The Slow Life

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, Pemetic 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 mailboat 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 island, where the pace of life is still slow, and giant green spruce trees still sway back and forth in the late summer summer breeze.