July 17, 2003
We drove along the back roads of Central New York and
Western Massachusetts today. I had forgotten how
beautiful oak trees can be, bracketing old New England
streets and avenues. There are towns full of stately
giant American Elm trees as well, forming graceful arches
over lanes and byways. Catalpas are in full bloom, as are
horse chestnuts and buckeyes, huge bouquets borne aloft
on massive trees.
The old houses along the route are in good repair, which
often means that the old wavy glass twelve over twelve
pane windows have been replaced with vinyl double glazed
units with authentic colonial-style plastic grid
inserts. Replacement windows lend nothing positive to the
overall effect; in fact, they take away a good deal of
the home’s intrinsic charm. Thank goodness the
beautiful lily gardens and white picket fences divert
one’s gaze from all that shiny new glass.
As we drove along serpentine roads through the Berkshire
Mountains, we had to put on headlights to light our way;
the highway has been cut right down into the hills. Rocky
ledges and dense old-growth trees plunge the route into
constant shadow unless the sun is directly overhead. We
stopped at dusk at a small one-horse motel. We were road-weary
but none the worse for ear. Tomorrow is another day.
July 18, 2003
We continued our way east across northern Massachusetts.
At the Piscataqua Bridge in New Hampshire we got our
first glimpse of seawater, with large and small boats
crowding the inlet to the river. It was a cloudy day with
brief periods of light rain. Stops at book shops and
outlet stores provided welcome breaks in the drive. Late
in the day we checked into a small cabin with a screen
porch, then set out to hike at a nearby Audubon Society
preserve.
The trail began in a dense pine-oak forest, a well-worn
path full of gnarled roots and wooden bridges that passed
through marshland. The forest floor was full of mushrooms,
mostly several varieties of amanita. The path
looped around in a big oval, occasionally taking us to
the bank of a tidal river. A great blue heron gave us a
guttural growl from a tall dead oak, then gracefully
launched himself upriver, flying with his long neck
tucked into an s-curve, spindly legs trailing behind.
There was a small square pond in the woods, which the
printed trail guide indicated was used as a source of ice
in bygone days.
The wooded path opened up into a mature hayfield, and
here we were amazed to find a mown velvety walkway
similar to those we maintain at our farm on Gomer Hill.
The meadow was full of black-eyed susans and red sweet
clover. Several bluebird houses were placed here and
there; for an instant, I could imagine we were back home
on more familiar territory. On our way back to the
parking area, we were rewarded with the first red
raspberries of the season, growing rank among some
wayward day lilies. It was a berry good day!
July 19, 2003
We finally arrived at the small harborside cottage that
we have shared with old friends for many summer vacations.
The cabin has a broad open porch with a great view of a
working Maine harbor, home to many a lobster boat as well
as assorted other seafaring craft, plain and fancy. It
was a beautiful warm and sunny day with a fresh offshore
breeze that kept aggressive Maine mosquitoes at bay. As
the tide rolled in, we watched an osprey hover for a
moment, then dive in a quick spiral to the water; it
surfaced with a large fish clutched in its talons. The
sea eagle flew directly overhead and perched in a tree to
eat its catch. An osprey will arrange the unlucky fish so
it is facing in the direction of its flight, so as to be
more aerodynamic. The bird repeated its swoop-and-grab
routine several times, getting a fine fish with every
attempt. Our own long casts with brightly colored lures
were not as successful, but for us, the fun is in the
fishing, not the catching. We sat on the porch
through the long purple twilight hours. Slanted rays of
the setting sun reflected off of tall yacht masts moored
for the night, painting shimmering spears of gold on the
still water. All is well.
July 20, 2003
We awakened to the cry of seagulls as they circled the
harbor seeking breakfast. Thick fog had moved in
overnight, obscuring everything in the harbor. The
water’s edge was the same pewter grey as the air
above. The sun came out later in the day, but fog still
hung in a misty curtain offshore. In the evening we
walked to the pier and admired the many vessels moored
there. The working boats sat idly, as Maine Sundays are a
day of rest for lobstermen and commercial fisherfolk.
Dozens of dories and skiffs were tied up at the dock, all
manner of little craft from the roughest oar-locked
weathered wood to new fiberglass runners with outboard
motors. Kayakers wove in and out of the boats, and a
local boy fished for mackerel from the pier while his
companion looked on from a lawn chair. After we returned
to the cabin, light fog moved in once again. Homes across
the harbor were shrouded in fog, and the surface of the
water at high tide was smooth as glass. A small flock of
seagulls perched on a rock set up a low monk’s
chorus of sound, a mournful dirge droned in unison. The
sun set as fog played tag with the shoreline, passing
through shades of warm peach, hot pink, culminating with
a fine blend of royal purple, aubergine, charcoal, and
slate. Good night.
July 21, 2003
Low clouds merged with fog, which swirled with the rising
waters of the early morning tide. Throbbing diesel
engines of lobster boats heading out for their day’s
work roused us early, and crows, ravens, and gulls added
to the alarum.
The sun never really made an appearance today, and
several times tentative drops of rain fell as I walked
along a busy road. I was headed towards a friend’s
blueberry meadow. Maine coast roads are narrow with no
shoulders, and I often had to dive into the woods to
avoid SUVs from Massachusetts and Connecticut as they
thundered up the road. Pickups and old compact cars with
Maine license plates were more conservative with the
accelerator pedal. There were only a few ripe blueberries
in the meadow but there was a bumper crop of black-eyed
susans, queen anne’s lace, and brilliant scarlet
wood lilies. I picked a large bouquet for the dinner
table and gobbled down the few berries I found. I passed
many small home vegetable gardens, and resisted the urge
to wade through them, picking off potato bugs and
snapping onion blossoms. I miss our garden on Gomer Hill,
and wonder what surprises will await us when we return.
We have been enjoying the zucchini and spuds we brought
with us, a taste of home along with fresh striped bass
and local steamed clams; the best of both worlds! Seize
the day, wherever you find yourself.
July 22, 2003
Another foggy dawn with the accompanying concert of boats
and birds greeted the porch-sitters on this small harbor.
A driving tour of several other small harbor towns along
the central coast of Maine revealed many similarities of
both landscape and architecture. All have quaint
weathered cottages as well as large freshly painted
colonial houses connected to barns. There is a seafood
shack, a general store, and a tourist-trap souvenir shop
full of items stamped with lobsters, moose, and
blueberries. The harbors in these small villages all
cater to huge yachts as well as everyday working vessels.
One time, years ago, we were hanging around at a dock
when a boat arrived bearing just one fish: a seven
hundred pound tuna. It was packed in a large wooden crate
full of ice, and was to be shipped immediately to Japan
to be used in sushi. What a huge fish! There is always
activity in a Maine harbor, from fish being sucked out of
the hold of a ship by a giant vacuum cleaner hose, to beautiful
people swabbing down their decks. Seagulls of all
sizes glide and swoop in hope of scoring some tasty
morsel of chum or deli sandwich crust. on a foggy rainy
day such as this. The cries of gulls and harbor sounds of
pump and winch are underscored by the blat of a
lighthouse horn and the hollow clang of offshore bell
buoys. Poor weather means that most tourists are dozing
in their cottages or shopping in the outlet malls; we
have beautifully uncrowded piers to explore... just us,
the gulls, and the hardy Maine working folks.
July 23, 2003
A good thunderstorm punctuated our dreams last night,
complete with light show, stereophonic sound, and hard
rain pounding the cabin. We used to go camping in this
area, and last night we were happy to have four strong
walls and a tight roof against the storm. The day
remained foggy, and we had a lot of errands to run and
chores to finish in the mist. In the late afternoon I
took a walk down a side road I had not yet explored.
There were beautiful moss roses on both sides, as well as
daisies, cow vetch, black-eyed susans, queen anne’s
lace, evening primrose, and tiny yellow clover blossoms.
Occasionally there were low blueberry bushes with a few
plump berries the birds hadn’t yet found. The road
crossed a freshwater stream that empties into the harbor;
this brook is reputed to be home to large native brook
trout. Passing over the flow is an old stone arch bridge,
as tight and sturdy today as it was the day it was built.
I spied a small graveyard through the woods and checked
it out. The dates on the markers ranged from he mid-1800s
through 1956. Many of the stones had beautiful flowers
planted nearby, and several fly the flags of civil war
veterans. It is a nicely maintained cemetery, and broken
headstones have been carefully placed atop the
surrounding stone wall. Pale white indian pipes bloom
along the edge of the plot, and a dense circle of fat
brown mushrooms covers about half of the area. As I
walked back towards the living, the sun broke through the
clouds in a brief burst of brilliance, illuminating the
wet foliage with surreal light. The cocktail hour on the
cottage porch featured the sun playing tag with fog, both
gleaming along the masts of sloops moored in the harbor,
flashing silver and gold. The sun finally won out, and
the calm water sparkled with all of the jewels of a
midsummer Maine sunset.
July 24, 2003
The day was foggy, dripping with Maine coastal moisture
and intermittent showers. I went to an elegant
ladies’ lunch at a friend’s beautiful home
perched on the rocks at Pemaquid Point. We dined on a
spacious screen porch and I faced the sea. The tide was
on its way in, and the waves were substantial. In several
places the rocks were angled and seawater hit them with
great force; momentum forced the salt spray high into the
air, great plumes of unharnessed energy. A coastal tour
boat bounced through the surf, not the best of days for
such an excursion. There were very few people on board. A
lobster boat moved with apparent ease from buoy to buoy,
its skipper hauled in metal cages holding scads of
lobsters and tossed about half of them overboard. After
dessert, the sun made a welcome appearance and we moved
the party outdoors to the rocks to better appreciate the
view. It was sunny only to the water’s edge, and
foggy beyond with low black clouds. The contrast was nice.
Later in the day we hiked through the woods of another
Audubon Park and came to a small bay full of lobster pot
markers. The sun was shining over this quiet inland
waterway, and all of the moored boats were perfectly
reflected on the smooth surface of the bay. Because of
the recent wet weather, the forest floor was ripe with
dozens of varieties of mushrooms, and lush green ferns
grew tall. We got soaked to the skin passing through the
lush undergrowth, but it was a warm day and it felt good
to be on the trail. We were all pleased to see that the
rain had moved offshore from our little cabin, and the
sunset was perfect.
July 25, 2003
Finally, a sunny summer day! Even the seagulls loudly
proclaimed their joy at the change in the weather. We
drove to Pemaquid Point and climbed all over the huge
craggy coastal rocks, poking around in several tidal
pools and watching the sea come in. I carefully picked my
way across jagged granite and quartz upthrusts until I
stood at the very edge of the ledge, with waves crashing
around me from every direction. It was exhilarating, and
more than a little frightening. I realized that one
monster wave could break over the very spot where I stood,
and sweep me off my feet; I would be dashed to bits on
the rock with little hope of survival. I backtracked to a
safer perch, and totally enjoyed the awesome power of the
sea. I found a few interesting fragments of quartz to add
to the garden wall. The rocky coast of Maine is truly
unique; few clean sandy beaches to be had, but miles of
challenging cliffs to scramble over. Sunset that night
was outstanding, with just about every color of the
rainbow represented.
Good friends, good food, good time !
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