Maine
The Maine winter ritual that keeps me sane
Nearing the end of December, the streams are shrouded in ice. The trout are there, but they are lethargic and in a state of semi-hibernation. From the middle of November, I spend my weekends cutting, splitting and stacking logs for the woodstove; that is, when I’m not plowing snow off the long dirt drive that snakes off the macadam like a woodland stream, winding through hardwoods and coming to rest beside our home.
I could pay Don from the auto shop to do the plowing and we can heat our home with oil, but the effort to clear the drive and keep the stove full is an excuse to spend time outdoors, which keeps me active and sane throughout the winter months and provides the illusion of self-sufficiency.
By the third week of February, the banks of snow have melted along the dirt drive and on either side of the walk leading into our house. Some hardpack remains under the dogwood tree or in the lee of the outbuildings scattered around the 12 acres surrounding our home.
My jeans bear oil stains that Trish has been unable to remove. The strings from the frayed bottoms trail behind the rubber heels of my felt-packed Sorels like a dry fly reeled against the stream’s current. The fingers of my inexpensive work gloves are worn through in a few places, and I have wrapped them with duct tape to keep the lining from falling out.
This morning, I’m wearing a heavy shirt with a stiff canvas exterior over a long-sleeve T-shirt. The words “Oquossoc Marine” are stitched in black across the front of my cap, the letters rising upward through a grease stain like boulders in a lake around which smallmouth bass might school.
I walk the short distance across the yard to a small shed, the lawn crunching under my boots. The morning frost glistens like tiny diamonds sprinkled among the blades of matted grass as the sun edges over a line of spruce to reveal a flawless blue sky.
Lifting the latch, I open the door. The smell of grease and oil hangs in the cold stillness. I reach past the chainsaw and grab the maul from the corner of the shed, walking back outside, passing the near-empty lean-to that contains the remains of two cords of stovewood. By this time of year, the pieces that remain are stacked against the back wall, some littering the floor, a few wedged into the corners.
Throughout November and the early part of December, the sound of my chainsaw fills the air as I down trees, hauling them from the woodlot across the earthen dam of our little pond and cutting them into stove-sized pieces. By January, I’m spending my time splitting the 12-inch logs, allowing them to season in the open air throughout spring and summer until the following fall when I stack them, row upon row, under the eaves of the empty lean-to.
When I was younger, I split wood from morning until three or four in the afternoon, breaking only for lunch, a mountain of billets rising quickly, leaving the remainder of the winter for feeding birds, exploring the woods, tying flies. These days, I wear a back brace and work for no more than three hours a day, taking an entire winter of weekends to raise my mountain of split wood.
I can rent a gas-powered log splitter and form the pile of logs in days instead of months, but where is the honor in that? No, I prefer this six-pound maul, the one I now cradle in my hands, the same maul I have used to create 40 winters’ worth of firewood. Once, I replaced the shaft when an errant blow splintered it against the side of a stump, only later learning a trick used by hockey players to protect their sticks — duct tape wrapped around the base of the blade.
This morning, I stopped at the three chopping blocks frozen to the ground in front of the rising summit of wood. Chinks and grooves cut into the edges of each stump wherever the maul’s sharp blade has powered through a log. The bark has fallen away, lying in shreds, mixed into sawdust with pieces of kindling, wood chips, shavings and twigs, creating a ligneous gazpacho.
On either side lies a pile of logs, mostly sugar maple, white oak, shagbark hickory and ash; the type of hardwood that splits easily and burns slowly, providing an efficient source of heat for the woodstove. There is a smaller amount of soft wood that is stringy, more difficult to split and faster burning like poplar and tulip.
I like the smell of the resin, the feeling of the sawdust, spongy under my boots, the maul, familiar in my hands, but it is the sight of the growing mountain that I most enjoy, with its base of split logs, ridges of sticks and crags of twisted branch.
Feet spread apart, I grasp the maul, my left hand around the bottom of the shaft, my right around its base. I take pleasure in the power that spreads from my legs up through my shoulders and down through my arms, the motion of the heavy blade as it swings through the air, the crack of the log as it splits in two. After 20 minutes, I unbutton the canvas shirt, remove the baseball cap and run a hand through my thinning hair.
A few feet from the woodpile a chickadee flits among the branches of an ironwood tree. Landing on the metal rung of the tube feeder, the little bird cocks its head sideways, its black eye looking like a tiny plastic bead. As the bird flies off with a seed, a titmouse appears with its gray breast feathers puffed outward, a little dun-colored pompadour shooting up as it chirps a complaint.
I swing the maul down, the blade striking off center. A quarter of the log splits away while the remaining piece falls over on its side. While the titmouse plucks a seed from the feeder, two goldfinches and a nuthatch impatiently chatter from the branches of a nearby sugar maple.
Clouds have moved in from the west and without the sun there is a chill in the air. Even so, I’m sweating. I hang the outer shirt from a nail hammered into the side of the woodshed and roll up the long sleeves of my T-shirt.
The next swing of the maul fails to split the log. Aiming for a fracture, I try again, causing a chunk of wood to fly end over end across the frozen ground.
I develop a rhythm — bend, pick up a log, split. Bend, pick up a log and split. There is ample time for reflection. Today, I fancy myself an aging samurai, past my prime, without a lord to follow or battle to fight, but still able to wield a weapon with grace and skill. After a while, I stoop down, tossing the scattered billets toward the top of the pile, the mountain growing high under the ashen clouds.
When snow begins to fall, I remove the canvas shirt from the nail and slip it back on. The flakes are light, dry. They settle on my shoulders, the chopping blocks, the woodpile, covering the branches of the ironwood tree and sticking to the ground.
The birds are now darting back and forth grabbing seeds without hesitation. In the stillness of the afternoon, I hear the flutter of their wings.
The Maine Trust for Local News has hired two reporters to cover key areas in central Maine.
Abigail Pritchard earned her master’s in journalism from Boston University and was formerly the editor-in-chief of American University’s student newspaper, The Eagle. Her work has appeared in various Massachusetts-based publications and she previously worked as the Statehouse correspondent for The New Bedford Light.
Pritchard covers the Waterville area and writes the weekly Kennebec Beat North newsletter.
When she’s not working, she enjoys cooking, reading and taking long drives.
Sara Coughlin earned a degree in English and government with a concentration in creative writing from Bowdoin College, where she served as an editor for the student newspaper, the Bowdoin Orient, and wrote for Bowdoin Communications.
Originally from Brunswick, she previously interned for the Portland Press Herald and the Harpswell Anchor.
Couglin covers the Augusta area and writes the weekly Kennebec Beat South newsletter.
Outside of work, you may find her doing yoga — she’s training to become a yoga teacher —or crocheting a hat.
The Maine Trust for Local News, a subsidiary of the National Trust for Local News, is the parent company of the Kennebec Journal in Augusta, Morning Sentinel in Waterville, Portland Press Herald, and Sun Journal in Lewiston, as well as a host of weekly print and online publications.
Alex Smith, from Holden, attended Brewer High School and Hampshire College, and earned a law degree from Northeastern University and a master’s degree in public health from Tufts. He has worked for UNHCR, UN Women and the International Criminal Court in The Hague. He lives in London.
To win the progressive vote and have any chance of beating Susan Collins, Democratic candidates must speak with conviction and moral clarity about the defining human rights violations of our time: Israel’s genocide, apartheid, systemic torture, occupation and other crimes against Palestinians. Those who don’t need not apply.
I grew up on Holbrook Pond off Route 1A near Bangor. Today, I’m a lawyer and global health specialist with more than 25 years of experience. In 2024, I resigned from my senior advisor role with USAID in protest of the Biden administration’s Gaza policies.
Since then, I’ve joined a legal team investigating Israel’s crimes in the Occupied Palestinian Territories and have continued my advocacy through research, media appearances (e.g., CNN , Al Jazeera English, Al Jazeera Arabic, AJ+ and TRT World ), lecturing and publishing with Cambridge University (UK), DAWN and other universities and think tanks.
I’ve traveled to the West Bank twice in the last year, investigating ongoing sexual violence and other human rights abuses in Gaza and the West Bank and coordinating legal research with human rights organizations, lawyers and survivors of torture.
With the rise and fall of the Platner campaign, I was encouraged to see my fellow Mainers elevating human rights in Palestine to a major concern and not a fringe issue. This concern mirrors broader national trends.
Among voters who supported Joe Biden in 2020 but did not vote for Kamala Harris in 2024, the single most important issue was ending Israel’s violence in Gaza (29% ), surpassing even inflation and the economy (24%), Medicare and Social Security (12%) and immigration (11%). Nationwide, a majority of Democrats have correctly identified that Israel is committing genocide, with 83% supporting a permanent stop to the killing and 75% opposing U.S. military aid to Israel (compared to just 18% in favor).
Taking a moral stand is clearly popular with Democratic voters, as we’ve seen in New York and Colorado, where voters treated opposition to Israeli crimes like a basic moral litmus test. The saying goes: “If you won’t stand against genocide, why would I trust you to stand up for universal healthcare?”
Condemnation of Israel’s crimes comfortably puts candidates on the right side of history and in good company with the U.N. Commission of Inquiry, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, Save the Children, the International Association of Genocide Scholars, the International Court of Justice, Nick Kristof and Israeli genocide scholars and organizations, including Omar Bartov, B’Tselem and Physicians for Human Rights Israel .
With voters showing such moral clarity and focus on this issue, it is striking that so few candidates have spoken clearly about it. To date, Jordan Wood , Shenna Bellows and Nirav Shah have publicly stated that they believe Israel is committing genocide in Gaza and have called for ending U.S. support for Israel’s military campaign.
The remaining potential Democratic nominees, including Troy Jackson, Dan Kleban, Paige Loud, David Costello and Andrea LaFlamme, have either taken more limited positions or have not publicly condemned what many international organizations, legal experts and human rights groups have described as genocide, nor have they called for ending U.S. arms transfers to Israel.
When Gov. Janet Mills was asked about the Gaza genocide, she gave an incoherent answer, deflecting to other humanitarian crises, listing Sudan, Somalia and the Rwandan genocide, which was over 30 years ago. Instead of naming specific actions to stop genocide and other crimes, she said vaguely, “There’s a lot we have to be concerned about.” She went on to lose the primary battle. That kind of wavering on an issue as serious as genocide won’t cut it.
Graham Platner, who openly opposed Israel’s actions in Gaza and the West Bank, received more than 150,000 votes, the highest total ever won by a Democratic U.S. Senate primary candidate in Maine. Those voters weren’t simply looking for another Democrat. They wanted someone willing to challenge corruption and the bipartisan abandonment of principle on important issues, including Gaza.
The last thing voters want is more invertebrates in Congress. Anyone not taking a moral stand should therefore stand aside.
“Do we accept the idea that innocent, loving partners and loving and devoted fathers of 3-year-olds can be collateral damage to this government’s policies? Do we agree that this is just an acceptable cost of doing business?” Gideon said. “We truly believe that people need to understand what the real costs are.”
“I want to be clear about something. Johan Sebastián, before he was shot to death, had been accused of committing no crime. He was in this country lawfully, and he was following a lawful process that’s prescribed by our federal government,” the attorney said, adding that Durán had been issued a work permit and a Social Security number under the Trump administration.
ICE has said it was conducting “targeted surveillance on the last known address of an illegal alien with a final order of removal” around 7 a.m. Monday, an agency spokesperson said.
“The vehicle attempted to flee the scene and fearing for public safety an officer discharged his weapon,” the ICE spokesperson said.
Durán, who was born and raised in Bucaramanga, Colombia, had come to the U.S. in 2023 to seek better opportunities for him and his family, relatives said.
A spokesperson with the Department of Homeland Security told NBC News in an email that Durán “illegally entered the United States” through the southern border nearly three years ago “and was released into the country under the Biden Administration.”
Entering the U.S. without proper authorization is a misdemeanor, but living in the country without legal permission is a civil violation and not a criminal offense.
At work, and everywhere he went, Durán carried an infectious joy, Rojas said.
As a father, he was devoted. Aside from working cleaning and delivery jobs to provide for his family, he took their daughter, Dulce — or “gordita” (chubby) as he lovingly called her — to the park every afternoon, Rojas said.
Durán always indulged his little girl whenever she had a craving for nuggets and fries, Rojas said, adding he would often marvel in tears every time he realized his daughter “was getting bigger.”
Rojas recalled a conversation she had with Durán a few months ago, wondering who their little girl would grow up to be. Durán said he would have a hard time sending off his daughter to school for the first time, she said.
Dulce now asks for her father every night, Rojas said, breaking down in tears. “And I don’t have the strength to tell her that dad isn’t coming, that she can’t give him a hug and tell him ‘I love you.’”
Gideon said that “there will come a time when those responsible for Johan Sebastián’s needless death will have to answer for what they did. But today is not that day. … Today is about Johan Sebastián and who he was as a person.”
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