Thus begins the tale of Labor Day weekend. In pursuit of a manageable long weekend adventure, and having been curious about the northernmost part of the coast of Maine for quite some time, we decided that it was time. The state of Maine is really darn big and that in all my travels within it, I had never been all the way up the coast.
As a bit of an aside, but with relevance to my previous blog about the lack of local friends, I have to start on Friday of the weekend and describe how our evening picnic came to be. While running on the Eastern Promenade one afternoon, I had a double-take moment where I thought I recognized a classmate from Bowdoin. Then, a few more strides down the path, I realized that it was, in fact, who I thought it was, though I was now out of comfortable earshot. I passed this information on to Chad, who did a little research through “Linked-In” for me (as you know, I am still a hold-out on social networks for the moment) and managed to get in touch with our friend, Pete. On my home from work the next day, I stopped at the tailor and happened to see Pete’s wife and we exchanged numbers and addresses – realizing that we lived only blocks away from each other. On my way out of the store, I got a message from Chad saying that, at the very moment when I had run into Joan in person, he had been chatting with Pete over email. We all decided it was fated that we should get together and arranged for a picnic on the Promenade . . .and voila, local friends, and we reconnected with them in person, (though we did reconnect over cyberspace as well). And so it finally begins – the making of local friends. Too bad they’re moving to South Portland next week.
On to Saturday. After loading up the car with loads of equipment and provisions for the weekend, we were off to see old friends – not so old, but in the strange conception of time when you have left a far away and different experience, it feels like longer ago than it really is. These are friends from La Maddalena who now live in Gardiner, Maine in a great old farmhouse that they’ve renovated. We lunched Italian style, visiting on their porch in the sun with a glass of wine and then enjoying a delicious, lingering meal while discussing where to buy rare Sardinian foods, like pane carasau (a cracker-crisp flat bread) and pecorino cheese, in Maine - they being foodies like us. We waxed on about the lifestyle we had in Italy and how other-worldly it seems now looking back. Finally, roused ourselves for the long drive north.
Our first destination was Cobscook Bay State Park, located, not surp
risingly, on Cobscook Bay. On the drive up, we listened to a western story on cd, making us remark on the first red-tipped leaves of late summer (we don’t use the "f" word yet) in accents as if we were gangster and gun moll. We finally got there and schlepped our stuff to our campsite (car camping does not inspire conservative packing and we had managed to easily fill up the Jetta with stuff, ourselves, and the pup), which was quite private and quiet. Just as we had set up our little blue tent, gotten the grill going with our lovely salmon filet we’d brought along, and set the picnic table for a fancy camp-dining experience, a few drops began to fall. Luckily, Chad had precautionarily put up the rain fly before we started cooking and we had kept our rain jackets handy - too bad Manny didn’t have his own slicker. He was quickly ushered into the vestibule of the tent, much to his dismay, so as not to become a wet, chilly dog, whereupon he repeatedly poked his nose out from under the flap 
and attempted to escape and we had to take turns pushing him back in. Despite the rain, we managed to eat our salmon, pouring a bit of water off our plates, and drink a little watered-down wine. Then, we headed to our snug tent for the requisite terrible first night’s sleep of any camping experience. We hadn’t exactly earned our Thermarests that day, spending most of it eating or sitting in the car – lesson learned. Through the night, Manny only attempted to escape twice, both times followed by attempts to enter the tent with us, instead acquiescing to simply laying as close as possible to me in my sleeping bag while the door was still closed,
making our small tent even more squished. The next morning, we caffeinated ourselves with our handy Italian stovetop caffeteria and were on our way to Quoddy Head State Park, 
located on a headland looking out towards Campobello Island in Canada. It was a gorgeous hike, which took us on a side loop along a plank path through a peat bog filled with red and green sphagnum mosses and insect-eating pitcher plants – apparently the result of a retreating glacier a long, long time ago. We ended our hike at a smooth rock beach, perfect for picnicking and a wade out into the 
chilly, clear water, and then scrambled up to the famous striped lighthouse. After our picnic, we went into the town of Lubec, dubbed the “easternmost town in the United States,” which was also one of the sleepiest – an interesting mix of neat 
frame captain’s houses that were painted whimsical colors set next to shoddier versions of the same that looked long abandoned. In a quick moment, we had seen the entire town.
This left us a bit more time than anticipated, so that we could see Eastport, the “easternmost city in the US,” though I might down-classify these both locales as a village and a town, the c
laim to Eastport’s city-dom being a bit presumptuous. That said, I had imagined Eastport to be a little run down and depressing, having lost much of its fishing and processing industry years ago, but it was burgeoning with art galleries and renovations to early 20th century brick buildings that lined the main street. At one end of town, we were reminded of the 
fishing heritage by a large gnome-like statue of a fisherman, supposedly erected for a reality TV show. The harbor was full of well-kept fishing boats and loads of people fishing off the pier for mackerel, swimming through the swift current. On our way out of town, we saw the current ripping through the narrows with fish jumping and a plevy of seals having an easy meal.
located on a headland looking out towards Campobello Island in Canada. It was a gorgeous hike, which took us on a side loop along a plank path through a peat bog filled with red and green sphagnum mosses and insect-eating pitcher plants – apparently the result of a retreating glacier a long, long time ago. We ended our hike at a smooth rock beach, perfect for picnicking and a wade out into the 
chilly, clear water, and then scrambled up to the famous striped lighthouse. After our picnic, we went into the town of Lubec, dubbed the “easternmost town in the United States,” which was also one of the sleepiest – an interesting mix of neat 
frame captain’s houses that were painted whimsical colors set next to shoddier versions of the same that looked long abandoned. In a quick moment, we had seen the entire town.This left us a bit more time than anticipated, so that we could see Eastport, the “easternmost city in the US,” though I might down-classify these both locales as a village and a town, the c
laim to Eastport’s city-dom being a bit presumptuous. That said, I had imagined Eastport to be a little run down and depressing, having lost much of its fishing and processing industry years ago, but it was burgeoning with art galleries and renovations to early 20th century brick buildings that lined the main street. At one end of town, we were reminded of the 
fishing heritage by a large gnome-like statue of a fisherman, supposedly erected for a reality TV show. The harbor was full of well-kept fishing boats and loads of people fishing off the pier for mackerel, swimming through the swift current. On our way out of town, we saw the current ripping through the narrows with fish jumping and a plevy of seals having an easy meal. From there, we drove out to Shackford Head, where we went for a quick walk out the headland through drizzly rain, hoping that we would return to have a drier dinner experience that night. We read that the beach nearby was the site where several Civil Wa
r ships had been burned - their stories told on an array of plaques. Maybe they just needed an out of the way spot that wouldn’t draw too much attention. The precipice at the end of our hike looked out in one direction over an array of salmon aquaculture pens, which are an important part of the economy in Downeast Maine, and, in the other, over the breaking clouds and streaming evening light on the water. Afterwards, we happily made use of the campground showers before preparing dinner under clear skies at our campsite. A long day of exploring, hot showers, a filling dinner finished by some Kahlua-enhanced hot chocolate enjoyed fireside, all led to a good night’s sleep. Just to be sure of it, we also clipped Manny’s leash to the tent to prevent a midnight runaway pup.
The next morning, we drove to Cutler to hike the Bold Coast Trail, having provisioned with a picnic and plenty o
f water for the 10-mile loop. It was truly a magical experience with no one on the trail but us for nearly the whole distance. We walked the inland portion of the trail first, discovering woodland delights such as a purple fungus, a wood frog hopping across the path, and an array of 
animal scat filled with the wild berries that grew rampant – blackberries, raspberries, and low bush blueberries (our favorite). Finally, we emerged at the coast, sunlight illuminating the tiny village of Cutler with its picturesque white lighthouse. We lunched at a fantastic rocky outcropping and watched the waves crash below while airing out our sweaty t-shirts, (an illustration of gender differences).
Amidst the rocks, we found cranberries
growing and glugged the rest of a near-empty water bottle to make a collection container, now prepped to gather more berries on the return journey. There were endless patches of blueberries, bigger than any wild ones I’d seen, and we couldn’t stop picking them until we’d filled up the entire bottle. Even Manny partook, nibbling away as we stooped over the bushes. I recently saw a sign outside a shop in Portland that said, “wine is sunlight trapped in water.” I think blueberries are Maine summer captured in water. A bit disappointed that our lunch spot didn’t provide a swimming opportunity, I spotted a perfect pebbly beach part 
way back and we refreshed our tired, sweaty selves – rinfrescante, as the Italians would say – quite cold! All told, one of the best hikes we’ve ever done anywhere in the world – really.
And for the final leg of our journey, we drove south to Acadia National Park to visit friends who live in Bar Harbor. Almost comically, as we crossed onto Mount Desert Island, a bald eagle flew over head. Matt and Sara, our friends there, said they had ordered it to greet us. We spent a relaxing night with them, sharing recent life stories, and then said goodbye in the morning after a short hike in the park.
A long, but very scenic drive back, accompanied by more coarse western stories, put us back at 5 Sheridan where we did a marathon of laundry and dishes after cleaning out our car of all the camping accoutrements (when you’re camping for just a few days, who really needs to do dishes?). Even Manny got a bath. And, thus ends the first Portland travelogue. We are determined to have many more, so stay tuned, though I am sure to muse some more as well along the way as well.
r ships had been burned - their stories told on an array of plaques. Maybe they just needed an out of the way spot that wouldn’t draw too much attention. The precipice at the end of our hike looked out in one direction over an array of salmon aquaculture pens, which are an important part of the economy in Downeast Maine, and, in the other, over the breaking clouds and streaming evening light on the water. Afterwards, we happily made use of the campground showers before preparing dinner under clear skies at our campsite. A long day of exploring, hot showers, a filling dinner finished by some Kahlua-enhanced hot chocolate enjoyed fireside, all led to a good night’s sleep. Just to be sure of it, we also clipped Manny’s leash to the tent to prevent a midnight runaway pup.
The next morning, we drove to Cutler to hike the Bold Coast Trail, having provisioned with a picnic and plenty o
f water for the 10-mile loop. It was truly a magical experience with no one on the trail but us for nearly the whole distance. We walked the inland portion of the trail first, discovering woodland delights such as a purple fungus, a wood frog hopping across the path, and an array of 
animal scat filled with the wild berries that grew rampant – blackberries, raspberries, and low bush blueberries (our favorite). Finally, we emerged at the coast, sunlight illuminating the tiny village of Cutler with its picturesque white lighthouse. We lunched at a fantastic rocky outcropping and watched the waves crash below while airing out our sweaty t-shirts, (an illustration of gender differences).Amidst the rocks, we found cranberries
growing and glugged the rest of a near-empty water bottle to make a collection container, now prepped to gather more berries on the return journey. There were endless patches of blueberries, bigger than any wild ones I’d seen, and we couldn’t stop picking them until we’d filled up the entire bottle. Even Manny partook, nibbling away as we stooped over the bushes. I recently saw a sign outside a shop in Portland that said, “wine is sunlight trapped in water.” I think blueberries are Maine summer captured in water. A bit disappointed that our lunch spot didn’t provide a swimming opportunity, I spotted a perfect pebbly beach part 
way back and we refreshed our tired, sweaty selves – rinfrescante, as the Italians would say – quite cold! All told, one of the best hikes we’ve ever done anywhere in the world – really.And for the final leg of our journey, we drove south to Acadia National Park to visit friends who live in Bar Harbor. Almost comically, as we crossed onto Mount Desert Island, a bald eagle flew over head. Matt and Sara, our friends there, said they had ordered it to greet us. We spent a relaxing night with them, sharing recent life stories, and then said goodbye in the morning after a short hike in the park.
A long, but very scenic drive back, accompanied by more coarse western stories, put us back at 5 Sheridan where we did a marathon of laundry and dishes after cleaning out our car of all the camping accoutrements (when you’re camping for just a few days, who really needs to do dishes?). Even Manny got a bath. And, thus ends the first Portland travelogue. We are determined to have many more, so stay tuned, though I am sure to muse some more as well along the way as well.
