To The Sea.

I had planned to go to the White Mountains of New Hampshire this past weekend, to climb Mount Washington to its Alpine Garden, a plateau at about five thousand feet elevation, where plants generally found a thousand miles farther north might be found blooming in June, diminutive, hearty and a long way from the road.

But the forecast called for Suck, and I changed my plans.

I went to the beach instead.

Where the weather Sucked as well, but it wasn’t a lethal sucking, as the White Mountains are famous for, but rather a gentle sucking,  as one might wish for when at the beach.

Anyway.

It was cool and windy and gray, with an insistent wind driving a fine mist horizontally, perfect for a first day of summer in the tropical paradise of Massachusetts:

The cheeriest thing about this scene was the Teutonic seawall separating Nature and Man, and the reassuring sense that Man wasn’t up to the challenge.

But as all clouds have their silver linings, the local surfers dug the wind-whipped world, ignoring the rain ’cause, hey, they’re soaked anyway!

I, on the other hand, was bummed.  It was a long drive to come up with no photographs, but setting up in the wind and rain was hard to get psyched for.

So I sought out nooks and crannies in the seaside flora, trying to find a refuge from the wind without stepping in some college girl’s refuge from the wind;

Trust me, stay out of the bushes when you’re at the beach.

But there were copious roses and lots of poison ivy, two plants which hold their own in the Urban Wild, because nobody wants to mess with them:

Pretty flowers, atmospheric conditions not withstanding:

I struggled valiantly against the wind, then surrendered,  crossing the road to the inland side to photograph a marsh:

and its stalwart inhabitants:

…including a few baby swans:

…whose Momma was busy trying to mooch food from us motorists.  And a gull bathing with a fury:

He was funny.

But as much fun as this was, I missed the urgency of the sea, so after I indulged in a ten dollar clam roll I headed south to Plum Island, a  bit of wilderness on Boston’s north shore.

The wind was stiff there as well:

…but the resident water fowl didn’t seem to mind:

The long, slow drive to the parking lot at the end of the dirt road deposited me in the company of hard-core fishermen, lost hikers and a rare glimpse of isolation just a few miles north of a major American city:

…with tall waves pounding the rocky shore as gulls scavenged the pools for stranded unfortunates.  It was as desolate and pure as one has any right to expect, being this close to millions of fellow travelers:

Hey, when the wind blows, photograph rocks.

I have a few more from this junket which may see daylight, but then again, perhaps that’s enough of the Poorly-Lit Subjects for one lifetime.