Great Cranberry Island is the kind of place where the pace of life is slow and the hustle and bustle of the
outside world is nowhere to be found. Sitting two miles off the coast of Mount Desert Island, Great Cranberry, along with
Islesford, Sutton and Baker Island, form the Cranberry Isles, a lovely string of spruce clad gems that command breathtaking views of Acadia National Park. Great
Cranberry, the largest of the
Ilses, only supports forty five year round residents, but has a healthy summer community that has been enjoying this special place for generations. The only way to get to
GCI, as the locals call it, is on a small
mailboat that runs out of Northeast Harbor. The Sea Queen, a thirty foot powerboat, makes stops on
Islesford, Baker and Sutton, and provides one of the prettiest boat
rides you can ever imagine. As we pulled out of Northeast Harbor yesterday, I took in my surroundings while a giant smile crept over my face. The sky above me was a brilliant blue, filled with fair weather clouds and soaring seagulls. The peaks of Acadia National Park,
Dorr, Cadillac, Day, Peme
tic and the Bubbles towered above the rocky shores of Mount Desert Island. Sleek sailboats tacked across Frenchman Bay, their white sails flapping furiously in the morning breeze. I leaned my head out the back of the m
ailboat and felt the spray from the outboard's wake on my face. We motored out to
GCI in a tidy twenty minutes. The town dock, while small in stature, boasts a view to die for, and holds a small general store, where the visitor can find anything from organic
blueberries to spiced rum. There is one main road on the
island, running north to south, and it was that road that I hiked for the remainder of the afternoon, stopping periodically to poke down dusty side roads, and climb the rocks of the many
inlets and coves that dominate the
island. Down Dog Point Road, there sits a small boatyard, where battered sloops and weathered skiffs litter the shore. A gray haired man was prowling a long wooden dock, as I approached the boatyard. I asked the man if I could take a few photographs, and he nodded his approval. Before I went on my way, we chatted for a few minutes. He had been coming to Great Cranberry since 1950, when he bought a bait shack and turned it into his summer home. The rest of his year was spent in the
Caribbean, but I could tell how much he enjoyed his time here. He talked about the changes on the island, and the pace of life, which he said had remained slow
throughout the years. The man wore a pair of beat up jeans, a ratty t-shirt, and an old Rolex hat. He spoke slowly but surely, with a slight growl creeping out of the corners of his mouth. I felt as if I found a person who was
untouched by the hands of time. Sure, his face was wrinkled, and his skin drooped off his arms, but he spoke of the island as if it was still 1950. "I like this place," he said. "Nobody bothers ya, and the sun still rises every morning." I left the man in his solitude and headed back to the town landing, where the
mail boat would pick me up in thirty minutes. As I sat on the dock, waiting for the boat, I spread a large glob of peanut butter on a fresh red apple. I put my feet up on a wooden chair that sat next to me. The afternoon breeze swept over the water and swirled around the dock, causing me to throw on
another layer. This time of year on the coast of Maine can be beautiful, but can also be chilly. Once the
evening begins to set in and the sun sets, the air becomes frosty, and the wind stiff. The boat pulled into the dock and unloaded a few hardy souls. As we approached Northeast Harbor, the sun began to cast shadows on the large
summer cottages that ring the shores of the venerable town. A few sailboats glided by,
their passengers bundled up for a sunset cruise. My legs were tired from the day's hiking, but my heart soared with the excitement of the day. It had been a perfect September day on the coast of Maine, and I had spent it under a warm sun on an enchanted i
sland, where the pace of life is still slow, and giant green spruce trees still sway back and forth in the late summer summer breeze.
The coating of fog that hung over Swans Island yesterday morning was as thick as a brick wall. Down in Burntcoat harbor, the sun tried as hard as it could to break through, but the feisty fog held it's ground. A few fisherman roamed the docks of the quiet harbor, dragging a few traps from the boat up to their truck. "I think it's suppose' to lift sometimes this afternoon," one of the men said. "Naw," the other man said. "She'll hang around here all day, always does." I sensed that the sun might be out on the mainland, but here on Swans Island, 8 miles out in the middle of the ocean, it may never appear! I watched the two men diligently go about their work. One would pick up the traps from the boat, while the other man would stack them neatly on the flatbead of their truck. This went on for about thirty minutes. The men never spoke, they just worked, back and forth, back and forth. The fog continued to swirl around the harbor. Boats would appear, then disappear, islands would sit under the the momentary glow of the sun, only to be shrouded in another thick layer of fog. This optical illusion went on for three more hours, the sky finally clearing around the 1 o'clock hour. The blue sky was now in charge, and the warm sun of an early fall day felt amazing on my body. I pedaled my trusty old bike down to the western side of the island, where a short path leads to a long dirt road which leads to a spectacular piece of land called Fine Sand Beach. The beach, named for it's beautiful white sand, sits at the end of a small peninsula and is bordered by a long and wide field of swaying grass and pine trees. The dirt road that leads you to the beach is rugged, but worth the hike. Huge fir trees soar all around you. Birds of all sort flew around me, as leaves slowly fell from the trees, littering the ground in splendid show of early fall colors. At the very end of the road, there is a small wooden sign that points towards the beach. The sign should carry a warning with it: "Once you enter, you may never want to leave." With the last few wisps of fog lifting off of Toothaker Bay, and the glorious afternoon sun shimmering off the water, the beach took on an almost surreal atmosphere. It was just perfect! The day was warm, the sky was blue, and the sand was cool under my feet. I sat down at the edge of the water and ate my lunch in sweet solitude. Here I was, once again, way Downeast on the coast of Maine, on a secluded beach on a wild and wonderful island, with my feet in the water and my head in the clouds. On the ferry ride back to Bass Harbor, the peaks of Mt. Desert towered in the distance, while the puffy white clouds of the afternoon raced across the sky. A few sailboats tacked around the outer islands of Frenchman bay. The blue sky seemed endless above my head, and oh, how I wish the day was endless as well. September is fleeting, but my goodness is it a gorgeous month!
