Mystics

We were overdue for a road trip, so as soon as the opportunity arose on Saturday afternoon we quickly concocted an escape from home, from the valley, from the state, and even from terra firma; and conducted ourselves down to Mystic Aquarium on the coast of Connecticut for a look at some habiticus oceanisous...

Plenty to be learned if you're so inclined; like the way stingrays scoop up sediment from the floor of their habitats, and sift it through a sieve type opening just behind their jaws, as they sail along...

 

We're all aware of how the rays' tails can be surprisingly dangerous...

 

...still, the less squeamish of the visitors are allowed to pet them.



While the aquarium tries to maintain as much of a semblence to the animals' natural habitats as possible, there are inevitably some decidedly un-natural interactions...

 

Mystic Aquarium has been transformed since I was last here. The aquarium basically is now built around a massive tank which accommodates several large Beluga whales.



The docile arctic whales get their name from a Russian word meaning 'the white one'. They're also the only whales with the ability to swim backwards, a skill learned from backing out of tight spots between ice floes. Being filled with salt water, the tanks here never actually freeze, but the long cold New England winters must give these animals at least some comforts of home...



The once fascinating penguin exhibit is undergoing renovations, so there were no penguins to be seen except for these two representatives, forced to waddle about behind glass by themselves...



We caught the sea lions during lunch break, and hung around to watch their post-lunch napping, sunning and scratching.





Funny; Kelly hates when I laze about after lunch; yet she finds these guys intriguing...



One of the sea lions, a Stellar Sea Lion named Kodiak, is the second largest animal at the aquarium, after the largest of the Beluga whales.



A fellow visitor asked one of the staff if they ever mate the big one, but the reply was negative, due to the fact that the females are often injured or even killed during mating with a male of that size. Also, there isn't really room at the aquarium for any more like him, should his efforts succeed...



Right near the sea lions, is a walkway where people can peruse the beauty of a sun soaked marsh.



Blackbirds, turtles, dragonflies and big, big bullfrogs habitate this murkiness...



It was nice, but a little too western-massie for me; I came here to see something unusual; Luckily, from that swampy marsh, it's a short walk into the tropics...



Bloggerette found this part of the aquarium particularly interesting, no doubt because of all the amazing colors and shapes that nature can whip up, when so motivated...













Amazed again. It's a big world with seemingly endless possibilities and variations on this thing we call life. Why is it all here...what is it all for..?

Indeed, there is always much to ponder...



It was time to go. But next time we're down in this area, we'll have to stop to check out the Nautilus, the first US atomic powered submarine, which carried the first humans ever to cross completely under the arctic ice cap.



...a feat accomplished routinely, by the unassuming Beluga...

 

Interchange

Wednesday's misty/foggy atmosphere made for some cool scenery as night time came about. I stopped to take this pic of a trucker taking a break in Holyoke, across from Barnes and Noble,



...then on the way home with trucks on the brain, I decided to stop and get out near the Mass Pike exit 6 interchange, where it meets route 291, for a couple more.



Chicopee touts itself as the "Crossroads of New England", and this is the actual crossroads they're talking about; where the Turnpike meets interstate 91 (via the short route 291). Looked at it on a road map, this interchange does indeed form a huge cross in lower New England.

I parked near the intersection at a tractor trailer lot and rushed across the on-ramp, with the camera already mounted to a tripod and set for a couple quick pics. The idea was to get in a couple shots from the median dividing the entrance/exit to the pike before a curious state trooper might pass by and ask some potentially unanswerable questions. But sure enough, not 10 seconds after I planted the tripod down on the median who should come around the corner but a statie. I held my breath, but he must have been en route to bigger fish; he whipped by giving me a sideways glare as he passed...



I got my pictures and skedaddled.



The parking lots all around here are loaded with tractor trailers parked overnight or dropping off trailers or refueling or idling while their drivers check in at one of the several nearby motels or diners or fast food joints.



The most prominent feature at the crossroad is a tall, waving, top-hatted man in white...



It's a statue that's now become kind of iconic in this area. For a long, long time it was painted like Uncle Sam and graced the dealership lot at Mutual Ford on Bay Street in Springfield. I remember seeing that big Uncle Sam from my earliest memories, it stood there for over 30 years. That dealer had since closed up, and about 10 years ago the statue was painted all white and transplanted here; given new life greeting weary travelers as they get off the Pike.



I've heard the statue is also used as a visual marker for the C-5 Galaxy pilots flying low as they go to and from the nearby Westover air base...it certainly stands out above the terrain...

Sherman's March

Wednesday night's outing brought me by the long standing AMF Bowling Lanes in Chicopee.



I have a special affinity for these lanes. Back in the early 90's I was deep in the midst of a long running and in retrospect, pointless, wallow in self pity. One day my cousin Nuno sought to help drag me out of my funk by recruiting me to join him, his then girlfriend, and my Uncle in, of all things, a bowling team. My uncle was a serious bowler but Nuno, Kathy and I had never played for anything more than the rare recreational game. But I committed and picked up a used 12 pounder and pair of shoes cheap. Suddenly this weary-eyed, cynical loner found himself immersed in the Sunday morning bowling culture. We hit the lanes every weekend and I have to say, it did provide me with something to look foward to. My cousin, a bit of a history buff and dramatist, came up with the grand name for our team: "Sherman's March", in reference to that Civil War general's epic rampage through Georgia to the sea. I thought it was hilariously stupid, but went with it.

For a team with 75% lack of any experience, we did remarkably well and actually finished out the season ranked in the upper third of about a dozen teams. It was a roller coaster ride; Sometimes we lost bitterly, and sometimes embarassingly. Sometimes though, we destroyed teams much better than us; and we marched, like Sherman, to the sea. I'd go home feeling absolutely fantastic, and enthusiastic for the next game; it was a bowler's high.

Finishing so well, we decided to ride that high again and re-upped Sherman's March for a second season. We came back to the lanes significantly more seasoned and focused and determined to win. Unfortunately, though we had all gotten much better, except for my uncle none of us had yet mastered the true bowling skill of spinning the ball with english, by turning it across the lane to nail those strikes like the pros do. Our skills remained amateur: step to the right or left, line it up and slam it straight down the lane to your target. The method worked well against a full frame of pins, but was nearly useless against a 'split' situation, where there were 2 or 3 pins left standing on opposite sides of the lane, with a wide space between them. The worst type of this bad situation was the feared "7-10 Split", where the pins on the farthest corners of the frame were left standing, making it nearly impossible to knock down both with one straight-thrown ball...

But this is what I faced on my final turn in the final game of what would turn out to be my final season. We had made up for our lack of true skills by learning how to hit the target pin with just the right edge of the ball, thereby knocking the pin in a desired direction to hit the others, like in a game of billiards. It was simple physics...but the 7-10 split...

Stepping as far over to the very edge of the lane as possible, lining the ball up with the edge of the dreaded 'gutter' and with the target pin seemingly a mile or so in the distance, I took a deep breath. This was it; the score was close and if I made this impossible shot and miraculously knocked down both pins, I'd pick up the "spare", and we'd still be in the game with the potential to end the season with a win.

The plan was to hurl the ball down the very edge of the gutter, for the entire length of the lane, hopefully grazing the pin directly from the side, and sending it at a 90 degree angle into the pin on the other side of the lane. Crazy. Impossible. I leaped foward and swung the ball loose. The 12 pound ball ripped away, teetering along on the very edge like on a tightwire down the lane. The slightest variation in the roll would mean an embarassing gutter ball, and the long slink back to the bench...I crunched over clenching my fists, eyeing the ball's improbable progress, and as it got more than half way down the lane I could hear a low "wooooaaahhhhh" getting louder behind me...three quarters of the way, oh my god almost there...the "WOoooaaaAHH..." behind me got louder...then, too far away to even hear it, the heavy ball just barely knicked the pin and sent it flying across the lane, itself just knicking the other pin, toppling it!

The oposing team behind me erupted in a full throated "WOOOOAAAAHHH!!!!" and I nearly dropped to my knees, pounding the air with my fists. I turned to see a couple old timers from the other team shaking their heads in disbelief, a couple of others laughing and congratulating me. I thanked them and looked over to our bench for my team mates, riding the utterly highest moment of my bowling career...but the bench was empty.

Nuno was talking with someone a couple lanes over, about football no doubt; and Kathy was apparently in the bathroom. My uncle was totally missing in action. Nuno came strolling over a minute later and said what was that? did you get it? Yeah, I got it.

We went on to finish the season again in the upper third of the rankings. I won a league award for "Most Improved" bowling average. For several years we tossed around the idea of continuing on with the league , but other obligations and commitments had since come up, preventing our return. Sherman's March would never tear through the AMF Chicopee Lanes again.



But the seeds of Nuno's original plan had taken hold; the whole experience would be an instrumental puzzle piece in eventually getting me out of my lonely funk, and for that, I must thank General Sherman.

Elswell That Ends Well

It was the first launching this year for the trusty kayak, to round out a pleasant Memorial Day weekend. The course was for a late afternoon float around Elwell Island; one of the biggest islands in the Connecticut river, if not the biggest. Shoving off from the dock at the Elwell Recreation area about 5:30ish, several contented looking kayakers and other floaters were just pulling in, from their own mid afternoon outings.







Elwell island is about 60 acres in area, at one time used for pasture land. The island is now edged by thick forest but there's still a big meadow right in the middle. I'm not sure how they did it back in the day, but getting the animals on or off the island must have been some work (but maybe that was the idea).

The Norwottuck's old rail-bridge-turned-bike trail uses the southern end of the island as a stepping stone, where it enters and re-emerges from the trees midway across the wide river.





Nearby and just to the south is the much more modern and recently renovated Calvin Coolidge bridge (route 9)...



It takes about 2 miles of paddling to circumnavigate Elwell island. This day the course was set for a counter-clockwise loop around; tackling the wider, busier eastern branch of the river first. This is the side where the power boaters hurl themselves up and down the waterway at whatever speeds available. Kayakers are well advised to hug the shores here, and brace for wakes...



After fighting and losing against a few of the higher wakes myself, I took a break and went ashore to dry off a little, and do a little exploring...



Other than an abandoned campsite, the island appeared totally devoid of natives. But there were a lot of birds were singing high above, in a forest of cottonwoods and black willows that is growing thick in the flood plain soil of the island.



Unfortunately it was too late in the day for a more thorough exploration of the dark interiors of the island, and I was a little too light on bug repellent for that kind of jungle trek anyway. A trip for another time. For now, back to the open water...as it were.

Around to the northern end of the island, where on the opposite shore some kids were cashing in on the little luxuries of life...



...then down the peaceful western side. I pulled the paddles out of the water and gently floated along with the slow current; milking the last leg of the journey and racing cottonwoods seeds as they floated and landed like snowflakes all around.





Carried along slowly like little more than driftwood, even the ducks don't seem to mind if you get a little close.



Finally, the dock came within sight again as the sun was nearly down; casting reddish on everything.







Just a few more minutes to linger, then it's time to take out...



...just as the last of the day, and the last of the holiday weekend, has come.