2021-06-21: Pemaquid Point

I've spent the past few days out travelling in Maine, accompanying the family on a short trip to some relatively nearby attractions. While I've been unable to post due to this, I've also spent the time amassing hundreds of pictures, which I'm now filtering down to only the very best. On the first day of our trip, we headed to a number of lighthouses along the Atlantic coast, including Pemaquid Point and Owls Head.

A view of the lighthouse and adjacent museum through the dense Maine fog from the parking area.

A close view of the lighthouse's top. We were unable to actually go inside.

The point's most striking feature was the expanse of twisted black rocks along the shore, exposed at low tide.

Fog and rocks stretch into oblivion in the otherworldly seaside landscape.

At the ocean's edge, blue-gray waves crashed against barnacle-encrusted rocks.

Hundreds of tiny barnacles clung to the rocks along the point.

Waves batter the life-covered rocks, as if trying to climb out of the aptly-named Lighthouse Cove.

The tumultuous ocean waves faded quickly into the fog, with a sea of gray nothingness beyond.

In the deepest clefts of the rocks, dozens of blue mussels (Mytilus edulis) sat, themselves covered in barnacles, waiting for the tide to return.

This prominent rock outcrop, farthest from the mainland, took the bulk of the watery battering.

Colonies of tiny algae covered some tidal pools with mats of green.

Thousands of barnacles colored the fog-softened rocks a yellow-brown color.

Here water rushes back into the ocean moments after being deposited on the rocks by a violent wave.

Rocks less than a hundred feet away straggled the edge of visibility in the fog while waves flooded and overwhelmed them.

Bright green algae formed the only color on the black rocks, making me feel as though I were exploring some inhospitable alien planet.

More twisty rocks extend out towards the sea. I've always imagined it would be useful to take a geologist on vacations with me.

On a rocky beach near the lighthouse, hundreds of cairns were set up in the sand.

A shell and pure white rock sit atop one small cairn.

A view back up towards the lighthouse, barely visible in the fog, from down by the ocean.

A seagull watches the violent scene before him as waves break on jagged rocks.

Each wave creates hundred of tiny waterfalls streaming down the rocks into short-lived tidal pools.

The quarters of the now-inactive lighthouse host a museum, containing, among other things, this very large lobster caught nearby.

Chunks of decayed wood from an old pier sit safe and dry inside the museum.

A nearby art gallery was home to hundreds of paintings by local artists, including this one of the lighthouse at sunrise.

Our next stop was the more famous lighthouse at Owls Point. The fog had thickened at this point, and was mixed with intermittent rain.

Unlike nearby Pemaquid, Owls Point is still an active lighthouse, operated and maintained by the US Coast Guard.

A corroded copper plaque at the base of the lighthouse's staircase describes its nearly two-hundred-year history.

A grave next to the historical marker denotes the final resting place of the official lighthouse dog.

A nearer view of the lighthouse itself, edited somewhat in an attempt to counteract the fog.

The lighthouse itself peers above the hillside along the long staircase that leads to its base.

The short trail to the lighthouse through state land sports some views of the Maine coast, which would certainly be more spectacular in better weather.

Waves leave behind tiny whirlpools along the rocks below the cliffs near Owls Head.

A lone evergreen tree, its limbs heavy with moss, stands guard along the mysterious foggy coastline.