For (last) Atlantis launch, getting a little more than I didn't pay for

To my surprise, the shuttle appeared very close to the Vehicle Assembly Building from my viewing location just south of Titusville.

As a breaking-news reporter, I have a responsibility to remain available in case a story breaks. Photographing space shuttle Atlantis' final (barring backroom deals) launch Friday was bound to get me caught in traffic and cause me to be late for work. So, for the 2:20 p.m. liftoff time, my objective was to find a headache-free place to watch the launch without getting stuck in traffic after.

The place I found proved to be that and then some.

I've had my eye on this secluded spot for several months, since I rode my Harley down a dead-end road along the Indian River south of Titusville. My first thought was that the area would be perfect for a night launch: There would be no artificial lights to mess up a timed exposure. Just me, the trees and the water. And the shuttle, of course.

The road is a dead end because beyond it is the barricaded property of the Astronaut Hall of Fame at the foot of the NASA Causeway, which leads to Kennedy Space Center. Despite that, beyond the closed-off portion, there are dirt trails in the woods that meander along the shoreline. Occasionally, there are clearings, and I chose one of them Friday afternoon as a place to watch this historic launch.

There were only a few other vehicles: no problem parking. And only a half dozen or so people had gathered near me. Many of them were either current or former military members, so it was good company. We sat coolly in the shade and watched the fish jump for flies and the pelicans dive for fish. We kept the conversation light, especially when NASA developed a problem with a ball bearing, threatening to scrub the launch. Fortunately, that didn't happen.

Over a 25-yard span of the shoreline, I scouted out three stations from which to take photos during the launch. First, I'd go for a telephoto shot from an unobstructed piece of shoreline. Second, I'd capture some wider shots of the shore, a tree and maybe a spectator in the foreground. And for the third shot, with an old 2-by-8 I found lying around, I built a makeshift bridge to a log about 5 feet from the shore. On this "bridge," I'd get a photo of the arcing contrail framed by the vegetation surrounding me.

The biggest surprise was when the shuttle lifted off. Not that it was any different from usual launches, but I just had never photographed the thing from this angle south of the launch pad. I thought it would appear over the horizon far to the left of NASA's Vehicle Assembly Building. Instead, it climbed skyward just to the right of the tallest one-story building in the world. An unexpected bonus for this photo op.

There were no cries from revelers or other spectators, so the rumblings from the shuttle could be heard and felt clearly. By my estimates, I was about 15 miles from launch pad 39A. It was absolutely the most tranquil viewing experience I've had thus far for a launch. (I haven't missed one in three years, mind you, so it was also a somber occasion to see Atlantis billowing upward for the last time.)

But it also gave me an idea for the next launch.

Oh, and I didn't struggle with traffic in the least on the way into the office on U.S. 1, or Route 1, as they call it in the state of Maine.

I'm not sure of the reason, but hundreds of cars were stuck on NASA Causeway, heading away from the space center, when the launch took place. My best guess is that they were turned away from entering the Kennedy Space Center Visitor Complex. Even though the location offers only an obstructed view of the launch, such attractions are increasingly popular now that there are just a few shuttle launches remaining. And the Space Coast is milking it for all it's worth.

My newspaper co-workers enjoyed these shots with the VAB and a boat in the foreground. They certainly were views I myself had not before seen. So it's nice that they decided to print a large version of the one at the top of this post.

Maybe next time I'll wear hip waders so I can get right out there into the water.

This woman, who's in the Navy, sat on the base of this palm trunk and videotaped the launch. She was one of the few other spectators.

The photography editor at the paper called this an "Ansel Adams" launch shot, a true compliment. I briefly thought about converting it to black and white, too. This is the location where I had to make a bridge -- leading onto the log you see on the right-hand side -- to achieve this framing effect.

Before stepping into my car for the rather painless trip into the office, I took a close-up of the remaining contrails. They tend to take on a very textured look, similar to storm clouds.

The contrails get a little wispier here, forming a familiar corkscrew pattern that often happens after a launch. The wind was blowing briskly inland, so that likely contributed to this formation. I took this shot from my car while waiting at a stoplight near Port St. John.

Oil-free birds

Pelly, a brown pelican saved from the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, steps from his cage.

Pelly is set free by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service personnel.


Pelly stretches his wings before flying away.

The two birds in these photos -- a brown pelican named Pelly and a northern gannet known as Lucky -- were the first two rescued from the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. On Monday, they became the first two to be released after a week of rehabilitation in Louisiana. They were set free at Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge in nearby Indian River County. I was there for the story and photos.

Lucky, a northern gannet, climbs from his cage.

Lucky splashes onto the pond surface.

Lucky is floating freely again.

Maine sky

Down East Maine's dark sky affords some magnificent stargazing. At home in Princeton, I could lie on a dock for hours, just watching the heavens, catching the shimmer of an occasional meteor and the flicker of a low-flying lightning bug. Above, the planet Venus sets, showing up as the brightest streak on the horizon in this whopping 22-minute exposure.

This 8-minute, 10-second exposure was so drastically underexposed that I had to use Photoshop to bring up the lighting and make something out of this shot of Venus. This was taken on a separate night from the top image in this post and earlier, too. The glow from the long-gone sun was still on the horizon.

On several of my four nights in Maine, I tried to watch the International Space Station pass overhead. Unlike in Florida, station flyovers happen twice just after sunset and within about an hour of each other. There's usually just a single nightly pass in Florida within an hour after sunset. But for various reasons - bad weather, forgetfulness - this above shot was the only one I could manage the entire week. It's about 3 minutes, 8 seconds long and gives a different look from the shots I usually get in Florida, where what few stars that are visible get lost in the lingering sunshine and city lights.

Focusing on a single part of the north-northwest sky, I caught the faint trail of another satellite passing overhead. Such sights are unachievable without the advantage of Maine's dark sky. This exposure is 3 minutes, 6 seconds long and was taken with my 105mm macro lens.

This is actually another stormy shot, but it's one I neglected to share in the earlier post. On my last evening in Maine, a rapidly moving rainstorm is backdropped by the sunset. The wind soon picked up, and the rain came. It was short-lived, though: It was gone in about five minutes, and the sky cleared again.

Maine spring

I didn't get much free time during my week in Maine, but a few hours did come available on a partly cloudy afternoon. I wanted to get out and document a portion of spring in Maine, at least within a 1-mile radius of my parent's house. Above, an ant climbs on a dandelion.

Another ant, in the center of a dandelion.

You can make out the specks of pollen on this ant.

A bee hangs out on a dandelion.

A bee fly, or bombyliidae, collects pollen.

Chokecherry tree blossoms.

Ah, true love is found on cherry blossoms. Not yet sure of the insect species here.

A bee on a wild apple blossom.

Another bee on more apple blossoms.

Wild strawberry blossoms.

It's ironic that the last time I visited Maine, the leaves were falling off. This time, they were growing back, like these apple tree leaves.

The flower of a striped maple tree, also called moosewood.

Burdock.

Alas, mosquitoes buzz at the top of a pine tree. The black flies also were out in full force when I was home.

Maine storm

At home in Maine on family business all week, I was greeted Monday with a nice storm over Grand Falls Flowage in Princeton, my hometown. My parents, brother and I were out for a W-A-L-K when this gust front rolled swiftly over the lake, bringing a short downpour and a period of strong straight-line wind. These storms seem to follow me; it's not quite the storm season yet in Florida.

It's easy to see the defined leading edge of this storm as it makes its way over the lake that I fished on nearly every day during my childhood summers.

A heavy rain core is clearly visible across the "back bay," as my family called it during my early days. My childhood home, where my parents still live, is located on the end of a half-mile peninsula on the lake. This is a backyard of sorts, behind the house.

Out in front again, in the main portion of the lake, rain falls over the "downtown" area of Princeton, if there is such a thing. It's a town of about 800 people, making it one of the more populous municipalities in eastern Washington County, the "Sunrise County" -- so named because it is the first place in the lower 48 to receive sunlight each morning.

More dark clouds as the rain continues to fall.

Later on Monday, the day I flew in to Maine, the sky cleared. As the sun set, the bottoms of the these lingering dark clouds were "oranged-up," as I like to say.

A close-up of the clouds. The "family business" I referred to, by the way, was the death of my courageous grandmother, who miraculously survived a horrific car accident 47 years ago, in which all of her family of six were involved. She got the worst of it: Her husband was told she would never eat by herself, walk or talk again. Yet, she did. She learned to walk and talk again. She learned to write with her left hand. And she lived a full life, raising four children, including a son who suddenly died two months ago. It has been a rough spring for the family, but we're a resilient bunch, as evidenced by my grandmother.