Pittsfield Pitstop

The road home from vacation has a few stops for us this time. We wanted to see our newly-retired friend Trudi in her new digs outside of Albany, and since we were traveling from Maine to Virginia via Buffalo (and why not, really? Don't teachers have the whole summer off?) this seemed as good time as any. Still, Trudi wasn't equipped to put all three of us and a dog up for the night, so we needed to find a good place to break our trip.

Since Treat is working for the summer in the Berkshires, Western Massachusetts seemed like a natural place-- 6 or so hours from Mount Desert Island and maybe one from Albany-- and we could spend an evening with him. Well, then it was obvious that Bill and Emily and Sonic should plan to stop there also, for after all he is their boy.

And so a plan was hatched, and after a few hotel misses (economical and pet-friendly on a Saturday night is not an easy find) we found ourselves on the sixth floor of a place in Pittsfield, MA, in a couple of rooms across from each other at the end of the hall. Isabel had never ridden in an elevator before, and her doubt upon entering the tiny little room turned to disbelief when the doors closed and pure shock when we started to go up.

Once in our little corner of the hotel, the dogs ran back and forth between the rooms, until Sonic drank water and promptly barfed it up on our carpet. Isabel took advantage of that distraction to head around the corner, where I found her a minute later being shooed away by an Indian family who didn't think she should go down the elevator with them. We were still hub-bubbing when Emily came up from parking the car, but, never fear, Sonic greeted her at the elevator. A little while later Treat and I carried the easy chair from their room to ours and Bill rolled the desk chair in, too. The dogs found quiet corners, and with a collective sigh, we all relaxed, happy to be together again.

Island Life

It was a misty walk down the tree-lined path to Wonderland beach this morning. As we emerged from the woods the cold Atlantic Ocean Lapped quietly at the edges the wide granite ledges that led us to a cuticle-shaped cove of nearly perfectly rounded cobblestones. While our two teenaged boys scrambled as far along the coast as they could, the dogs waded into the gentle surf, and the adults in our group admired the stones-- stacking them, skipping them, comparing them, but not collecting them-- oh no! For that would be, as we reminded each other several times, a federal offense.

Having had our fill of that natural beauty, we piled in the cars and headed northeast toward Southwest Harbor looking for a lunch location that would accommodate eight humans and two dogs. A roadside seafood shack with picnic tables was just the place, and despite the warning that our meals might take half an hour or so, we took a place near the wood stove and lobster pot. It was a chilly 60 degrees, and we welcomed the extra warmth. As we waited, the owner introduced us to Grover the goat, a tiny fellow staked on a long rope in the adjacent field. "He loves playing with dogs!" we were told, and Bill took Sonic and Isabel over to meet Grover. They were curious but rather polite, touching noses with the goat before he danced up on his hind legs and scared the bejeezus out of them. 

There was also a little wiffle ball diamond set up just past the tables, and so Kyle and Bill and I played a little ball to pass the time away. Soon enough our names were called and red and white paper baskets filled with fried seafood blanketed our table. As I returned to the pick up window to fetch some ketchup I overheard an older gentleman in conversation with one of the young cooks. "How much is a lobster?" He inquired.

"5.95 a pound," the cook replied.

"5.95 for one lobster?" The man asked.

"No, 5.95 a pound for the live lobsters," the cook told him politely.

"I can't eat a live lobster!" The man was very alarmed. 

"We'll cook it for you right there," the young man gestured toward the pot, "but we'll weigh it first."

"Can I have all I want?" The man .

"Sure," the cook said. "It's a big pot!"

A Cold Day in July

The day dawned cool and rainy, but after some discussion we decided to make the best of it by heading to The Big Chicken Barn, an impressive emporium stuffed with junk about half an hour away. There I was able to indulge my new hobby, searching 45s for recording gold. I am partial to big band and other music from the 40s, because to be honest, the scratchy quality of the vinyl actually enhances the sound. The Chicken Barn did not disappoint, and after an hour or so of poking around, we came away with a few interesting items.

From there we headed home through Ellsworth, another of our favorite towns in Maine. After a great lunch at a cute little place on Main Street, a stop at the LL Bean outlet was a requirement, because despite my jeans and double t-shirt, I was freezing! Fortunately, I found just what I needed right away, a fleece lined flannel shirt that just happened to fit me perfectly. It was so cozy I wore it around as everyone else shopped and only took it off so that the cashier could scan the tag.

After such a satisfying day, I was almost glad that it was raining.

Return Trip

We decided to take the mail boat from Northeast Harbor over to the Cranberry Islands today. Situated just a couple of miles south of Mt. Desert Island, the tiny Cranberries have had permanent residents since 1768, mostly fisherman, farmers, and artists. These days in addition to lovely clapboard and cedar shake houses, there are a few shops, a couple of casual restaurants, and some easy rambling trails that lead down to cobble stone beaches for curious mainlanders like us who are feel the pull of island life.

Truth be told, I had visited Great Cranberry Island before. Being lucky enough to have an old friend who has a summer home in these parts is what brought me up here in the first place 20 years ago. My visits were a few days in the summer, staying in my friend Ruth's guest room. How awesome it was to have a guide and hostess all in one! It was only when my nephews were old enough to bring along that I had clearly outgrown that little room under the steps and started renting a place of my own by the week.

It was in those earlier years that I last boarded the mail boat with Ruth and her husband John bound for Big Cranberry, making sure to bring plenty of water and food since there were no commercial establishments on the island. "Pee before you leave!" Ruth's mom warned me. On that trip we hiked to the end of the only road to reach the beach all the way at the opposite end from the pier. Emerging from the scrubby pine, lupine-filled fields and seaside roses, we found ourselves alone on a vast expanse of rocky beach. There we wandered for hours, filling our packs with at least ten pounds each of perfect stones.

I thought of that adventure this morning as we sat on gray benches in the small cabin of the mail boat waiting to set off. "There's a general store there now?" I asked rhetorically, reading the brochure. "Well," I shrugged, "I guess things change in twenty years." I paused, because it didn't seem possible that so much time had passed.

"Well everything except me, that is!"

Peak, Crest, Crown, Apex, Pinnacle

What could make me practically skip up hundreds of feet on switchback granite steps clinging to the the side of a mountain in Maine? Was it the warm pine air punctuated by cool maritime breezes? The promise of wide granite ledges with amazing ocean views to the left and incredible mountain vistas to the right? The wild blueberry barrens with the first ripe fruit of the season lining the descent? The alpine pond filled with lilliputian water lilies and ringed by three mountain peaks?

Nope. It was just the chance to be hiking with people I love in a place I love, too.

P.S. Don't think you're off the hook... I still hate you, Maine!

A Cairn and a Blaze

On the second day of our vacation, Emily chose the hike. Her goal was to find something new to everyone that was also a fit for our entire party, ranging from 16 year old lad to 54 year old lady. Of course, we also wanted it to be beautiful, but that's pretty much a given in Acadia National Park.

Her choice was a home run. The Goat Trail to the top of Norumbega rises steeply for six-tenths of a mile through a cool and shady balsam forest and then up some big stair-steppy boulders. Once above the tree line, we had sweeping views of Sargent Mountain to the east and Somes Sound, Acadia, St. Saveur, and Flying Mountain to the west.

Close to the top, I found myself in the lead of our party, which is a rarity when it comes to hiking. In general, I am the person who takes the back, making sure everyone is with the group and doing well. It is an important role, but always a little galling when I pull up last for the rest break when everyone else is itching to go. This time, I was walking with Kyle and we approached the summit shoulder to shoulder in good natured competition. Spying a wooden marker, he sprinted ahead, but he guessed wrong, finding himself at a trail marker. One step behind him, I saw the actual summit marker to the left, and jogging up a wide boulder, I tapped it first.

Marked by cairns and blue blazes, our way sloped another three-quarters of a mile southward along warm granite ledges toward the Atlantic Ocean, before descending gently back into the conifers. At the bottom we found a nearly pristine Hadlock Pond, source of some of the island's drinking water.

After a picnic lunch near the pump house, our path meandered through the woods along the pond's eastern shore and then up and  past some mossy, massive rock formations until finally delivering us back to the parking lot, 3.1 amazing miles later.

I Still Hate it Here

I distinctly remember one moment of my first visit to Maine, over 20 years ago now. I was sitting in the passenger seat of my friend's minivan bombing along the twisty wooded roads of the quiet side of Mount Desert Island. On this early August afternoon the sky was a watery wash of cloudless cobalt and a cool breeze blew in the open windows. Mountains and sea filled our view and the tang of balsam filled our noses. "I hate it here!" I shouted over the rushing air.

My friend looked over, eyebrows raised.

"Because it's so perfect and I have to leave tomorrow!" I finished.

"Yup," she said and kept on driving.