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Nash Island
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Nash Island
Location: Portland, Maine
Nationality: USA
Focus:
Photographer, Photojournalist
Covering:
Africa,
Asia,
Europe,
USA & Canada
Three miles off the coast of Maine, is a cluster of islands named Little Nash Island, Big Nash Island and Flat Island — populated only by sheep.
The Wakeman family, who live on the nearby mainland, are the year-round caretakers. Alfie Wakeman works full-time as a pediatric provider in the local clinic. His wife, Eleni, works full-time as a speech-language pathologist and the assistant fire chief for the local volunteer fire department. Their three daughters — Wren, Lilly and Evie — are all college-age or newly graduated.
Each spring, Alfie leaves his medical practice for three weeks to live on Big Nash Island for the lambing season. (In his text messages, Alfie includes smiley faces when he talks about going to the island, or about new lambs; sad faces punctuate his texts when he discusses leaving the island.) The sheep, wild and self-sufficient, are able to thrive off the providence of the island. But every so often a sick lamb needs special care.
About a century ago, a 10-year-old girl named Jenny Cirone — the daughter of the lighthouse keeper on Little Nash Island — began raising sheep. She would go on to tend her flock for more than 80 years. Alfie, Eleni and their daughters knew Jenny well. They lived next door to her and helped her care for the island and its sheep. They still understand this part of the world largely through Jenny and her stories.
Jenny knew everything about the island and the ocean around it. She hauled lobster traps with Alfie almost until the day she died, a month shy of 92. She remembered each sheep, its lineage, how much wool it made. She gave names to every lamb, and to each spot on the ocean floor that was good for a lobster trap.
At the end of lambing season, a community gathers on Big Nash to help round up and shear the sheep. (The other islands’ sheep will be sheared, too, but those require smaller crews.) The volunteers — around 40 people — include a handful of knitters and spinners; they often wear sweaters made of Nash Island wool. Some show up because they live down the road and are accustomed to pitching in. Others are lured by an adoration of good wool. Still others come because of the island itself — for the tradition, for the memory of Jenny.
Before they’re sheared, the sheep must be rounded up — a process that requires considerable patience. Around 20 people sweep the island methodically; no animals can be left behind on the little hills or rocky beaches, and the sheep shouldn’t be spooked. (Sheep are notoriously skittish.) Everyone joins in — their arms outstretched, their hands sometimes clasped together — as they funnel the sheep toward a corral made of salvaged driftwood. When the corral is full, the crew works to pull lambs from underneath the sheep, moving them to a separate pen; there, the rams are castrated and the ewes’ tails are docked. Each lamb and sheep is carefully checked and given any necessary care. Meanwhile, the shearers skim whirring blades along the bodies of the sheep, their hands and the clippers hidden under the thick wool. (Much of shearing is done blindly, by feel.)
The work is physically demanding, but the shearers move quickly, often without pausing for food or water. After hours of labor, and once the last sheep’s wool has been removed, the shearers return their tools to their cases, the blades slick with lanolin, and the group migrates to a cabin — Big Nash’s lone building — for a potluck meal: baked beans, a salad, turkey, rhubarb cakes. A simple rule is announced: “The shearers eat first.”
Another roundup will happen again in the fall: The sheep will be gathered, checked and tended to. Some will stay on the island, growing thick with wool, while most of the males and a handful of ewes will be brought to the mainland to be processed as meat. The sheep chosen for slaughter will be scooped up, their soft woolen bodies carried from the driftwood pen, down the rocky beach, to a dinghy. Then, from the dinghy to the family’s lobster boat, until sheep are packed from bulkhead to transom, calm and blinking in the sun. Volunteers will sit on the sides of the boat or climb onto its top as it motors back to the mainland. A waiting truck will bring the sheep to the local butcher.
Maine was once a land of shepherds. Its islands and coastal communities were dotted with the fleeced bodies of sheep, its shrubs and trees grazed into oblivion. Historical photos show wide expanses of pasture that have now become thick with forests and houses.Back then, there were more families like the Wakemans, who raised their own animals and grew their own food, who gathered people together to share both their work and a meal, who used dark humor and whispered their thanks on the days when animals gave up their wool or became food. Some of the sheep spend their entire lives on these islands, from birth to death. They become the islands. Their sun-bleached bones are entrenched in the earth, embedded in the grassy knolls and wetlands where they once grazed, their bodies decomposing to nourish a new generation. Jenny Cirone is also here; her gravestone sits at the far end of Big Nash, her ashes buried in the place with the best view of the lighthouse. She, too, is a part of the island — the grass, the sea, the sheep, the story.
The Wakeman family, who live on the nearby mainland, are the year-round caretakers. Alfie Wakeman works full-time as a pediatric provider in the local clinic. His wife, Eleni, works full-time as a speech-language pathologist and the assistant fire chief for the local volunteer fire department. Their three daughters — Wren, Lilly and Evie — are all college-age or newly graduated.
Each spring, Alfie leaves his medical practice for three weeks to live on Big Nash Island for the lambing season. (In his text messages, Alfie includes smiley faces when he talks about going to the island, or about new lambs; sad faces punctuate his texts when he discusses leaving the island.) The sheep, wild and self-sufficient, are able to thrive off the providence of the island. But every so often a sick lamb needs special care.
About a century ago, a 10-year-old girl named Jenny Cirone — the daughter of the lighthouse keeper on Little Nash Island — began raising sheep. She would go on to tend her flock for more than 80 years. Alfie, Eleni and their daughters knew Jenny well. They lived next door to her and helped her care for the island and its sheep. They still understand this part of the world largely through Jenny and her stories.
Jenny knew everything about the island and the ocean around it. She hauled lobster traps with Alfie almost until the day she died, a month shy of 92. She remembered each sheep, its lineage, how much wool it made. She gave names to every lamb, and to each spot on the ocean floor that was good for a lobster trap.
At the end of lambing season, a community gathers on Big Nash to help round up and shear the sheep. (The other islands’ sheep will be sheared, too, but those require smaller crews.) The volunteers — around 40 people — include a handful of knitters and spinners; they often wear sweaters made of Nash Island wool. Some show up because they live down the road and are accustomed to pitching in. Others are lured by an adoration of good wool. Still others come because of the island itself — for the tradition, for the memory of Jenny.
Before they’re sheared, the sheep must be rounded up — a process that requires considerable patience. Around 20 people sweep the island methodically; no animals can be left behind on the little hills or rocky beaches, and the sheep shouldn’t be spooked. (Sheep are notoriously skittish.) Everyone joins in — their arms outstretched, their hands sometimes clasped together — as they funnel the sheep toward a corral made of salvaged driftwood. When the corral is full, the crew works to pull lambs from underneath the sheep, moving them to a separate pen; there, the rams are castrated and the ewes’ tails are docked. Each lamb and sheep is carefully checked and given any necessary care. Meanwhile, the shearers skim whirring blades along the bodies of the sheep, their hands and the clippers hidden under the thick wool. (Much of shearing is done blindly, by feel.)
The work is physically demanding, but the shearers move quickly, often without pausing for food or water. After hours of labor, and once the last sheep’s wool has been removed, the shearers return their tools to their cases, the blades slick with lanolin, and the group migrates to a cabin — Big Nash’s lone building — for a potluck meal: baked beans, a salad, turkey, rhubarb cakes. A simple rule is announced: “The shearers eat first.”
Another roundup will happen again in the fall: The sheep will be gathered, checked and tended to. Some will stay on the island, growing thick with wool, while most of the males and a handful of ewes will be brought to the mainland to be processed as meat. The sheep chosen for slaughter will be scooped up, their soft woolen bodies carried from the driftwood pen, down the rocky beach, to a dinghy. Then, from the dinghy to the family’s lobster boat, until sheep are packed from bulkhead to transom, calm and blinking in the sun. Volunteers will sit on the sides of the boat or climb onto its top as it motors back to the mainland. A waiting truck will bring the sheep to the local butcher.
Maine was once a land of shepherds. Its islands and coastal communities were dotted with the fleeced bodies of sheep, its shrubs and trees grazed into oblivion. Historical photos show wide expanses of pasture that have now become thick with forests and houses.Back then, there were more families like the Wakemans, who raised their own animals and grew their own food, who gathered people together to share both their work and a meal, who used dark humor and whispered their thanks on the days when animals gave up their wool or became food. Some of the sheep spend their entire lives on these islands, from birth to death. They become the islands. Their sun-bleached bones are entrenched in the earth, embedded in the grassy knolls and wetlands where they once grazed, their bodies decomposing to nourish a new generation. Jenny Cirone is also here; her gravestone sits at the far end of Big Nash, her ashes buried in the place with the best view of the lighthouse. She, too, is a part of the island — the grass, the sea, the sheep, the story.
See the full story here: https://www.gretarybus.com/nash-island
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© 2024 Greta Rybus
Nash Island
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© 2024 Greta Rybus
Three miles off the coast of Maine, is a cluster of islands named Little Nash Island, Big Nash Island and Flat Island — populated only by sheep. The Wakeman family, who live on the nearby mainland, are the year-round caretakers. Alfie Wakeman works full-time as a pediatric provider in the local clinic. His wife, Eleni, works full-time as a speech-language pathologist and the assistant fire chief for the local volunteer fire department. Their three daughters — Wren, Lilly and Evie — are all college-age or newly graduated.
Each spring, Alfie leaves his medical practice for three weeks to live on Big Nash Island for the lambing season. (In his text messages, Alfie includes smiley faces when he talks about going to the island, or about new lambs; sad faces punctuate his texts when he discusses leaving the island.) The sheep, wild and self-sufficient, are able to thrive off the providence of the island. But every so often a sick lamb needs special care.
Each spring, Alfie leaves his medical practice for three weeks to live on Big Nash Island for the lambing season. (In his text messages, Alfie includes smiley faces when he talks about going to the island, or about new lambs; sad faces punctuate his texts when he discusses leaving the island.) The sheep, wild and self-sufficient, are able to thrive off the providence of the island. But every so often a sick lamb needs special care.
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With the round-up, it’s done the way it's always been done. That's the way Jenny did it for 80 years and that's the way it was done before her. I feel like we're keeping that same heritage the way it's always been. I think that's why when people come out to the island and are a part of the roundup and shearing, they feel that. And it moves people in a different way than if I were to hire 20 people to come out and do it. It wouldn't be the same.
— Alfie Wakeman
— Alfie Wakeman
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It feels like I do bit of everything, it depends on where I am. Today I'm a farmer, tomorrow I'll be a fishermen, then Monday I'll be in the OR assisting surgery. I'll be a pediatrician, then back to the farm. — Alfie Wakeman
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I started shearing, unofficially, five years ago. Just at the end of the day when there were a few sheep left, I would start doing the long blows and getting used to putting the shears on the skin and making sure the shears are really flat on the sheep's hide; kind of riding the shears up. You start with the tail and go to the head, there's a whole foot pattern and blow pattern that you do when you're shearing.
I started shearing, unofficially, five years ago. Just at the end of the day when there were a few sheep left, I would start doing the long blows and getting used to putting the shears on the skin and making sure the shears are really flat on the sheep's hide; kind of riding the shears up. You start with the tail and go to the head, there's a whole foot pattern and blow pattern that you do when you're shearing.
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I always think about Jenny and old Doris, the one that just died at 104, she was the cook. She'd come out and cook and she would bake tons of pies. She was known for her pies and her jello salads. Very traditional. Ham and potato salad and jello salad and whip cream, and we'd sit on the porch and she'd started burning the styrofoam cups in the woodfire, it was just horrific and we'd kind of go, "Oh god, Doris is burning styrofoam." She was so old school. Now at least we have salads at our lunch. — Geri Valentine
I always think about Jenny and old Doris, the one that just died at 104, she was the cook. She'd come out and cook and she would bake tons of pies. She was known for her pies and her jello salads. Very traditional. Ham and potato salad and jello salad and whip cream, and we'd sit on the porch and she'd started burning the styrofoam cups in the woodfire, it was just horrific and we'd kind of go, "Oh god, Doris is burning styrofoam." She was so old school. Now at least we have salads at our lunch. — Geri Valentine
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Sometimes we'll bring in a lamb - sometimes they're almost dead and you can revive them. Sometimes you can't. But with raising your kids this way, they understand that's part of life. It's the same working on a farm, you teach them: ‘Well, this one is going to be in our freezer so I can be friends with it but not really take it in close. And this one is going to be a pet so this one I'm going to be really close with.’ It’s part of the life cycle.
— Alfie Wakeman
Sometimes we'll bring in a lamb - sometimes they're almost dead and you can revive them. Sometimes you can't. But with raising your kids this way, they understand that's part of life. It's the same working on a farm, you teach them: ‘Well, this one is going to be in our freezer so I can be friends with it but not really take it in close. And this one is going to be a pet so this one I'm going to be really close with.’ It’s part of the life cycle.
— Alfie Wakeman
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Back then it just felt so great because everybody would help everybody out. Everybody would visit and everybody was there if anybody needed anything. That's the way things were. And I've always kind of practiced pediatrics that way too. If anybody needed anything they could have home visits, the way my dad practiced, my grandpa practiced, they always did home visits. So, I did the same thing. Or reverse home visits where people would come here for care. It just feels good to be able to help people if they need something. And in turn if I ever need anything, I have a hundred people I could call and say, "Hey." Which is kind of nice to know.
— Alfie Wakeman
Back then it just felt so great because everybody would help everybody out. Everybody would visit and everybody was there if anybody needed anything. That's the way things were. And I've always kind of practiced pediatrics that way too. If anybody needed anything they could have home visits, the way my dad practiced, my grandpa practiced, they always did home visits. So, I did the same thing. Or reverse home visits where people would come here for care. It just feels good to be able to help people if they need something. And in turn if I ever need anything, I have a hundred people I could call and say, "Hey." Which is kind of nice to know.
— Alfie Wakeman
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When I was growing up, we would come here to South Addison for summers, we'd come to our cottage down at the narrows. And when I was five - my brother was a year and a half older than I - we would get up at four in the morning, just he and I, and we would walk a mile and a half into the wharf and jump on somebody's boat and go out to haul with them for the day. Our parents wouldn't know who it was, they didn't worry about us walking as long as we were together we were fine. That's what the community was like. You didn't have to worry, because everybody knew everybody. We'd be either going out with Elliot or Jenny or Benny, somebody from town. We'd be fine and then we'd come home. Everybody visited and just talked. People don't visit anymore. Everybody got their mail from Lizzy, and so everyone would stop in and get the news because Lizzy knew everything that was going on in town. When we used the phone, we only had to dial four numbers. They used to be party lines so Lizzy would always listen in and get the latest gossip going on.
So when I moved here, I didn't miss a day visiting with Lizzy and everybody would kind of congregate. Maggie, had the supper club. If anybody was eating alone that night or didn't have a place to eat, you'd just go to Maggie’s and she would have a table of twelve to sixteen people from town who would come eat and that would be it. Visit. People don't do that anymore.
Back then the population was about 72 people. And then, slowly, a lot of the people that lived in town didn't have children and they died. So their houses went empty. We had eighteen empty houses on the neck there for awhile, and they slowly just got sold to people from away that come for their two weeks a year or whatever.
When I was growing up, we would come here to South Addison for summers, we'd come to our cottage down at the narrows. And when I was five - my brother was a year and a half older than I - we would get up at four in the morning, just he and I, and we would walk a mile and a half into the wharf and jump on somebody's boat and go out to haul with them for the day. Our parents wouldn't know who it was, they didn't worry about us walking as long as we were together we were fine. That's what the community was like. You didn't have to worry, because everybody knew everybody. We'd be either going out with Elliot or Jenny or Benny, somebody from town. We'd be fine and then we'd come home. Everybody visited and just talked. People don't visit anymore. Everybody got their mail from Lizzy, and so everyone would stop in and get the news because Lizzy knew everything that was going on in town. When we used the phone, we only had to dial four numbers. They used to be party lines so Lizzy would always listen in and get the latest gossip going on.
So when I moved here, I didn't miss a day visiting with Lizzy and everybody would kind of congregate. Maggie, had the supper club. If anybody was eating alone that night or didn't have a place to eat, you'd just go to Maggie’s and she would have a table of twelve to sixteen people from town who would come eat and that would be it. Visit. People don't do that anymore.
Back then the population was about 72 people. And then, slowly, a lot of the people that lived in town didn't have children and they died. So their houses went empty. We had eighteen empty houses on the neck there for awhile, and they slowly just got sold to people from away that come for their two weeks a year or whatever.
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There's just something about the wool. It's - everybody asks me, "What is it about Nash Island wool?" and I'm like, "It's magic. It's fog-washed magic."
— Jani Estell
— Jani Estell
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The island wool is so magnificent, it's this clean, lustrous, shiny beautiful wool. For hand spinning, it's like a dream.. I still love to spin my own yarn after all these years, it's why I learned to shear in the first place.
— Geri Valentine, shearer
The island wool is so magnificent, it's this clean, lustrous, shiny beautiful wool. For hand spinning, it's like a dream.. I still love to spin my own yarn after all these years, it's why I learned to shear in the first place.
— Geri Valentine, shearer
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You know, one of the main things I think about when processing a lamb is how to do it with respect. You're taking a life. And if you're going to eat meat, somebody's gotta do it. So to do it, you’ve got to keep in mind the whole respect thing. It is a pretty serious thing, taking a life like that.
— Donna Kausen
You know, one of the main things I think about when processing a lamb is how to do it with respect. You're taking a life. And if you're going to eat meat, somebody's gotta do it. So to do it, you’ve got to keep in mind the whole respect thing. It is a pretty serious thing, taking a life like that.
— Donna Kausen
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I feel like with the animals, especially with the island, that I’m connecting to past heritage. Some of that is really that deep connection to past lives and the old ways; when everybody grew up way back when, everybody farmed. Everybody on the Neck had a cow and had chickens and a pig. Every single house had one, we weren't the only house with animals. When our kids were born Eleni and I made the decision that we wanted to grow all our own food for the kids, because it's healthier knowing where it's coming from.
— Alfie Wakeman
I feel like with the animals, especially with the island, that I’m connecting to past heritage. Some of that is really that deep connection to past lives and the old ways; when everybody grew up way back when, everybody farmed. Everybody on the Neck had a cow and had chickens and a pig. Every single house had one, we weren't the only house with animals. When our kids were born Eleni and I made the decision that we wanted to grow all our own food for the kids, because it's healthier knowing where it's coming from.
— Alfie Wakeman
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Community shearing is a tradition, it's something that people knew of and their parents and grandparents were part of. Like barn raising, it was one of those things that everybody had to help and be part of to make it successful... It was social and it was welcoming. One of the cool things about the community around here is that the people talk and gossip, but they don't judge anyone on anything except how you behave. It doesn’t matter who you were or where you were from: it mattered more how hard you worked, how you tended your animals, how you treated your parents, things like that.
— Eleni Wakeman
— Eleni Wakeman
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But you know you put yourself in a situation, if you could live a very cushy life in a city, eat out and have air conditioning and heat, live at 68 degrees, is that... would you like that? I would rather climb a mountain and get really cold, get thirsty, hungry, and live and not be so... whatever, you get the idea. Just feeling the aliveness.
— Donna Kausen
But you know you put yourself in a situation, if you could live a very cushy life in a city, eat out and have air conditioning and heat, live at 68 degrees, is that... would you like that? I would rather climb a mountain and get really cold, get thirsty, hungry, and live and not be so... whatever, you get the idea. Just feeling the aliveness.
— Donna Kausen
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The thing about the island sheep is they don't require any input. If you're raising chickens and turkey and anything on the mainland, you gotta be buying grain and who knows where that's coming from. The sheep are kind of... it's like hunting deer, not a lot of outside input. We are only transporting locally, not shipping it off somewhere cross country or wherever. Which, I think is important as far as environmental concerns.
— Donna Kausen
— Donna Kausen
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When you are faced with a sheep and whirring clippers that are sharp and you have to dive that clipper down into a mass of wool, you need to know where the body is. Because you're supposed to rest your combs right on the body so you don't make a lot of second cuts which wastes wool.
It’s like a relearning process every year. It stays scary for many years.
— Geri Valentine, shearer
When you are faced with a sheep and whirring clippers that are sharp and you have to dive that clipper down into a mass of wool, you need to know where the body is. Because you're supposed to rest your combs right on the body so you don't make a lot of second cuts which wastes wool.
It’s like a relearning process every year. It stays scary for many years.
— Geri Valentine, shearer
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It’s about realizing that everything has value and everything has beauty. We are able to have this amazing connection, and you're rooting for this baby lamb. And if it dies, it is heartbreaking but there's something really beautiful in what you did and how you connected. Giving what you can.
— Eleni Wakeman
It’s about realizing that everything has value and everything has beauty. We are able to have this amazing connection, and you're rooting for this baby lamb. And if it dies, it is heartbreaking but there's something really beautiful in what you did and how you connected. Giving what you can.
— Eleni Wakeman
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