MAINE DESTINATION--

Sunrise Over the North Atlantic

MAINLY MAINE

I have to tell you that I have never been as damp as much as I was dry while camping in Maine. In Maine during the month of June one may expect it to either rain or be foggy at least part of the time, and when it is, the moisture pervades everything. In this way the Atlantic Northeast and the Pacific Northwest are cast from the same mold; it has been suggested that mildew would be a better adjective, but that would not be fair to either region. The beauty of the lush hills (called mountains in the east), and the verdant mountains (rightfully called) in the west, is due to copious rainfall, and Mainers know how to live with it and, better yet, camp in it.

Not being from this coastal region I must say that the seamless sheet of rain that fell on our way to and through Maine was a little daunting, and had it not been for an hour’s respite of “rainlessness,” our camping experience would have started off disparagingly wet.

Once our camp was up and running I sat under our shelter and looked around, content with our little house (without walls) in the big woods. The tarpon we brought as a back-up was pitched over our tent then clipped to our seam-dripping, nylon gazebo. The gazebo stood on extendable metal legs and required guywires stretched to every tree within reach. At night, should you need to venture beyond the gazebo’s confines, it was as if you were running a gauntlet of garrotes.

As the rains began to pummel our camp again, I turned to my wife and said, “How would you like to be on the Appalachian Trail right now?” This became my standard question when the weather became nasty, and being outdoors was not a picture postcard event. Nevertheless, tent camping on Mount Desert (pronounced Dessert) Island, within the sprawling boarder of Acadia National Park, was delightful.

THE RAINS CAME AND THE RAINS SKEDDADLED

Providentially, we had chanced upon the best week to camp because the rain only lasted a day and a night. The next morning the clouds thinned and what followed were four beautiful, sunny, pseudo-Southern California skies—in Maine.

The subsequent mornings after the storm were so quiet that you could hear the faint clang of a buoy bell several miles away, as well as the forlorn, single-note wail of a fog horn.

THROUGH PENNSYLVANIA AND NEW ENGLAND TO MAINE

We intentionally took to the back roads so that we would avoid New Jersey’s eye-burning choke known as the “industrial corridor,” and in its stead we drove through Pennsylvania’s Amish County. We then drove along New York’s stately Susquehanna River to Albany, and northward.

It was a lazy drive filled with visual adventures of pastoral lands, unique architecture, and fat men with open shirts mowing their lawns.

THE LAWN MOWER

One mower in particular caught my attention, and of course I am writing this not because of the ease which he executed this task, but the measure of his travail.

Picture a lean, tan young man without a shirt, glazed in sweat, pushing a lawn mower along the angled front of a lawn that dropped to the sidewalk. His back is stretched forward, he is leaning awkwardly toward the mower. His right arm is locked at the elbow, and his hand is gripping the bar tightly. Meanwhile, his left arm is bent, and his strained left hand serves to propel the mower onward. His attention, much like his elbow, is locked to his immediate right, for there, a few feet away and keeping a persistent pace, was a large, very angry dog barking and snapping him.

Unfortunately, we drove on and I am unable to report how he fared.

HAIGHT IS LOVE

This reminds me of another brief encounter that occurred in the summer of 1967, the “Summer of Love.” Bear with me; I am having a flash-back.

I was a passenger in a car touring San Francisco’s Haight Asbury district. We were there to see the Hippies. It was a carnival environment with Flower Children sauntering about in ill-fitting clothes, and psychedelic symbols painted on their faces. One apparent advocate of Timothy Leary’s “Tune-in, Turn-on, and Drop-out” doctrine was weaving in between cars and snapping pictures of tourists with an invented camera in hand.

Moments later we rolled up to an intersection, and waited for the red light to change. Meanwhile, I peered out the window at a young woman wearing an ankle length dress, sandaled feet, a billowy blouse with a drape of beads around her neck, and her long straight hair held in place by a floral wreath. Her face was painted with stars and circles, and as I sat there gawking, a young black man approached her and pointing to her face, said, “Hey, man. What’s that mean?”

The light changed, and we drove away.

THROUGH L.L. BEANVILLE and ANTIQUESBORO

We drove an extreme northern route up through the Adirondacks, and then over to Vermont where we ended up a stones throw from the Canadian Border. From there we dropped down the island corridor of Lake Champlain and then over to New Hampshire and the White Mountains, which were verdant this time of the year. From there we headed due east and turned off on coastal Route 1, passing the home base for L.L. Bean in Freeport, Maine.

My impression of the business district along Route 1 is that a nimble squirrel, driven by conquest, could hop from antique store to antique store, and never once touch ground. And if a gap should present itself, this adventuresome rodent could then detour over the rooftops of Dunkin’ Donuts, and Subway sandwich shops to reach its destination.

EARLIER TIMES

Dates of towns along the way, and their incorporation are worthy of note: 1789, 1736, 1773, and 1769, to number just a few. In 1769, and on our continents west coast, the Spanish were laying down the first adobe bricks for what would become Mission San Diego De Alcala, the first of many missions to “Christianize” the nearly naked, lost souls of Alta California. Who, by the way, were quite content to believe as they did until they were told that enslavement to these new precepts would set them free. Not in this life of course, but in the one hereafter.

SOMETHINGS ARE SLOW TO CHANGE

At one point along our way we passed a most curious bridge. Aesthetically I would classify it under the category of Yankee practicality, and its value as a relic outweighed its antiquated inconvenience. This bridge is comprised of two separate roadbeds; one atop of the other. The upper half was reserved for locomotives (single tracks), and the bottom was for automobiles (single lane as well). As we passed by, two SUV’s were lined up on the bridge waiting to pull out into traffic, while a Jeep, stopped at the bridge’s tight, and fluted entryway, was pulled over as far to the rail as was possible, waiting to drive across in the opposite direction.

WHEN THE GULLS COME HOME TO ROOST

The older homes along Maine’s coast that lacked sufficient attic insulation, serve as a heating pad for cold footed gulls. The homes that offered flat roofs were loaded with them, whereas homes with high peaked roofs only had them along the ridge (a web footed feat indeed). At first glance I thought these gulls were a commercial gimmick, sort of a New England version of wire legged, plastic, pink flamingos. I reasoned that someone had nailed down these decoys as a tourist gag, until several of them moved. I was astonished.

Bird gives the photographer the "stink-eye."

IT WAS A LOBSTAH and CLAM CHOWDAH AFFAIR

Is there anyone that does not know what Maine is famous for? That is aside from its craggy coastline, friendly townsfolk, and beautiful vistas out to sea? Well if you do not know, it is lobster. And I felt duty bound to involve myself in the consumption of as many of these freshly caught, live boiled, screaming good crustaceans as possible during my trip.

My first taste of Maine lobster (or perhaps commercially caught lobster from Canada) was a heaping helping of pulled lobster stuffed in a long roll. As far as I could tell it was mixed with mayonnaise, and if there was any extra seasoning on it, it eluded my detection. It was sort of bland, but tasty, served on a bun, and is considered a local delicacy.

My second adventure was at a lobster pound (generally a retailer for lobster caught by the purveyor). It was a roadside establishment just down from the town of Bar Harbor that offered the diner an outside, straightforward, no frill affair. http://www.trentonbridgelobster.com/

LOBSTER TAXI

Early in the morning there were a number of (what I called), Lobster Taxis. They provide a much need service for Maine's offshore, underwater population. These taxis would pause at each buoy, check the pot or trap for waiting crustaceans, and then--free of charge--take them to the spa for a relaxing day in a hot tub.

Lobster Spa Waiting Room

His number was up (notice that his right claw was double banded. He was a big boy).

Hot tubs awaiting patrons

Service at this lobster pound was first rate. Lobsters are escorted to their baths and eased in.

Minutes later they are taken out of their bathes, and are readied for the next phase of their spa experience...

Dinner

Once the bulk of their meat is consumed, you pull open their back shell, and suck out this nasty looking glop that resembles cheese curd green with age. This treat is called the "tomalley," and has a neutral taste. It is neither good or bad nor tasty.

The best part of the lobster spa experience.

We also had CHUNKY clam chowd'ah too.

FOLLOWING NIGHT

This little lobster was the following night's dinner and it is called a "chick" lobster. They weigh in at a pound to a pound and a half, and are a full meal.

BAR HARBOR, MAINE

Bar Harbor is your touristy, T-shirt town that wakes up for a few months in the summer, and is then given back to the townspeople come fall. It is quaint, clean and comfortable, and a place one can buy a great cigar.

CAMPING AT LOOP A

We camped in the area designated as Loop A in the Blackwoods Campground of Acadia National Park. It was a clean, wooded stand of mixed woods, and handily located restrooms—no showers or hot water. Showers are available outside the Park on the road back to Bar Harbor.

As we entered our camping loop I remarked, “Boy, am I glad we didn’t have to camp over there. Those people in that area are acting awfully Loop B.”

A HEARTY LOT THESE MAINERS

I noticed right off that Mainers are a people that are hell bent on enjoying the out-of-doors no matter the weather. Tarpons are the key to a successful vacation along Maine’s resilient coast, and not just a tarpon that covers one’s cooking area, but an enormous tarpon that is pitched over the entire theater of operation; that is to say, the camp’s kitchen, sleeping quarters, sitting area and vehicle if possible. These tarps can shelter an entire family and are the size of a small country. I would not be surprised if they do not have representation at the UN.

EARLY EUROPEANS

In 17th Century from the Mid-Atlantic northward was claimed by English and French explorers. One of France’s early voyagers was Samuel Champlain, and in 1604 he sailed through these waters naming this most dominant island “Isle des Monts Desert,” due to its uniform, treeless appearance from out at sea.

BEACH SAND

Having been raised in San Diego, California, I know something about beach sand and along the coast of this island there appears to be a shortage of it. One of the coves I explored had a beach base of rocks no smaller than a hen’s egg; so when a beach with real, granulated sand establishes itself, it is a big deal. Welcome to Sand Beach.

SUNBATHERS ON SAND BEACH

Mainers are an even heartier lot when it comes to having a good time at the beach. Most of the sunbathers I saw were propped up in beach chairs, and layered in jackets, and jeans, shoes or boots in place. A few teenagers and those who should have known better braved the 50 degree water in bikinis and swim trunks; that is until the first breaker got their knees wet. Hunched backs, rounded shoulders and folded arms were a good indicator of how cold the water was.

HEARTY MAINERS LOUNGING AT THE BEACH

Beach sand in Maine is noted for its large granular structure

Another sunbather in appropriate attire

GETTING SOFT

To me, a working/vacation is a trek deep into the desert or woods with a bone bending backpack strapped to my spine, but as my senior years approach, this form of outdoor pleasure is getting less and less attractive. I have reached the age where a firm bed, an over-stuffed pillow, a hot shower, and a flush toilet sounds far better than smoke from a campfire, mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, and the vulgar bouquet of a pit toilet.

I once scoffed at large, fully loaded motor homes, and cab-over campers with their awnings strung with Christmas lights. But now the mosquito net enclosures with the plastic turf, and lawn chairs look real good. I have to admit that I have mellowed over the decades; some might rightfully call my current physical and mental state as being squishy. So, when my wife suggested that we go car camping in Maine, I was slightly hesitant, but willing to endure for the sake of another adventure. It was Maine, for crying out loud, the end of the world as we know it.

RELAX AND SIT A SPELL

I love the modern conveniences of our time, but when I go out into the wilderness the only remote I want in my hand is at hand. Car camping does not necessarily get you out there, but it does get you out—outdoors, outside, out-of-the-house! Toward the end of our week I was so lax in mind that I had to double-check anything technical I did.

For instance, twice I put tube medication on my toothbrush, and once I grabbed my razor to load it with toothpaste.

MORNING WAVES

Before breakfast and even before sunrise, I would take a long walk to a rocky cove and watch the small Atlantic waves roll in from beyond. The cobblestones that made up the base for the beach, was not a very stable base upon which to walk, so when I found a suitable area to nest, I simply sat down with a plop.

Without any distractions I focused on the waves breaching the face of a large rock a few feet in front of me. Time and time again the water would swell up, crest for a moment, and slap exhausted at my feet. After which the retreating water made a trundling sound that reminded me of plastic poker chips being poured into a bag.

THUNDER HOLE

On our drive around the island we passed a sign that read “Thunder Hole.” My first impression was that said hole was a delicate announcement that banks of outhouses were available for our convenience.

The hole was in actuality a cave at the end of a long, narrow channel that lured in rolling swells and with amazing force bashed against the cave’s wall with astonishing gusto. It was good entertainment, and as spellbinding as a suspense novel. However, I have to say that although the stupendous clap of water was entrancing, I found watching stupid people doing stupid things far more captivating.

To get a better photograph some fellow in flip-flops crossed over the rail for a different perspective of the action. “Will this be the big swell that washes him off the rock?” I wondered repeatedly. At one point I felt that I should yell, “HEY STUPID! (He was standing on a large mat of slippery seaweed) GET A LITTLE CLOSER TO THE EDGE, I’M CAMERA READY!”

Not only did this man show an absolute disregard for his own safety, but he also invited his pre-teen kids to join him. I debated on whether he could be rescued without endangering one’s life, and concluded he could not, had he been washed into the drink. On the opposite side of the channel was a woman standing near the edge as well. She left moments before a large swell swept over the rock shelf she was standing on. That was enough excitement for me, and I walked away fearing the worse was yet to come.

Thunder Hole (water goes in--boom--water goes out)

CADILLAC MOUNTAIN

At more than 1,500 feet above sea level Cadillac Mountain is the highest feature on the island, and the eastern seaboard for that matter. It is also the first place in the United States in which first sun can be seen in early fall to early spring. The vast view from on top was a rare treat I was told, “Usually,” said a repeat visitor, “at this time of the years it is socked in with fog.” The view from on top would have been endless had it not been for the horizon.

Bar Harbor's harbor

RUBBER ON THE ROAD

Living on an island has its drawbacks, and when you are young and full of piss and vinegar, one activity that seems to be popular is to leave great ribbons of twisted rubber burnt on the roadway. “Who’s paying for their tires,” I wondered?

CHURCHES

It is on the back roads of small towns where you find the most interesting glimpse into rural life. When we travel we prefer to stay off of the interstates and take the local roads, sometimes this is not always the best idea (see my blog entry about West Virginia), but in Maine it worked out fine.

Methodists seem to have the market cornered on religious preference in Maine’s hinterland, but you do find Catholics, Presbyterians, Lutherans, and the Friends of Jesus Christ church, which is a congregation of believers that hold to the claim they are a “People of God who preach heart holiness and salvation from sin to prepare one for the Great Tribulation and the coming of the Lord.” O-kay.

AND ON THE FOURTH DAY THE HEAVENS DID OPEN AND THE RAINS CAME AGAIN

When the local forecast calls for intermittent rain showers that means something totally different from what I believed it meant. A local couple two spaces down from us told me that they were going to leave on Saturday, but when they packed up on Friday and left, I felt a little uneasy. “What do they know that I do not?” I wondered.

When nightfall came so did the “intermittent showers” that ramped up to torrential rain that intensified as the hours of darkness passed.

The small Atlantic waves that I mentioned earlier were no more! In their stead were walls of water that detonated against the island’s granite shore with the concussion of a Howitzer. I now know that when a Maine native cuts and runs it means more than just an early departure.

JUST SINGING IN THE RAIN

The image of Gene Kelly gaily frolicking in the rain, twirling his umbrella and dancing joyously is not exactly a good representation of our experience striking camp. By the time camp was struck, we were sopping wet and absolutely dejected. But after changing into dry (drier) clothes, and after putting away a stack of blueberry pancakes at a Bar Harbor restaurant (famous for it blueberry pancakes), our outlook improved.

There was so much rain that the town’s antiquated storm drain was drowning in overflow and at one place in the middle of the street, the water was roiling from a perforated manhole cover. Consequently, one third of the town’s city park was inundated, and some of the lower streets were waterways.

Dry and warm, with a few cups of coffee, and a stack of pancakes in me, I peered out of Jordan’s Restaurant’s large front windows, and muttered, “How would you like to be on the Appalachian Trail right now?”

Storm Brewing

Typical Sandy Cove

Old Rock Face

There are notices all over the Park that warn you not to stand in one place for protracted periods of time; as this tree and rock did.

A FAMILY PHOTO

In this photo a family is consuming ice cream, but the dynamics of this photo can only be seen close up. What is really going on?

Note the stress in her father's cheek


A SHORE THING

Automated lighthouse (right of center) on Egg Rock

In coming wave crashes over rock

The water just drops off.

Storm waves surges


INTERESTING ARCHITECTURE

HOME COOKING AT CAMP

Everything's coming up lobsters and daffodils

It cannot get any better than a good, stinky cigar, and a view of beyond.

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