Show Love For What You Love - FSP On The Cutler Coast

In the spring of 2019 FSP set out on a small cleanup initiative to the Cutler Coast Public Lands in Maine. The FSP crew consisted of six like minded individuals. With a singular goal in mind they planned to camp along the Cutler Coastal Trail in order to maximize their time for litter removal along the remote coastline.

Shot and Edited by: Joe Radano

Music by: Sea King


Years ago while hiking Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia the seeds for this trip were planted. At the end of a glorious coastal hike the trail opened up to a large rocky river mouth that emptied into the ocean. We were taken back by the amount of ocean pollution that had washed up on this remote part of the shore. Sifting through various litter we found a large plastic garbage bag, filled it to the brim, and began the trek back. While taking turns hauling the full bag of litter 4 miles back to the trailhead we collectively brainstormed a better way to cleanup these remote areas.


This eye opening experience brought into fruition the creation of backpacks with the purpose of being able to remove litter from remote areas affected by coastal pollution. These backpacks are more of an exo-skeleton crafted with multiple straps to secure and carry a 30 gallon paper yard waste bag comfortably on your back. On this trip to Cutler Coast Public Lands the FSP tested them out with great success.


Over two nights and two days of camping, more than 15 miles of hiking we were able to collect 4 bags of litter, and properly dispose of the large haul.

Here’s a rough list of what was able to be removed:

  • 140 plastic drink bottles

  • 262 pieces of styrofoam from the size of a quarter to a full buoy

  • 215 feet of nylon rope

  • 9 large plastic bottles (oil, antifreeze, bleach)

  • 48 pieces of plastic (zip ties, bottle parts, k cups, flossers, chip bags, ziplock bags, food containers)

  • 29 lobster claw rubber bands

  • 17 pieces of metal fishing traps

  • 6 balloons

  • 2 tennis balls

  • 2 plastic buoys 

Thank you to our sponsors who made this possible, Noah, GrandyOats, and Tandem Coffee.

And there's a still a ton of litter waiting patiently to be taken away for proper disposal... Show Love For What You Love - FSP Outdoors

Photography by: Jermey Davenport and Joe Radano

Russell Pond

We hustle each behind the other in single file with bags in tow, our backs hunched against the weight, shoulders and knees aching. We follow a trail that stretches seven and a half miles from Roaring Brook to the Russell Pond site in Baxter. Winding and climbing, we march, fording streams, shoes off, pants rolled high, hopping from slippery rocks hoping a misstep won’t send us tumbling down into the icy water. 


Planks have been laid out along certain parts of the trail. They stretch out long and thin above the mud, like balance beams from logs split in half, straight down the center and our feet move, also one behind the other, arms out, wavering. 

The path is lined with wild blueberries at times. We stop to fill our hands, biting into the dark skin, sweet, simple. The air too is sweet, a natural perfume to clear the mind, to breathe, to slip inside. We fill our bottles with cold clear water that comes trickling down from Katahdin. It is clean enough to drink, the ranger told us that. We purify it anyway using a UV filter. 90 seconds and we are safe.


We are each in minds of our own as we move; sweating, breathing heavily, chests burning. We are out of shape, aging pitifully. The city has made us soft, in certain respects, hardening us in others. Out here we can confront this, challenge, initiate conflict, internally. We have the space, the air, the breathe, the sweat. And so we comb our brains as we walk, flitting from one thought to the next like the birds above, chirping, announcing our presence to the forest, to ourselves too.

We break frequently. Removing our packs, slapping at mosquitos. Like clouds they descend in spite of the spray, sinking their teeth into our soft flesh. We are soon covered in itchy welts. Time to move along. 

Occasionally we notice frogs in the underbrush. Their backs speckled black and green, always leaving, hopping away into obscurity. A flash of yellow. The sun is bright, angled at this late afternoon hour cutting through the trees. It’s late July but the light has already begun to take on the look of autumn. It won’t be long now. We’ve been hiking for hours, the forecast calls for rain. We will take our chances. 

That night we sleep hard, in periods, our bodies exhausted but senses heightened. A crash in the forest, we hold our breath, the nylon and aluminum no match for the fury of a bear or moose. We’d hung our food and trash from the bear line on the other side of camp, but now we’re afraid to look out, soothed by a sense of false security within our tents. Aware of our vulnerability, we lie still, tense, unmoving. As prey in the wild, hoping to be invisible to whatever beasts lay wait in the night. A different sort of danger; immediate, present. Resigned to defenselessness, we slowly drift off, deep slumber, bodies worn, to jolt again suddenly, a sniffing this time, a scratch, a crash.

We sleep late, waking to warm tents and morning sun. We assemble around the fire to make our respective breakfasts, instant oatmeal in a pot, pond water boiled, coffee bitter like dirt, sipped from aluminum cups. 

A droning fills the air, the sound of birds, insects like white noise. Russell pond is dark blue in the morning light, the mountain rising tall behind it, its reflection green upon the surface. We head out along a trail the ranger described to us the day before. A 6-mile loop, up to the look out and back down around the river. He is certain, robust, reliable. He knows this terrain like the backs of his knotted hands. 

We hasten up the incline, our bodies’ stiff, but quickly loosening. Crunch and rustle, dry underbrush against bare legs. Free from packs we feel light, spry. The day is warm and we sweat, sitting atop the rock slab that juts out over the valley. We look out to dense forest, a series of ponds below and up to the peak opposite us, tall, looming. A plane flies overhead, high, soft against the blue sky.


We march downward, following a trail to leads to the river. The water is cool, clear against our skin. It flows over brown boulders like glass, its surface distorted by the objects beneath. Our feet are refracted below, cut from our bodies, the light dancing off the ripples to cast shadow on the rocks, stripes swirling in time.

Large black river flies encroach upon us. We feel the sharp sting of their teeth sinking into skin, a theme. Slap, but it’s too late. The fly is gone and the pain is too but the memory remains, now accompanied by fear of future aggression.


Our skin stands on end, hair perpendicular to sun kissed flesh. Each inch is painful as we wade, balancing on tiptoes to keep out of the water as much as possible. It crawls higher with each step, our waists submerged and now our heads as we dive, breath sucked from lungs, entire bodies shuddering, resurfacing to the warmth of an afternoon sun and the cold melts away.

We climb atop rocks to sit with feet in the current, faces to the sun, eyes closed, enveloped by laughter. It feels good to live. There is no phone service, and so no other reality exists beyond the immediate in any tangible way. Memory is short and we forget things, anxieties as they slip into obscurity. Life is simple. It can be, we remember it then.

The forest then, finally begins to settle down just before dusk. It takes on a lavender green hue. A silence falls. The changing of shifts. Nocturnal creatures begin to awake, assuming their posts to relieve their diurnal counterparts. It is magical, eerie. There are mushrooms everywhere, strange and tumor-like. The white moss seems to glow, adorning the earthy ground, porus, living. Pine trees stand tall, spindly and sharp, as skeletons, the night descending, time passing. 


The fire crackles and spits. We sit around warming our bodies, faces glowing orange. We talk, laugh, preparing our dinners. Ramen, beans and rice, chili. We unwind, slowly settling down as the forest comes back to life. We are grown. Conversation lapses into silence, lost in the fire, each with our own thoughts once again. Strange men we were, each of us in our own way. How long would we keep doing these trips? Why did we do them? What had drawn us together but chance? A series of unexpected circumstances over the course of a decade or more. We wait, anxieties gradually creeping back to be reexamined; put to test in the light of the fire. We stare, entranced, hypnotized by the dance and flicker, a peculiar thing, another we cannot understand.


Text - Reggie McCafferty

Drawings - Rich Vessey

Photos - Blair Kemp

Disposable Exposure III

On November 3rd, FSP Outdoors and Maine Project hosted a photo show at Oxbow Blending and Bottling in Portland, Maine. At this event we auctioned off donated items and prints of the photos below to benefit a local organization Cultivating Community.

This year we collected these double exposures by sending a roll of film out to one photgrapher to shoot. They shot the roll on their camera, then sent it back and we passed that same roll of film on to the second photographer. The second photographer then exposed over what the first photographer had already shot. 

Check out the random beauty all these photgraphers created, and see you next year... 



Amanda Manning & Cait Bourgault

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Anne Taylor & Brian Goding

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Blair Kemp & Corey McKenna

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Joe Lacey & André Beriau

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Lydia Marquis & Conrad Carpenter 

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Good Nature from Turnover & Fan Si Pan

Fan Si Pan and Turnover have teamed up to make a limited number of handmade bags and hats to the benefit of Waterkeeper Alliance.

The environment often takes a backseat to other issues pressing for our attention and the Earth suffers because of it. We all tax the planet by living our own lives and any small payment back we can make is important. Weather it's supporting environmentally-conscious organizations around the globe, cleaning up the beach, park, or street near your house, or even discussing the importance of environmental responsibility, you can help to repair the damage being done in the name of human advancement. By spreading this message and taking time out of our lives to stop and appreciate what we were gifted we hope that we can all become better educated and behave as stewards to the planet.

All of the profit from these bags will go to support Waterkeeper Alliance, the fastest growing grassroots environmental group in the world. For further information go to

Shop Here

Waterkeeper Alliance 



Here are some moments from just a few of the beautiful places on this planet.

San Francisco, California - Danny

San Francisco, California - Danny

Japan - Danny

Japan - Danny

Mount Tom Holyoke, Massachusetts - Danny 

Mount Tom Holyoke, Massachusetts - Danny 

The Great Ocean Road, Australia - Danny

The Great Ocean Road, Australia - Danny

San Francisco, California - Danny

San Francisco, California - Danny

Big Sur, California - Danny

Big Sur, California - Danny

12 Apostles, Australia - Danny

12 Apostles, Australia - Danny

Indonesia - Danny

Indonesia - Danny

Northern California - Danny

Northern California - Danny

Grand Canyon, Arizona - Danny

Grand Canyon, Arizona - Danny

Big Sur, California - Danny

Big Sur, California - Danny

United Kingdom - Danny

United Kingdom - Danny

Bali, Indonesia - Danny

Bali, Indonesia - Danny

Tokyo, Japan - Blair

Tokyo, Japan - Blair

Tokyo, Japan - Blair

Tokyo, Japan - Blair

Georgetown, Maine - Blair

Georgetown, Maine - Blair

Disposable Exposure II

On October 2nd, Fan Si Pan and Maine Project hosted a photo show/ auction at Oxbow Blending & Bottling in Portland, Maine. The event was a fundraiser to benefit Cultivating Community. Please click the link to see more about what they do.

This year we loaded the same waterproof disposable cameras from last year with black and white film. Again we gave them to one photographer who shot the roll of film then returned the camera. The same film was then reloaded in the camera and sent to another photographer to shoot. We did this with 10 rolls of film creating double exposures by 20 photographers, 2 photographers collaborating on each roll.

We had flooded cameras stuck shutters and plenty of light leaks, but every roll had some great stuff. See you next year...


Anne Kohler & Rich Vessey

Corey Mckenna & Reid Allen

Joe Radano & Jimmy Collins

Reggie McCafferty, Jeremy Davenport & Laura Williams

Ryan Smith & Blair Kemp

Sam Shupe & Cait Bourgault


Yusuke Matsushima & Andrew Foster

Zak Quiram & Sam Mckenna

Not Supposed To Be Here Yet

            It's hard to know what's home and away when you've been wandering. I'm pretty sure my home is Maine, although I now live in Boston. In the context of the intense localism felt by native Mainers, I barely even make the cut of what it means to really be of Maine. I was born there, but my roots are shallow, not even a generation deep. My mother is from Wisconsin and my father, Colorado. Moreover, my own Maine history is skewed, geographically impartial. I grew up in Portland and made childhood memories with sand and marsh, not the granite and pine that makes up most of the state. If Maine was a record, I've only heard track one, side A, the song about waves crashing not fresh water flowing.

            As such, I've been spending a great deal of time trying to figure out if I really am a Mainer, if it makes sense to call the state home. It seems to me that knowing Maine as home is an idea deeply rooted in one's relationship to the landscape. Rural, sparsely populated, and densely packed with more trees than buildings, Mother Nature is every Mainer's landlord, boss, and spiritual advisor. Natives describe the natural landscape as if it is a relative to them, an older sister or brother that both pushes them down in the mud and holds them up to grab a good branch to climb a tree. The place and the experiences of moving through that place matter when figuring out what's home.

            So, as I add yet another year to my life as a thin-skinned Boston boy, I do what I can to move through Maine in all ways possible, looking for a self-defining way to exist in that place. Hiking trips to the northern and western corners of the state mixed with routine jumps in the ocean have become personal journeys to figure out who I am when I'm there. The trips completed, the photographs made, and the shared experiences with friends are all voiced in a language learned from the land. Maine speaks and I try to listen. Is it calling me home?

            These forays in and across the state have left me with a realization that there are two dominant types of relationships to the Maine landscape: labor and leisure. People tend to see the natural features of the state as a place of work or a place of play. Or, both, as they often overlap: dirt roads frequently have both gravel pits and trail heads and beaches often have both washed up bait bags and soft sand bars. When I drive 95 North and cross that big green bridge in Portsmouth, I tend to feel both the labor and leisure of Maine. As a result I feel both home and away when I'm there. I used to labor to build a life there. Now I just visit to play. Going home has become a job. The work is figuring out if I am indeed going home or away.   

            I had not fully understood the importance of dwelling on what filled the space between my head and the land until recently. Last May my roommate and I completed a bicycle tour that threaded parts of southern, central, and midcoast Maine. We rode a few hundred miles over five days, camping each night and carrying everything we needed on our bikes. We set out from Camden, rode to Orono, slept, rode to Acadia National Park and spent two nights with a day trip of riding in between, rode to Bucksport, slept, and finally rode back to Camden. The riding ranged from as much as eighty miles a day to as low as thirty. It was enough to test my knees and avoid feeling like car-campers. No coolers of beer and burgers, no phone chargers or acoustic guitars. We earned our sleep and plastic bottle whiskey by climbing hill after hill of cracked and crumbling asphalt. Tired muscles on even more tired ground.

            Our route meandered through a Maine found in a Google image search as well as the less Instagramed Maine of modular homes and rusting Buick frames. We saw the postcard landscapes that people from away come to see. We saw where each scene ended and began, connected by our bicycles on the landscape. Two Maines: leisure and labor.


            It was on this bike tour I realized that, at least for now, I am hopelessly caught between these two Maines. It's not quite home, I don’t work there. It's not quite away, I am still from there. I have come to believe this wandering feeling is inevitable while I live in Boston. Forever homeward bound, away from where I live. My relationship to Maine is that of leisure. Even though we rode upwards of eighty miles some days, at times through rain, it was still a vacation. A vacation with work, but a vacation all the same. That's that. I am one of them, one of them from away, at least for now.

            So, I don't really know what's homework and what's awaywork anymore. I'm caught in the riptide, sucked out to sea. I can see my home rising up from the water's horizon line but I can't quite swim to it. Until I can move back to Maine and put my labors back into that land it's going to feel like both home and away. While I'm stuck in Boston finishing graduate school, I'll make the pilgrimage when I can, shoot some photos, and exist on the land, pretending I won't have to leave for a different home.

            On the last stretch of the last day we rode back through the tourist haven of Camden. It had been five days of pine and marsh, granite and sand. Five days of multiple Maines. Climbing a small hill, knees burning, ocean to our left, cottages to our right, a man tending a garden for the coming summer tourists at a bed and breakfast looked up from his trowel at my roommate and I. Seeing our fully loaded bikes and sunburned faces he shouted, "you're not supposed to be here yet!" I wanted to shout back, to tell him that it's okay, I'm from Maine, I'm not a tourist, I know it's May, I know it's not summer yet. But faced with the reality of needing my breath for the work of climbing the hill in front of me, all I could do was pull air, not words, in and out of my lungs. I was both home and away, working to find my place.


-Sam Shupe

Text/Photo - Sam Shupe

Disposable Exposure

On September 3rd, Fan Si Pan and Maine Project hosted a photo-show/auction at Oxbow Blending and Bottling in Portland, Maine.  The event was to benefit the Surfrider Foundation Maine Chapter.

We acquired 8 waterproof disposable cameras that expired in 1999, and sent them out to friends to shoot.  When the cameras were returned, we opened them up and rewound the film, then loaded it back into the same cameras.  The disposable cameras were sent to different friends who shot the same roll of film over again, creating double exposures.

Double the exposure, double the fun...

Avery Buch (Whistler, BC) & Title Fight (Kingston, PA)

Chris Martin (Brooklyn, NY) & Calvin Cameron (ME)

Corey Mckenna (Brunswick, ME) & Ben Marcellino (Portland, ME)

Jimmy Collins (Portland, ME) & Joe Radano (Portland, ME)

John Brodie (CA) / Corey Smith (CA) & Blair Kemp (Portland, ME)

Ray Echevers (Boston, MA) & Sean Martin (Brooklyn, NY)

Reggie McCafferty (Brooklyn, NY) & Sam Shupe (Boston, MA)

Rich Vessey (Portland, ME) & Anne Köhler (Belgium) / Ryan Smith (Australia)

Tumbledown In Grey

We have hiked and camped on this mountain many times, in all seasons of the year, but it has become somewhat of an annual springtime ritual for us; making the two hour drive up from Portland, hiking a trail and camping near the peak. 

On the car ride we talked about the different passages to the top. There was the easy one most of us had done before, the steep one a few of us had done, and the long one we usually ignore. There was another way as well, overgrown and unmarked, we'd only heard accounts from others who had done this hike in the past.

The trail had been purposefully left off the maps at the trail head. Our directions were vague and none of the stories we heard were very promising.  "He tried once but had to turn around...", "She always goes down that way...", or "That's where the big rock slide happened, it's not the same anymore." 

This was the route we chose before we had even entered the car in the morning, no better way to start the summer. Halfway up the mountain we found where the now overgrown trail hid. There were some objections, they were ignored. We had the time to get lost and the time to turn around so there were no excuses worth listening to.

It was steep and the stones were loose beneath our feet. We pulled each other up through small holes in a cave wall, and raised our bags up a rock face with a long rope.

At the top the sun was still struggling to melt the ice out of the pond, and we walked through waist deep snow to find our camp site. We took off our boots and started a fire to dry them. We crept around barefoot to pitch our tents and gather more wood into the night. The fish we caught were too skinny from the long, harsh winter so we ate beans and slept like logs through the night.

Now we all had our own story to tell about the old way up Tumbledown.

All pictures shot on Kodak Tri-x pushed to 1000 and stand developed in Rodinal.

Photo - Blair Kemp

Text - Rich Vessey/Blair Kemp/Reggie McCafferty