Autumn Air

The winding roads and rolling hills of Downeast Maine were alive yesterday with the spectacular colors of fall. Route 1 was awash in a collective blaze of reds, oranges and yellows. The blueberry barrens of Columbia, Milbridge, and Steuben, sat drenched in a beautiful blanket of crimson red. Fall had come to the coast of Maine, and the result was something out of a dream! Out on Great Wass Island, the sky was blue, and the clouds were wispy and white. The Bright blue waters of Englishman bay shimmered in the October sunshine. The sun warmed the green grass of this wild and rugged island, and cast shadows on the jagged rocks and smooth granite that adorn it's craggy shores. I had come to Great Wass to hike the famed Nature Conservancy trail. I immediately found myself in the middle of an enchanted forest, where giant spruce firs towered above me and sultry strands of salty sea air tickled my nose and awakened my senses. The trail was demanding, a jumbled mess of exposed roots and fallen branches. Giant rocks and boulders lined the twisting path. Squirrels and foxes rustled in the bushes to my left and right. Not a soul was in sight, just the way I like it. After two miles of near bushwhacking, I found myself at the edge of Cape Point, on the southeastern side of the island. From there, a series of rocky headlands and sandy beaches connected to another treacherous trail, which meandered towards Mud Cove, a cozy inlet known to sailors for it's excellent protection from the elements. Past Mud Cove, the trail returned to the forest, where the rocks seemed to get bigger and the footing went from shaky to sketchy. After 4 hours of ducking, jumping, sprinting, and doing whatever I deemed appropriate to get through the trail, I completed the loop, a little worse for the wear. I sat down against my car, sweat dripping from my body, and ate a quick snack. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, and wind was starting to cool the island, in anticipation of another bitter night in Downeast Maine. As I drove back to the mainland, I stopped over on Beals Island, where I watched the sun fade over the Moosabeck Reach. Dozens of worn and weathered lobster boats rolled back and forth under the shifting sea. The boats were anchored so close to each other, resembling a diesel fueled family, that had just sat down at a crowded dinner table. A lone fisherman talked on his phone at then end of a long wooden dock, while an old beat pick up truck slowly made it's way through the center of town. The man at the wheel looked my way and raised his two index fingers at me, while the other fingers clenched the steering wheel. I waved back, not knowing who he was, but knowing all too well what he meant. When I find myself in these far flung corners of the Maine coast, I get to see first hand, how the hardy souls of these small coastal towns make their living. Some fish, some build, while others simply cut grass and stack wood. Some men mend lobster traps, some men coach high school basketball teams, and some men tend bar at the local watering hole. Everybody does something to get by and that means tat everybody is in a sense, in it together. It is this communal sense of survival that sets Downeast Maine apart from the rest of the country. It is a different world up here, and I am more than happy to visit it, for I know that no matter where I am, be it Cutler, Lubec, Machias, or Jonesport, somebody will always be there to wave at me, as the wooden lobster traps that sit stacked in the bed of their truck, rattle around and glisten in the afternoon sun.

Foggy Foray

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!

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.