Maine – Roadkill Crossing

Feeling the Heat

Though we were in Maine, we felt the oppressive summer heat like the rest of the U.S. and even globally. We even had a day of smoky skies from the wildfires. The only reprieve was our host’s cabin, where the ocean breezes kept the temperatures tolerable.

Nevertheless, we wanted to see other attractions, so we headed out despite the heat. Unfortunately, we chose the warmest day of our stay to venture to the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden in Boothbay, Maine.

We toured the many lovely gardens, but not all of them. Elder folks that we are, we wilted under the heat and humidity. We sought shelter at lunchtime in the air conditioning of the garden’s cafe.

We continued our walking tour until we found a shuttle cart that drove us into the far reaches of the popular destination. I would have loved to walk those shaded paths down to the ocean, but I wasn’t sure I would make it back. So, our brief riding tour completed our time there.

A short drive south brought us to the tourist-popular Boothbay Harbor. Given the crowd, I was fortunate to find a parking spot. We walked along the harbor’s edges where we could until we found an ice cream shop. It was the pause we all needed.

I had spied a large white church across the bay, so we drove around the bay so I could photograph the church and the bay from that location. An engaging dock worker permitted me to enter the private dock to take my photos, but only at my own risk. With a smile, he said he would rescue me if I fell in. I didn’t.

In the evening, my wife and I drove back to Five Islands for another lobster roll before we had to leave in the morning. With the sun’s angle just right, I was more interested in capturing photos of the boats moored in the harbor and near the surrounding islands.

When I ordered our food, I noticed a live lobster, with its claws taped shut, resting in a box on the counter. Perhaps it had been ordered for a cook-it-yourself take-out.

When I returned to our table, two other couples had just sat down with their seafood dinners. They kindly allowed me to photograph a boiled lobster. Clearly, the cooked lobster was much more appetizing than the live one.

We greatly enjoyed our vacation with family and friends, meeting new people, and exploring new places. The bird outings were fun, too. The next morning’s sunrise served as a nice send-off.

The sunrise served as a lovely send-off for us. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Arriving on the Maine Coast

Our first look at the ocean from the cottage where we stayed in Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Without realizing it, my wife and I drove through rural Maine toward our destination on the road we needed to take to our friend’s cottage. We had the road’s name but not the state route number.

We needed to stop at a grocery store to pick up butter and eggs. Since the country highway went through no towns, there were no stores to be found.

I was shocked when we came to US 1, the highway that runs southwest to northeast, essentially paralleling the Maine coast. We headed into Bath to buy the needed foodstuffs. It’s a 30-minute drive from the cottage to the closest grocery store in Bath. So, our stop was required.

Heightened anticipation propelled the drive south to the island. The ubiquitous birches, maples, and evergreens line the gently winding road to the cottage, only interrupted by bridges across inlets and streams, and marshes and ponds where Great Egrets and Snowy Egrets probed among the reeds and rushes.

When we turned onto the narrow road to the cottage, fiddlehead ferns, balsams, and birches welcomed us. So did our host when we finally arrived.

The refreshing ocean breezes, the roar of the waves, the scent of the pines, and the familiar birdsongs offered a welcoming chorus, too. Never had settling in been so easy.

An hour later, we stood on the dock at Five Islands, Maine, for the annual blessing of the boats. The name comes from the five islands in the harbor. A local pastor said a patriotic prayer for safety and a successful lobster season, and the lobstermen and their friends and families gathered on their boats. Other moored boats provided picturesque opportunities.

As soon as a memorial wreath had been tossed into the water in remembrance of those hardy fishermen who had passed on, we found a picnic table that sheltered us from the stiff wind and enjoyed our sack lunches.

Most lobstermen powered up their boats and headed out to ply their well-hewn skills. Others, on bigger boats, stayed to party the afternoon away.

Teenagers separated the luscious lobster meat from its hard gray shell. They provided the crucial step between the marine crustacean and the delicious $30 lobster rolls. I hoped they were paid well.

Soon, a box truck backed onto the dock, and a 450-pound Bluefin Tuna was hauled up, prepared for market, and trucked off. It was fascinating to watch the efficiency and cooperation of people who knew what they were doing and were doing it well.

As we walked back to the car, I couldn’t help but notice the orange lichens painting the rock retaining walls by the steep embankments. The wood-shingled cottages sat askew overlooking the harbor.

By the time we returned to the cottage, the low tide had revealed the sandy beach hidden by the ocean at high tide. The sand expanded wider and wider as it approached the receding Atlantic.

It drew me down like a moth to a porch light. I was mesmerized by the giant granite boulders that line the embankment in front of the cottage. I stepped lightly, making sure this septuagenarian didn’t allow his curiosity to override his common sense.

I explored the broadness of the sand and photographed other cottages hanging high above the temporary beach. Three hours later, the sea once again filled the bay, and the sound of the waves crashing and the cool onshore breeze ensured a night of restful, undisturbed sleep.

The high tide rolled in. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

On to Maine With a Stop in Norway

A cornfield with a view in rural Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Somehow, we left New Hampshire for next-door Maine and ended up in Norway.

We left North Conway, New Hampshire, and the GPS took us on an unexpected route. We drove all country roads on the way to Maine’s capital, Augusta. We passed through one small town after another. Winding roads lined by deciduous and evergreen trees and occasional farm fields connected all the towns to one another.

We drove through Fryeburg, Lovell, Sweden, and Waterford. But we had to stop in Norway. Unlike the other burgs, welcoming storefronts lined Norway’s Main Street. It was lunchtime, so we decided to stop.

The quirky creativity of Norway, Maine.

When we exited our vehicle, music drew us eastward along Main Street. We looked for a restaurant as we went. We found the source of the music in no time. A lone musician played at the town’s weekly farmer’s market across the street.

We checked it out and kept walking. The entrance to the local food coop stopped me in my tracks. Its eclectic entrance earned a photo. A few paces later, I stopped again to take a photo of the Weary Club of Norway Maine.

I had no idea what that was, and they weren’t meeting, so I looked it up. The “wearies” formed their social club 100 years ago. They were “the Shakers and Dealers in cedar shavings, social gossip, political wisdom, and Yankee philosophy.”

The Kennebec Cabin Company. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Not finding a place to eat, we kept moving over the rolling, tree-studded landscape and stopped in Manchester, Maine, at the Maine Cabin Masters gift shop and restaurant. Its official name is the Kennebec Cabin Company.

We ate outdoors in the shade to avoid the extreme heat. The house is the gift shop with the typical tourist offerings and prices.

After lunch, we checked out the striking state capital building and drove to an adjacent town set on the bank of the Kennebec River for some ice cream. It was a refreshing way to end an intriguing day.

The Maine State Capitol Building. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Spontaneity spices up every trip

I thought the scenery couldn’t get any better than this. I was wrong.

Over the years, my wife and I have found one travel tip to be uniquely useful. As much as you plan, leave room for spontaneity.

We didn’t read that any place. We learned it when traveling with our parents. Both families tended to go in the same mode. Too often, they had precious little time or money for vacations. When they did take one, they each drove from point A to point B regardless of what was in between.

When Neva and I began to travel as a couple, we tried to always leave room for the unexpected. It’s a habit we have happily maintained.

We do a lot of planning for our trips. We research places we want to see in the areas where we are traveling. That includes leaving time for discovery along the way. Of course, now that we are retired, we can really take our time. We often avoid interstates and expressways if at all possible.

On a recent trip to New England, we were traveling on U.S. 1 along the Maine coast when Neva had an idea. Friends had a summer home somewhere in Maine, so she decided to text her college friend to find out how near we were to their vacation place. It turned out we were really close.

Since I was driving, Neva read aloud the text replies. Our friend said they turn right at the Dairy Queen. I looked up and low and behold there was the DQ. We had to seize this moment that seemed meant to be.

I turned the van around and headed down the road. Meanwhile, Neva was getting the address and specific instructions to their house. They were perfect.

Even in the rain and fog, the sights along the way were breathtaking. We wound our way down the peninsula toward the sea, passing trees, houses, local businesses, streams, marshes, and estuaries.

Along the way, we found calendar-worthy real-life scenes. I noted places I wanted to photograph on the way back to the highway. Our first priority was to find their home. It wasn’t hard. Decorative homemade signs tacked to a tree got my attention, and pointed the way to Little River Road.

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We had seen photos of the lovely seaside home and its vista before. Even though fog limited our view, we were immediately entranced. Surrounded by birds singing, gulls calling, waves crashing, the mingled fragrance of pines and ocean, we were smitten.

Neva stayed on the deck while the sea drew me down the slight hill. From the rocky beach, I spotted a small flock of common eiders floating offshore. Greater and lesser black-backed gulls claimed a sandy point across the way. It was the place our friends walked to at low tide.

I couldn’t have wiped the smile off my face if I had wanted to. A sense of peace and longing overcame me, and I gladly embraced it. Standing there in person I felt like Walt Whitman.

I didn’t want to leave, but we had no other choice. I stopped several times as we headed back north. I photographed boats moored waiting for their owners, canoes cast aside long ago but resting as if their occupants had stopped for lunch. Forsythia bloomed bright against the fog and reflected mirror-like in the positively calm waters.

I was ecstatic, electrified at the surreal wonderland all around me. I was so glad we had played our hunch and made that U-turn.

Driving a scenic highway was one thing. Spending a little time surrounded by this unexpected beauty was quite another. Once again, spontaneity rewarded us with a sweet, memorable encounter.

Unintended Art

This lobsterman in Boothbay Harbor, Maine had a good eye for design, shape, and form, even if that wasn’t the practical purpose of these colorful patterns. More than likely, the equipment’s owner was merely getting ready for the new lobster season. The traps were arranged in near perfect stacks right next to the dock in the bay. The bright yellow buoys, this lobsterman’s chosen color, seemed to be stuck into the traps simply for easy access. Nevertheless, I thought the scene made a rather artsy composition.

“Unintended Art” is my Photo of the Week.

At rest

Everything in this photo seems to be at rest. The placid water, the low-hanging morning mist, the boats moored patiently waiting, the deciduous trees pushing forth their new growth, the evergreens standing stately, the limp American flag all resting.

A wondrous peace fell upon me as I surveyed all the elements of this scene along the coast of Maine. I hope it brings you the same refreshing repose.

“At rest” is my Photo of the Week.

Making whoopee over Whoopie pies

By Bruce Stambaugh

For two consecutive nights, I sat with hundreds of others in a College of Wooster, Wooster, Ohio performance hall and listened to real experts share about urgent current events in the world.

The first evening, the speaker was an Iranian journalist who told his story of being arrested and tortured in Iran for reporting newsworthy events. The country’s autocratic leadership didn’t take kindly to him telling the world what was happening.

The next evening, two career diplomats from Egypt took the same stage and mesmerized an even larger crowd with Egyptian political history and their observations on the unfolding events in their home country. They were ecstatic that the mostly peaceful revolution had succeeded, and were nearly giddy about the country’s potential to finally embrace democracy.

All the while in our democratic nation’s capital, Congress raucously debated the necessity and wisdom of spending federal dollars on programs to feed and educate children. This version of democracy in action numbed me.

Amid all this critical confusion, a ludicrous verbal war had broken out between two states. Maine and Pennsylvania were at loggerheads over the origin of the Whoopie pie, of all things.

If you are not familiar with this delectable snack, Whoopie pies look like two cookies held together on their bottom sides with white frosting. They look that way because that’s what they are.

Things got serious between Maine and Pennsylvania.

When a Maine legislator introduced legislation to make the delicious treat the state dessert, the keystone state took it personally. Pennsylvania’s tourism bureau set up an online petition for people to sign. It was titled “Save Our Whoopie” as if Maine was going to round them all up for themselves.

The original Whoopie pies were chocolate, and most still are. But other flavors and colors have found their way into recipes, like pumpkin, red velvet, and carrot. I even saw some pink ones in honor of Valentine’s Day. The filling is generally sugary vanilla icing, although alternatives could be whipped cream, ice cream and marshmallow cream, which is Maine’s claim to fame. In some areas, they are known as Chocolate Gobs.

Most Whoopie pies are the size of hamburger buns. Others are more bite sized.

Things got so testy about where and how the first Whoopie pie was made that major metropolitan newspapers picked up on the story. It probably was a nice diversion from all the nasty news they had to report.

The tone of the rhetoric between Maine and Pennsylvania nearly matched that of the sound bite D. C. politicians. This was more than just a publicity stunt. Why couldn’t both states have the same dessert as their state’s favorite? After all, seven states claim the Cardinal as their state bird, and I have not seen any feathers fly over those duplicate designations.

In all the Whoopie pie war reporting, never once did I either hear or see anything about how popular Whoopie pies were here in the world’s largest Amish population. Here, the delectable treats show up regularly at family gatherings, reunions, at picnics and in school lunch boxes.

I thought it admirable that our own plain people paid little heed to this confectionery war. They had better, more productive things to do.

As for Egypt, Iran, Congress and all the others, we’ll have to hope for the best. While Maine and Pennsylvania make whoopee over their Whoopie pies, I think I’ll just enjoy mine.