Text and photos by Scott Monroe

An arctic blast of cold air has swept through the Northeast this week; temperatures have topped out in the 20s and 30s. All of a sudden, here in central Maine, winter seems to be on its way.

A walk I took through the woods in Waterville Friday morning bears that out. Puddles have frozen over twigs and leaves; patches of ice create interesting art designs on the banks of streams and ponds; and the woods are bare, quiet.

The calendar says winter doesn't start for another month. But we know better.

I recently returned from a three-day hunting trip in northern Maine without a buck.

I blame the weather. It was unseasonably warm each day, meaning that the whitetail deer were more likely bedded down than walking around. At least, that's my excuse.

But I can't complain: Two years ago, I returned from the very same place with a 12-point, 200-pound buck. So, this was just one of those years.

Although I didn't see any deer, there were plenty of other great sights in the woods. Below are a couple photos I took before and after hunting this year.

Here's a big bull moose that decided on foggy morning to pay a visit to our camp. I didn't dare get very close; he was dancing around and swinging his large horns.

An owl I spotted just as I was coming out of the woods one evening. I tried to take a step closer, but he went soaring off through the trees.

A beautiful sunset at the end of the hunt.

What makes good outdoors writing? Heck if I know...

But it is a question I've been asked to ponder, and one I've been asked to discuss with a group of students at Lawrence Middle School later this morning. I hope I can do it justice, but it's just one of the many risks you take when you are a writer.

I thought it was funny when Kathy Scott asked me to come in as an authority for a group of young writers, since it is my firm belief that if nature writing were like a deck of cards I'd be a lowly deuce of clubs to her ace of spades. Her book "Headwaters Fall as Snow" puts readers in the place, which, I think, is what outdoors writers must strive to do.

I'll never forget my first meeting with the boss at the Kennebec Journal and Morning Sentinel -- I think it was the first time I'd ever actually ventured to the other side of the newsroom in my several years at the paper. We sat down, I squirmed around and adjusted my shoelaces or something, and we introduced ourselves to the team that's responsible for covering central Maine's outdoors.

But what I was charged with has stayed with me -- "Take readers where they can't go when they're sitting at work in the middle of the week, dreaming about what they'd rather be doing when they get some free time."

The outdoors isn't a school board vote. It's not a high school soccer game. It's not election results and town meetings.

It's where we all head to recharge, to recreate, to enjoy our "me time."

Being good at being an outdoors writer, well, it's a work in progress, for sure. Some days I think I hit it, only to meet with lukewarm reactions. Other times, I think I'm woefully off the mark -- like missing one clay target after another on a shooting range -- only to receive surprising praise and adulation.

So, I keep working.

I'm not wordsmith, not blessed with the gift of public comfort. I know my limitations.

I think that's what makes a good writer. You don't have to have all the words in the English language at your disposal, you just need to understand how to put to good use the ones you do know. Bare some of yourself for others to relate to, and see what sticks.

Kathy does that very well. It's one of the great gifts of "Moose on the Water/Bamboo on the Bench," which puts the reader smack in the middle of simple, everyday life in the outdoors.

Maybe when I'm done today warping the minds of impressionable youngsters, I'll ask Kat for the real lowdown on how to approach outdoors writing.

An article by Scott Monroe in today's papers recounts the demise of a bald eagle discovered in Palmyra. The Warden Service investigated the bird's cause of death to determine if it was natural.

Every eagle is precious. But the article explains that the raptors are on the rebound. Monroe writes:

"In the 1960s, there were fewer than 500 mating pairs of bald eagles left in the entire lower 48 states. In 1972, only 29 pairs of bald eagles lived in Maine.

Now, Maine is a stronghold for eagles, with an estimated 477 nesting pairs -- at least three-quarters of the Northeast population, according to the wildlife department."

While not empirical, I can attest with an anecdote about the recovery.

While I should have been splitting firewood Saturday morning, the eagles landed in the back yard.

Their chirps forced me to drop the Jonsered and pick up the Nikon.

I spotted five bald eagles, of various ages, roosting within 100 yards of each other in an eddy of the Kennebec River. That is, by my definition, downright prolific.

Inland Fisheries and Wildlife biologists, including Charlie Todd, and wardens, particularly Brian Worth, dedicated to protecting Bald Eagles are to be commended.

Several decades of disciplined science and devoted law enforcement have enabled eagles to return to their prominent roosts.

We are reaping the ultimate avian dividend.

While the State of Maine has furnished the birds, they don't deliver firewood.

Approximately three cords, split and stacked, would be nice.

Photos and text by Andy Molloy

Let there be fog.

The curtain of drizzle that descended upon the Kennebec River this week displayed a natural paradox. Winged ones were more abundant but less apparent.

Flapping wings could be detected before ruffled feathers could be spotted.

Yet the occasional burst of light exposed ducks roosting comfortably upon the river.

The mature doe made no sound at all. I'm not even sure how I saw her. It takes every ounce of my being to remain completely still as I sit on the ground, nestled in a stack of fallen tree limbs. I have a mental checklist that I run through, aware that I'm as fidgety as a 5-year-old hopped up on half a bucket of Halloween candy. And that's before the morning coffee. I concentrate on my legs, my arms, my head -- trying not to move anymore than I have to.

To some, scanning the woods with only their eyes is a gift. For me, it's virtually impossible, and I know every time I hear the liner of my hunting jacket brush against the bottom of my ear or scrape against the back of my neck, I'm working too hard. Too hard to remain undetected by deer.

But when I peer to my right, her body is so close that I swear I could reach out and touch it. I move only my eyes to watch her, seeing just the body and not her head, which has been obscured by two small trees standing between us. She takes two gentle steps, and I'm shocked by disbelief when I see that she has no antlers given how big she is.

And I'm sure that there are no antlers, too, because she is less than 20 yards away.

Read the complete story in today's Kennebec Journal or Morning Sentinel.

Photo by Andy Molloy
A variety of fowl are descending upon the Kennebec River this fall. Mallards, Ringnecks, Scaup, Blacks, Teal, Mergansers, Canada Geese, Brant, Goldeneyes, and my fav-flav: Woodducks.