gloom and hear from far below the great reverberation of the sea."

— Henry Beston (1888-1968)
The Outermost House

On our second day, we turn away from the bayside Cape and its marshes and wetlands to explore the Outer Cape and the pounding surf of the Atlantic shore. Driving out from our little motel in Eastham shortly after four in the morning, we reach Race Point Beach just before sunrise, at the curling, north-facing wrist of the Cape’s arm. This region, called the Provincelands, is a magnificent landscape of undulating bluffs backing a wind-blown shore - ever-shifting sand dunes capped by grasses and shrubs found in no other environment on Earth. Jane and I leave the National Seashore’s main parking lot and set off walking down Pole Line Road, a ATV track that cuts across the dunes toward the Race Point Lighthouse. As we head toward the southwest, the sun pokes up behind us, a glowing red orb appearing briefly on the horizon just beside the old ranger house on the bluffs, before disappearing into a bank of marine fog which lights the entire realm in a strange, lavender-pink glow. With each trudging step, our boots sink into the soft, billowing sand, as we are transported further and further out into the hinterlands; in this regard, walking up and down the dunes is tiring but rewarding. There is no better way to feel more alive, and more connected with world around you, than by walking out there with your own two feet, alone between the sand and the surf and the barely risen sun. We walk nearly two miles over the sand, taking frequent breaks to photograph dune plants in the early morning light, before reaching the lighthouse at the tip of the Cape. There, we get expansive views of Hatches Harbor, Herring Cove Beach off to the south, and the pounding lines of breakers rolling in onto the foreshore of Race Point Beach. After taking our selfies and landscape shots, we retrace our steps back to the car - about an hour of walking in each direction.

It is still early morning as we drive back toward the Lower Cape, but traffic into Provincetown is picking up. We make a brief, regrettable stop at the Pilgrim Spring trailhead, where we attempt a short woodland walk that we abort after just a few minutes, driven back by a swarm of mosquitoes and a multitude of bites that picaridin is powerless to prevent. Further south along the highway, we also pay a quick visit to the Highland Lighthouse that stands tall above the bluffs of the Outer Cape. The structure itself is under renovation, making me quite glad that I didn’t visit it at sunrise, as originally intended. After this, we drive back to Eastham for breakfast, after which a short, late-morning nap is in order.

Shortly after noon, we set off in the car again, with the plan to spend the back half of the day in Provincetown. After 30 minutes on the Cape highway, we arrive at MacMillan Pier, where we park the car to go exploring on foot. Dodging foot traffic and car traffic in the city center’s narrow streets (pandemic notwithstanding, the summer throngs are quite present, though generally well-masked and adhering to distancing as much as feasible), we end up buying ice cream, followed by a cup of chowder and a burger from a seafood stand. This is followed by visits to two bookstores and a multitude of gift shops, where as tradition demands, we acquire our usual trip magnet along with another book on my shortlist: Mary Oliver’s Pulitzer Prize-winning American Primitive. Continuing west on Commercial Street, we pass by brightly decorated storefronts, and front yards overflowing with hydrangea blossoms in every color.

Even under the heavy sheen of sunscreen, fried seafood, and saltwater taffy, Provincetown has a loveliness all to its own. Historically the maritime capital at the very tip of the Cape, Provincetown retains all the trappings of its Portuguese fishing and whaling heritage, which it subsequently has married to a more modern, artistic sensibility. Former home to introspective rebels like Anthony Bourdain and Mary Oliver, the town today is an LGBTQ+ mecca, accommodating to summer visitors but self-assured of its sense of beauty and community regardless of the time of year. It’s a lovely place to take a walk.

At the end of Commercial Street, Jane and I climb onto the causeway that crosses the water to Wood End, a narrow tombolo that encircles the Provincetown Harbor and fronts the open bay to the west. It’s about mile - almost an hour of hopping over the boulders under the glaring mid-day sun - from one end to the other. On the other side, we make our way across the dunes, past an accompanying profusion of wild rose bushes speckled with colorfu rose hips, which have all the appearance of little round beach tomatoes. As we trek a short distance up the beach, Jane stops to admire the massive quahog and mussel shells that dot the sand (easily the biggest we’ve ever seen), while I forge on ahead to photograph the Wood End Lighthouse, at the curling fingertip of the Cape. After taking our usual selfies, we return to the causeway and cross back to Provincetown. In the harbor, now at the lowest point of the tide, the water has receded like a river draining into the bay, revealing sand flats speckled with shellfish and other intertidal creatures. The swarms of screaming gulls and shearwaters, along with flocks of sandal-clad humans on the sand, attest that this means feeding time for all involved.

Back in town, having exhausted the water supply from our hiking pack, Jane and I stumble into Spiritus Pizza where we quench our thirst with lemonade, an ice cream float, and lime rickey, accompanied by slices of cheese and spinach pizza. After dinner, we make our way back through the crowds to the pier. On the beach, a colorful sunset is underway, and a nearby dance club is pounding away with an outdoor fashion show. We take a few last photos before returning to the car and driving back to Eastham, where we settle in for an early night.

Cape Cod: Wellfleet

In any other year, with weeks to go until we begin our new jobs, Jane and I would probably be on-board an airplane, hiking and photography gear packed, bound for literally anywhere, though probably somewhere far to the north (itineraries I prepared for Norway, the Outer Hebrides, and Newfoundland have been staring me in the face for years). But the pandemic is still very much ongoing, so we settle for a car-based getaway for three days to the eastern tip of our new state - the famous Cape Cod.

The Cape has loomed large in the imagination for awhile now, celebrated as it is by many of the natural writers, essayists, and poets whose work lines my bookshelves (Thoreau, Beston, Robert Finch, John Hay, and Mary Oliver among others). Like many parts of the Chesapeake, it is a place where the extreme beauties of natural and human history are entirely inseparable from one another - a vast fabric of edge communities and vibrant ecosystems, beloved landscapes and historic homesteads. In short, my favourite kind of place. For Jane and I, who became friends while studying and nerding out over wetland ecology and marine biology together (no joke), the Bay State was a dream place for us to wind up immediately after our long stint in the Chesapeake region. Early as we are in this new phase of our lives, it seemed appropriate for us to make a summer visit to the legendary Cape. One has the feeling that we will be back quite regularly.

On the first day of our trip, we leave Boston in the early morning, arriving at the Massachusetts Audubon Society’s Wellfleet Bay Wildlife Sanctuary after about two hours of driving. We take a lovely stroll through the sanctuary’s well-maintained forest and marsh trails, Jane and I both photographing the abundant wildlife and flowering plants. The mudflats, covered with fiddler crabs, bubbling mollusks, and the shorebirds that prey upon them, are a special delight to explore.

Afterward, we take a brief walk along the bluffs overlooking Marconi Beach, and down the nearby trail that takes us into the upland forest and through picturesque swamp filled with Atlantic white cedars. With the dense canopy, these photograph quite well even in the harsh midday conditions of summer, if one takes cues from the light and gets a little creative. Emerging back into the scorching parking lot dehydrated and famished, we drive back south to Eastham for ice cream, soft drinks, a lobster roll, and stuffed clams (our vegetarianism is low-priority during vacation) at The Friendly Fisherman. Jane begins her binge streak of ordering clam chowder whenever she can, and I can hardly blame her.

After a brief afternoon nap, we stock up on food and drinks at Mac’s Seafood Market before driving a short distance south to Rock Harbour Beach. While photographing golden hour colors over the marsh, I get a taste of the rapidity of the Massachusetts Bay’s spring tide, which swarms up against my camera tripod legs in the short span of time it takes for us to take a selfie. Boot bottoms brackish and wet, we retreat to higher ground and photograph to my heart’s content - boats coming in along the harbour’s picturesque channel markers as the sun sets behind them. I end the day with only 2 insect bites - a bona fide miracle! Our new picaridin-based repellent seems to be working a treat.

Boston: First Steps

"If we find it, do we know to stay? Is it right for a lifetime? I can't be sure. I thought I'd found my place once; now I'm wondering if I can find it here, touched as I am by this area's poignancy and abiding beauty. Maybe we need different places for different phases of our lives. Maybe cherished places remain alive inside us even if we have to move on - our attachment to the earth not thinned, but widened. Still, I worry over the pile of fragments in my past, the running of one place into another. Wherever I am is cluttered with the memory of dozens of other landscapes."

— Deborah Tall (1951-2006)
From Where We Stand

All good things have to start somewhere, I guess. Jane and I arrived at our new digs in Brookline, MA, on June 27th, 2020. We’ve spent the past few weeks gradually getting the apartment unpacked, set up, and furnished, which has been a bit more intensive of a process than our move to Baltimore was eight years ago - in large part because we have greater than zero disposable income, and in smaller part because we’ve developed a (slightly?) more mature sensibility of what makes home feel like home. Eight years ago, it was merely enough that we had each other, especially after four years of long distance in college. We went with the cheapest possible everythings at Ikea, stocked our kitchen to cook like college students, and called it a day. Fast forward nearly a decade, and we’re ordering fine-art prints of my photographs for the walls, matching ottomans to area rugs, and generally attempting to make our world feel more cozy. Charlotte, for her part, seems quite happy with the apartment now that she’s overcome her fear of the ice machine in the freezer. She’s been sunning herself every afternoon in our west-facing windows, watching the turkey families trot like flightless mafiosi around the courtyard fountain outside.

As we waited for our boxed-up life possessions and furniture orders to arrive, Jane and I had plenty of time to explore our surroundings. In some ways, Boston hasn’t changed much from my college memories of it - same classy skyline, same curving roads, same red-bricked, historically famous façades. And in other ways, it has changed a lot - or rather, Jane and I have changed a lot in the intermission. We’ve been ranging the city on foot, walking for miles on end, everywhere from the Seaport to Cambridge to Jamaica Plain. It seems laughable now how insulated and insular we were a decade ago, rarely wandering more than a few minutes outside the ivy-clad bubble of Harvard’s campus (the single trip I made with Jane in 2010 to buy mouse supplies at the Petco in Allston, barely a mile off-campus, felt like a true expedition). So, I guess, the city has become smaller. Or we’ve grown bigger. We have definitely grown bigger.

I’m trying very consciously - trying too hard, perhaps - to familiarize myself with my surroundings visually, in an attempt to replace what I miss (and will be missing for awhile) about Baltimore. Summer is my least favorite time to photograph (harsh light, high contrast, hot weather, bugs), but Boston has proven to be quite beautiful even in the pulsing heat of July, with all of its open spaces, abundant colors, and thoughtfully cultivated urban greenery.

I’m not in love with it yet. It certainly doesn’t feel like home, quite yet. In fact, it feels like we’re on one long vacation (we technically are; both of us start our new jobs in August), and will be re-packing everything and moving back to Baltimore any second now. Or, maybe, like I’ll wake up back in the old apartment overlooking Hopkins, and this whole seismic shift of a move will have been a dream. But I know it’s going to take longer than a few weeks for me to really love a place - it took a few years, and the passage of seasons, and the changing and re-appearing of familiar places, for Maryland to earn that special corner in my heart. So here’s to Massachusetts, a lovely place in its own right: you have my full attention.

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These photographs were taken on our first series of rambling walks in and around Boston during the month of July. Our first recordings of a new home:

July 2, 2020: A meandering walk eastward, from our home in Brookline through the Back Bay Fens, down Newbury Street, and to the Public Garden and Boston Common. Jane and I discover Brattle Book Shop and pick up a collection of Everett Ruess’s journal writings.

July 4, 2020: A walk southward along the Emerald Necklace parks, from our apartment on the Riverway down to Jamaica Pond, and back up through Brookline Village. We see a great blue heron catch, of all things, a mouse.

July 5, 2020: A walk northward to visit Cambridge, Jane’s old home. We visit her old dorm building, the little library where I attempted to propose to her many years ago, and much of Harvard’s campus, stopping at Rodney’s Bookstore before returning via Central Square and getting udon for lunch in Brookline.

July 6, 2020: An early morning drive north out of the city, to walk the Skyline Trail at the Middlesex Fells Reservation. A misty, drizzly morning with little going for it in terms of sunrise - but it felt good to lace up the hiking boots for the first time in our new home.

July 10, 2020: A short walk through Downtown Boston and the North End before standing in line at the RMV for our new driver’s licenses. The first lobster roll.

July 11, 2020: A morning stroll through the Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, which we first visited in the autumn of 2010 (when Jane was working on a paper about the cemetery’s animal burials). It looks much greener in the summer, with a rich landscape of wild and cultivated flowers.