By: Capt. Kyle Morella / May 2025 / Marsh Wear Clothing

From the salty Lowcountry shores of Charleston to the rugged, windswept coasts of Maine, our Marsh Wear Fall 2025 photo and video shoot took us on a week-long journey through some of the most inspiring landscapes and tight-knit communities in the Northeast. Battling Nor’easters, chasing lobster rolls, surfing early mornings, and connecting with local watermen and artisans, this trip wasn’t just about capturing the perfect shot—it was about living the story, embracing the grind, and discovering the heart of what makes these places—and the people who call them home—so unforgettable. Join me as I break down each day, sharing the highs, the challenges, and the unforgettable moments that defined this epic shoot.

There’s something about being completely out of your element that sharpens the senses. That quiet chaos of landing somewhere new with a packed schedule, unpredictable weather, and a crew already running on fumes and caffeine—but somehow, you’re more alive than ever. That’s exactly what this trip was. A week-long hustle through the Northeast, chasing light, stories, and the essence of fall for our Marsh Wear Fall 2025 shoot.

We weren’t just looking for backdrops—we were searching for moments. From the coast of Portland to the edge of Quebec at Kennebago Lake, and back out toward New Haven, Maine, every stop felt like stepping into someone else’s rhythm of life. And what we found wasn’t just landscapes—it was people. Tight-knit communities who still homestead, who fish, who build and grow and survive in a way that feels like a different time. But it’s happening now, just a few states away. And it hit us hard.

Each day started before the sun, the kind of early where the clock feels like a rumor. Coffee barely hits before you’re already loading gear, mapping routes, dodging storms, juggling shoots, and trying to capture a hundred stories before the light disappears. It wasn’t romantic—it was real. Schedules were tight, the weather was brutal, and we were cold, wet, and always on the clock. But there was something about the urgency that made it all click. We couldn’t afford to be five minutes late. So we weren’t!

This is the story of those 6-7 days—of early alarms and late nights, of lobster rolls and local legends, of wind-whipped coastlines and Dunkin Donuts lol. It’s about grinding through a nor’easter and still finding beauty in the chaos. And most of all, it’s about the people—those who let us in, showed us their corners of the world, and reminded us the whole point of it all.

Early cold and wet arrival into Portland, Maine

Day 1: Nor’easter Welcome Committee

The alarm went off at 3:00 a.m., but it felt like it never really stopped ringing from the night before. That pre-dawn haze, the kind where you’re not even sure if you’re awake or still dreaming about missing your flight. We dragged ourselves to Charleston International, barely upright, half-laughing at how brutal this early call time felt. It’s a strange feeling—exhausted but buzzing with adrenaline. You know the trip ahead is going to test you, and somehow that’s the best part.

A couple of flights later, we touched down in Portland, Maine—and the state welcomed us like a brick wall. A Nor’easter was rolling in, and not a mild one either. Cold, sharp wind. Sheets of sideways rain. Temperatures that felt like January. Of course, we had a packed schedule full of outdoor shoots. Classic.

But there’s no plan B on these kinds of trips. Just plan A and the decision to make it work, no matter what. So we grabbed the rental, headed over to retrieve boxes of Marsh Wear gear we’d shipped up ahead of time, and got to work. We turned the living room of our Airbnb into a temporary HQ: racks of flannels, jackets, hoodies…all the fall layers stacked wall to wall. Steamers hissing, building clothing racks, luggage getting rearranged—it was chaos, but it was productive chaos.

Now, somewhere between sorting clothes and checking shoot locations, Kaitlyn casually dropped that she’d scored us lunch reservations at Eventide Oyster Co., thanks to a friend’s recommendation. It felt like the right call to kick off the trip—go straight to the source and try the lobster rolls that folks rave about.

We didn’t know what to expect, but when they brought them out, the first thing we all noticed was… the size. Not gonna lie, they were small. Like, slider small. We all kind of looked at each other like, “Wait… this is it?” But before we could get too dramatic, the first bite hit. And yeah—they were absolutely delicious. Rich, buttery, tucked into these pillowy steamed buns. Definitely worth the hype. The portion left us wanting more, but it also kickstarted what would become a full-blown Lobster Roll Tour over the next week. (There will be a dedicated section on that later.)

With full stomachs and freezing hands, we pushed on to Boothbay Harbor for our evening scout and shoot.

Eventide Oyster Co. lobster roll / Out of service lobster truck

If you haven’t been to Boothbay before, picture this—a working coastal town with that real-deal New England grit. It’s not polished or trying to be anything it’s not. It’s weathered shingle homes, narrow winding streets, and lobster boats lining the harbor, bobbing in that steely grey Atlantic chop. It was 45 degrees and cloudy, wind ripping in from the water, but the place still had this undeniable charm. You could feel the history in the salt-stained siding and faded signage. Like time slows down here, but it’s not sleepy—it’s just seasoned.

It wasn’t ideal conditions— hands stiff from the cold, lips already starting to chap, everyone layered like we were about to hike Everest—but we managed to squeeze out a solid shoot. The kind where you earn every frame. There’s something about seeing a place like Boothbay under a heavy sky that feels honest. It’s not tourist-season pretty, but it’s real. And real always plays better.

We wrapped the day with the light hearted bitching and moaning about the weather along with a running tally of how many layers we could pile on before losing mobility haha. Back at the house, we barely made it through dinner before crashing out—sleeping like rocks, knowing Day 2 was about to be just as relentless.

But we were in it now. And that Nor’easter? It was just getting started.

The Bridgehouse built in 1894 had served as the town’s general store, coffee shop, post office, dance hall, movie theatre and bowling alley

Day 2: Weather Wins, Lobster Rolls & the Soul of Surf and Salt

We woke up to the same soundtrack that had put us to bed—wind howling, rain hammering the windows, and a cold that didn’t let up for even a second. It was one of those mornings where you stare at the ceiling for a beat and ask yourself, “Are we really doing this?” Spoiler: Yeah. We were.

The plan for the day was to head down the coast to Kennebunkport, another storied harbor town, but one with a bit more polish than Boothbay. We’d heard it described as Cape Cod’s quieter cousin—classic New England charm with less crowd and more character. Old sea captain’s homes lined the roads, some turned into inns or tucked-away restaurants. There’s this incredible balance in the town—history and working grit, but still inviting. Like if a maritime museum had a cozy little tavern built into it.

Despite the weather, we spent the morning and early afternoon wandering through back streets, shooting against the salt-worn shingles and rust-red boats bobbing in the slips. Wind? Relentless. Rain? Nonstop. Cameras? Covered in plastic bags and still somehow damp. But the shots we were pulling—fall layers against that kind of backdrop—felt raw and real.

And then… The Clam Shack.

The Clam Shack – Kennebunk, ME photo: Clam Shack

If you know, you know. The Clam Shack in Kennebunkport is pretty much lobster roll royalty. This tiny, no-frills spot perched right on the bridge between sides of town with a walk-up window, and usually a line—rain or shine. We’d heard their roll was a must-try. Fresh lobster. You can watch them pulling the meat behind the counter. No filler. On a soft round bun (none of that split-top hot dog stuff), with just the right balance of butter and mayo. Now my quarrel with mayo shouldn’t deter you but I went without.

We each grabbed one, sat at the barstool top inside this cool little lobster shop, and dug in. Game changer. Cold, rich, clean flavor. But we’ll save the rankings for later.

The Clam Shack Lobster Roll photo: Clam Shack

After a solid lunch, we packed up and made a quick shift in plans. Some local surf bros had dropped a pin at Higgins Beach, saying the Nor’easter swell was hitting just right and we had to come check it out. So we did what any curious, half-crazy crew would do—rallied back to the cars and hit the road toward the coast.

We rolled up to Higgins, wind still beating everything sideways. The beach had this muted, stormy beauty—waves peeling, cold spray kicking up, fog on the trees in the background creating that PNW vibe and of course, quite a few wetsuited maniacs out there actually getting it done. We didn’t have boards or wetsuits yet  but we had cameras, and that was enough. We filmed, we shot, we froze, and we felt that itch—the one that makes you want to drop everything, grab a board, and get in there no matter how cold it is.

Hunger hit hard not long after, so we regrouped and headed to Pedro’s, a local Mexican spot that hit exactly the way we needed. Tacos, empanadas, cold beers, and warmth. But the real highlight? We linked up with Captain Kyle Schaefer—guide, waterman, and just a truly good human.

Kyle’s the kind of guy whose presence makes you feel grounded. He’s the co-founder of Soul Fly Lodge in the Bahamas and runs Soul Fly Outfitters out of Maine, guiding for stripers in the warm months. But more than his resume, it’s his heart that sticks with you. He’s all in on building community, protecting wild spaces, and using fishing as a platform for conservation and connection. Our kind of guy.

We sat over tacos and margaritas and talked story—everything from sustainable fisheries to the culture of fly fishing to building something meaningful in a world that too often values fast over deep. Kyle is also deeply involved in the American Saltwater Guides Association (ASGA) being the one of many spokesperson—a group fighting to make sure anglers have a voice in the decisions that affect our fisheries. They’re pushing science-based policy, habitat protection, and access for future generations. They’re in the fight for the right reasons. It’s important work, and it’s making a difference. ( if you want to join ASGA or read more click here )

That dinner might’ve been the turning point of the trip—not logistically, but mentally. When you’re this tired, this cold, this deep in a grind, meeting people like Kyle reminds you what you’re really doing out here. It’s not just content. It’s not just clothes. It’s culture. It’s a community. It’s a connection.We made it back to the Airbnb later than planned, still cold, a little buzzed from good food and better conversation. We all kind of collapsed into bed knowing Day 3 was going to be a haul—a long drive north, deeper into the woods, toward the edge of Quebec. But something about it felt lighter. Like we were starting to see the soul of this place.

Day 3: Into the Wild—Kennebago or Bust

Day 3 started before sunrise—again. Another early wake-up, another round of dragging bags, gear, and half-zipped jackets out into the cold. But this one felt different. We had a long haul ahead of us, headed way up into the woods toward Kennebago Lake, practically on the edge of Quebec. The kind of place that doesn’t just feel far from everything—it is.

The roads started out paved and straight, passing through the outer edges of towns we’d barely heard of, and then slowly twisted into something wilder. Cell service got spotty. Gas stations got fewer. Trees took over the horizon. And somewhere in that transition, the trip shifted too.

There’s a rhythm that happens when you spend hours in a car with your crew. The quiet moments, the downright hysterical laughter, the snack runs, the shared playlists, the “im about to pee myself”. You stop trying to control every part of the day and just lean into it. The weather hadn’t let up much—it was still cold, wet, and gray—but instead of fighting it, we started using it. Scouting moody fall scenes on back roads, layering up in the full getup, capturing that perfectly weathered Northeast atmosphere.

We made a few unplanned stops along the way—little general stores, random overlooks, places that caught our eye. One spot, Coffee Roasters of the Kennebunks had homemade muffins, the kind that taste like someone’s grandma still wakes up at 4 a.m. to make them. A sporting goods shop that looked like it hadn’t changed since the ’80s. We poked around, talked to locals, and let the day unfold. Those kinds of detours don’t make the schedule, but they make the trip.

Pit stop at Coffee Roasters Kennebunk / Enjoying local sporting goods store Kennebago

By the time we reached Grants Camp at Kennebago Lake, the world had gone completely quiet. No traffic. No buildings. No service. Just the lake, wrapped in mist, surrounded by forest that stretched out in every direction and rows of log cabins built into the landscape. The kind of scene that looks untouched because—truthfully—it mostly is.

We pulled into our cabins for the night, somewhere between rustic and just plain old-school. But it was perfect. We dropped bags, grabbed cameras, and headed out for a scout, even though the sun hadn’t been visible in three days. It didn’t matter. The fog was thick, the air was wet, and it created this ethereal, cinematic vibe that made every frame feel like it belonged in a Wes Anderson film. The shoot that evening was quiet but heavy. We moved slowly, deliberately. No rush. No crowds. Just us and this place that felt like it didn’t need us, but didn’t mind us being there either.

Later on, we headed over to the dining hall beside our cabin where the Grants Camp crew was on top of their game with two specials for the night—Salmon with a wild rice and a nice potato soup to start or a bacon spinach stuffed pork with a salad. Not to mention the banana pie with fresh coffee we had for dessert. We sat around a scratched wooden table, sharing stories, finally dry, finally full, finally still. It was one of those rare moments in a trip like this where no one was on their phone, no one was rushing to edit or charge a battery. Just good people, good work behind us, and a quiet night ahead.

The grind didn’t stop, but the pressure shifted. We’d made it out of the storm—literally and mentally—and what was waiting for us in the north wasn’t just a new landscape. It was a new pace. A new energy. The kind of place that strips the noise out of your head and replaces it with stillness. Which, as it turns out, is exactly what we needed.

Grants Camp Kennebago, ME

Day 4: Canoes, Float Planes & One Man’s Driftwood Dreams

If the day before felt slow and grounding, Day 4 came at us like a shot of cold river water straight to the face.
5:00 a.m. wake-up call. No alarms needed anymore—our bodies had pretty much adjusted to the rhythm of being up with the sun( yes, Maine sunrises are at 5:05 a.m.) Still, that cold hit hard. You open the door from the cabin and immediately feel the kind of chill that makes you second-guess every decision that led you here and wondering how the hell is it so cold in the middle of May. But then the smell of hot coffee hits, and all is forgiven.

While most of the other guests at Grants Camp were still dead asleep, we were on the dock, gearing up. A line of old-school 6-horsepower Johnson 2-stroke motors sat growling on the back of canoes that looked more fit for stories than for speed. That’s how the morning started—drifting out into the fog-covered lake chasing brook trout, armed with fly rods, camera gear, and a quiet respect for the silence of that early hour.

Early mornings Kennebago, ME

The fish were there. The lake was generous. No crowding, no competition. Just enough space for everyone to have a piece of the morning. And that’s how it felt out there—like time actually slowed down enough for you to appreciate where you were standing.

After the morning session, we made our way back to camp to greet our pilots for the afternoon. We had one last thing on our wishlist before heading down the mountain: a float plane tour over the lake and surrounding ridges. The pilots rolled in around noon, right on cue, and it was all systems go.

Seeing the area from above flipped everything we thought we knew about the place. The vastness. The untouched stretches of forest. The spiderwebs of water bodies feeding into each other. It’s the kind of landscape that humbles you instantly. We shot aerials, yelled over headsets, and tried to burn it all into memory—the colors, the scale, the silence that somehow still existed up there in the drone of the engine.

Back on solid ground, the Grants crew handed us our lunches in our bags—no frills, just fuel. We settled up, packed the vans, and said our goodbyes to the woods. Next stop? A visit with someone whose work felt just as deep and raw as the place we were leaving behind.

Old school wildlife posted board / Grant’s Camp fishing canoes

Michael Fleming — The Artist in the Woods

An hour or so back down the mountain and into conservation land that feels barely inhabited, we found ourselves pulling up to Michael Fleming’s home and workshop, tucked deep into a pocket of preserved wilderness. You’d be forgiven for thinking it was the setting of a novel. The air was different here—quiet, soft, purposeful.

Michael is the real deal. He runs his own art business, Designs Adrift, where he transforms driftwood, reclaimed timber, and found natural elements into incredibly intricate installations and bespoke décor pieces. We’re talking gallery-quality craftsmanship, but made from the bones of the Earth—pieces that tell stories without needing to explain themselves.

But it’s not just the art that hits. It’s Michael himself.

Michael Fleming Designs Adrift

He’s the kind of person who looks you in the eye when he talks, and when he tells stories, you feel them. He’s lived a life that most people dream about and still somehow undersell—traveling the world, working with top-tier brands and collectors, and carving meaning into every piece he creates. There’s a gentleness to him, but also this magnetic fire—like he’s constantly working through a thousand ideas in his head and only showing you the tip of the iceberg.

He welcomed us into his world—tools everywhere, old wood stacked in corners, natural light pouring through windows—and let us roam. We shot, we listened, we marveled. It was one of those rare moments in a content trip where “the shot” was in everything he did and started thinking about how lucky you are just to be here, hearing this, seeing this, feeling this.

Eventually, the road started calling again. We had one more mission before the day was done—and it involved some bugs.

Michael Flemings wood working shop

Bite Into Maine: The Contender

Back in Portland, road-weary and crusted with trail dust, we rallied for a stop we’d been hyped about the whole way down the mountain: Bite Into Maine.

This place had been talked up by friends for years—legendary status stuff. We pulled up starving, tired, and maybe just a little overly excited. But it delivered. Their lobster roll was something else—loaded, balanced, and just kissed with the right seasoning. It had that buttery soft bun, but held together perfectly. Fresh meat, chilled just right, and enough heft to make it feel like a real meal. One of us may or may not have whispered, “Is this the one?” after the first bite.

Let’s just say the lobster roll review section is coming, and this place might’ve just flipped the rankings.

After that, we were toast. Straight up. Done. We checked back into town, hit showers like we hadn’t seen hot running water in days (because, let’s be honest, we kinda hadn’t), and collapsed. The woods had taken a toll, but it was the good kind of tired—the earned kind. Tomorrow promised blue skies and warmer temps, and we had a feeling Day 5 would be less about survival and more about soaking it in.

Bite into Maine lobster roll

Day 5 – Surf, Gas, Stripes, and Fire

The morning kicked off at Reid State Park by Mile Beach Break, boards in hand. The swell wasn’t huge, but it was clean enough to get a few good rides in before the day took a much dustier turn. Salt still in our hair, we swapped wetsuits for riding gear, thinking we were about to meet up with a few moto guys and tear around the park.

That plan fizzled quickly — no dirtbikes allowed here — so we trusted their lead and followed them all the way to Poland, Maine, to ride a locally built track at one of their friends’ properties. An afternoon of two-stroke gas and dirt roost later, it was time to swap helmets for fly rods.

Before linking up with our dinner plans, we made a quick pit stop in Portland to meet up with Ben Whalley (@BenWhalleyFishing) for a fly-fishing striper mission. The weather had been a curveball all week, constantly pushing our fishing plans back. With just a short window before sunset, we were determined to put a striper in the net on the fly before heading to dinner. Ben’s an incredible fly tyer and guide, a true waterman who fights the good fight every day. If you’re ever in the area, get on his calendar early — he books fast.

Surfing Reid State Park

With rods broken down and salt still on our hands, we headed back to Reid State Park to meet with Max Ablicki, an incredible chef whose life revolves around the true art of gathering, gardening, and seeking adventure. Max’s appreciation for food and the outdoors is rare — the kind you can feel the moment you meet him.

The day had transformed before our eyes. Just yesterday it looked and felt like late winter; now the air was warm, the sky clear, and the greenery electric with life. We watched the stillness of the park set in as Max worked over an open flame, crafting an unforgettable chowder, served with fresh farmed asparagus and followed by a custard dessert that was to die for.

With tired eyes and bellies full from what could only be described as a five-star meal, we made our way back to the Airbnb. It was the earliest night of the week — a welcome pause — to rest up and prepare for our final adventure. In the morning, we’d be catching the ferry to a cool, quiet coastal lobster town: North Haven Island. A fun day was in store, and we could feel the anticipation building.

Enjoying a five star outdoor dinning experience with Max Ablicki

Day 6: Ferry Ride, Sheep, and Salty Stories on North Haven Island

9:15 a.m. — The ferry speakers crackled to life, signaling it was time to board. We were ready to make the most of the stunning day ahead as we set off on the short but sweet ferry trip over to North Haven Island, a place where community and homestead spirit run deep and weather any storm.

Our first stop was to meet Captain Oakley Jackson of Osprey Adventures North Haven, whose family-run operation perfectly blends sustainable farm life with adventure tourism. Oakley and his crew offer island tours that highlight the natural beauty and culture of the island—all done with that hands-on, no-nonsense Maine grit.

Ferry Ride to North Haven

We got a chance to visit his family’s sheep farm, and man, it was something else. The landscape there is hard to explain—the kind of vast, flowing space that catches you off guard. Sharp ridged mountains in the distance frame soft rolls of trees and grasslands, creating a scene both rugged and peaceful. Watching the farm run by the family, you could see the heart behind it all: hard work, tradition, and a deep connection to the land.

Later, we met up with one of Oakley’s old salty friends who runs an oyster farm on the island. Stepping onto that operation felt like getting tossed back in time. After a day spent exploring the rural corners of Maine—and doing everything possible to avoid ticks—we finally capped things off with a private lobster boat ride back to the mainland. By then, we were worn out, but ready for one last Maine ritual: good food and some ice cream to seal the day.

Oakley Jackson family sheep farm / Ride back to the mainland

Day 7: The Long Road Home & Final Reflections

Day 7 came quick and merciless — a 3 a.m. wake-up call that felt like it stole the night right out from under us. The exhaustion was real as we packed up gear, shuffled through airport security, and navigated the blur of travel with barely any sleep to lean on. It’s the kind of day that tests your patience and willpower, but also reminds you how lucky you are to have been part of something bigger than just a trip. The Maine-to-Charleston route made the journey home manageable, and by the time we touched down, the sun was already high enough to promise a familiar warmth. We rolled into home sweet home just in time for lunch, worn down but deeply satisfied.

That final morning marked not only the end of a long week on the road but also the closing chapter of what was the Fall 2025 Marsh Wear photo and video shoot—a massive undertaking packed into just seven days. This wasn’t simply about capturing images or ticking off locations; it was a full-throttle commitment to storytelling, community, and adventure. From 5 a.m. wake-ups to last-minute wardrobe hangs, from freezing coastal winds to warm fireside meals from chasing lobster rolls to chasing the perfect light on a rugged mountain ridge—every moment demanded everything we had. It was relentless, exhausting, and sometimes downright brutal, but that’s the heart of what we do.

Reid State Park Sunset

Behind every shot, every frame, every candid smile or raw moment, there was a crew grinding to make it happen. The hours in cars, the packing and repacking, the constant adjustments to weather and timing—it’s a testament to what it takes to bring a vision to life. And beyond the logistics and hard work, this trip was a reminder of why we chase these stories in the first place: the people who open their homes and hearts, the landscapes that take your breath away, and the shared moments that turn into memories.

From Charleston’s coastal roots to Maine’s remote wilderness, this shoot threaded together places and faces that embody the Marsh Wear spirit—resilience, authenticity, and an unshakable connection to the outdoors. It’s a story of places that feel like home, no matter how far you travel. And after a week of pushing limits, braving storms, and celebrating quiet victories, we came away with more than just photos and footage. We came away with a deepened sense of purpose and gratitude for the people and places that make this all worth it.

So as we close this chapter and look ahead to what’s next, the takeaway is clear: great things don’t come easy or slow. They come from grit, passion, and the kind of commitment that burns bright even when you’re running on fumes. That’s the real story behind the Fall 2025 Marsh Wear shoot—and it’s just the beginning.

Thanks for reading!

Capt. Kyle Morella