50 AMP VISION QUEST

For the past two months we have been camp hosting, tied down a bit to a job of sorts, albeit happy and exciting volunteer jobs in fantastic locations working with and for mostly fantastic people.  Our little adventures in and around those state parks have been very memorable to say the least.  Now, we are breaking free of any responsibilities and heading east and north to parts of the country we have never experienced yet.  Our travelin’ bones are singing a new song as we light out of Michigan heading for Niagara Falls.  Anticipation can be an inspiring force, the polar opposite of worry and fear.  Diane and I look at each other in the cockpit of Nell, our motor home, and smile in that knowing way that reassures each of us we are on the road again, experiencing the world together exactly as we hoped we would one day, really together, really alive in the moment.  We give each other the fist bump we always do when we head out on a new adventure.  I press down on the gas pedal and Nell, with Tank, the Jeep in tow, leans into motion.  We’re off!

We short cut our trip towards Niagara by cutting across Canada at the Blue Water Bridge north of Detroit.  This will carve hours out of our trip.  Heading south across Ohio into New York is much longer and fraught with big city driving through Cleveland and such.  I must say, the Blue Water Bridge ain’t called Blue Water for nothin’.  As the water from Huron flows through this river channel into Lake Erie it is a bright and lustrous deep blue hue, a treat for the eyes.  I had assumed that the water in the Great Lakes near Detroit and Cleveland would be brownish, stained from runoff and pollution.  I don’t know if this is truly the case for the relative cleanliness of the water here, but they say that Zebra Mussels, those invasive little critters that cling to every water pipe and structure they can, have filtered the water clean, an unintended positive consequence of their massive invasion force.  Indeed, back on Lake Huron at our campsite gabillions of their wasted shells line the beaches like grains of sand, their lives spent and over.  They’re pretty little things they are.  I was told they are creating their own doom by filtering so much water.  They’ve eaten themselves out of house and home apparently.  All that is to say that the water in the Detroit River above Detroit at the Blue Water Bridge, is, a beautiful blue...just as advertised. 

Cruising across Canada north of Lake Erie we pass through verdant and green pastures a plenty, fine land to farm.  The hills are low and rolling as we travel unhindered eastward.  We roll through the outskirts of London, and Hamilton, Ontario on this Trans-Canadian highway but don’t feel the pressure of traffic as we might had we driven through Detroit and Cleveland.  However, once we cleared the eastern outskirts of Hamilton the traffic on the highway began to back up seriously.  We were nearing Niagara and Buffalo, New York.  It being the 4th of July weekend it seems a lot of folks were heading to the Falls.  We saw foreboding electronic signs on the road that predicted 1 ½ hour waits to cross the border ahead.  So, instead of crossing the border at Niagara Falls we ventured to Buffalo where our wait was much shorter, perhaps 15 minutes of backed-up traffic.  The weather was mild, sunny and warm, around 80 degrees or so as we pulled into our new home for a few days at Darien Lakes State Park in New York. 

Darien Lakes is about 30 miles east of Niagara Falls and was the only public campground I could find that had any vacancy this weekend.  I had booked our site months prior believing that the 4th of July would be problematic in regards to finding accommodations.  Darien Lakes was simply going to be our home base for these few days and 30 miles give or take is not too much to handle for us coming and going from a destination like Niagara Falls.  Darien Lakes is a nice enough state park. The campground is well laid out and there is some space between campsites.  It’s not a particularly inspiring place, but it is nice enough for what we needed at the time. 

The place was crab-a locker chocked full of families for the 4th weekend.  Armies of kids whizzed by on bicycles festooned with Americana decorations. One kid even had baseball cards attached to his wheels with wooden clothes pins so that when he rode it made a flapping sound like a motor...just like we all used to do when we were kids.  Ah yes, baseball cards were a ubiquitous part of our childhoods back in Webster Groves, Mo.  You could make the aforementioned flappable motor for your bike.  You could flip them in games of match where the winner of each flip got the other guy’s cards.  You collected them and organized them by teams in a shoe box.  A package of cards cost a nickel.  An entire case of them at the store cost about $2.00 or so if I remember right. Cardinals cards were highly treasured as were the superstars of the day.  Stan the Man Musial, Willy Mays, Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Ted Williams, and on and on.  Trades of baseball cards were as carefully strategized as the actual trades of the players.

“I’ll give you Joe Pepitone and Don Blasingame for your Bill White card,” says I in attempting to round out my Cardinals collection. 

“Nope, you gotta throw in Lew Burdette, too, if you want Bill White.” my worthy opponent would reply. 

“Aw c’mon, man...three for one...you’re robbing me!” says I in faux exasperation. 

This banter could go on for hours, days sometimes for just the right card. Sometimes added incentives were needed to complete a deal. 

“Ok, here’s my final deal. Don Blasingame, Lew Burdette, a Baby Ruth candy bar and a 7-up, cold, for Bill White. Make that happen or I’m walkin’. Kelly McKeon will give me Ken Boyer straight up for Bill White.” My adversary was ruthless. 

More times than not, I’d cave... 

Back at Darien Lakes adults gathered in large groups, families and friends, downing adult beverages by the liter. Moms and dads yelled back and forth at each other impatiently as they attempted to back their trailers into tight parking spots.  Campfires and camp stoves seemed to be lit all day and into the night, the aromatic and delicious breezes basking us in bacon and barbecue.  Sporadic fireworks went off in distant corners of the park, set off my the mischievous, rules-breaking heathen kids.  This is America on the weekend of the 4th. 

Diane had the foresight to insist that we book a tour of Niagara Falls instead of us attempting to figure out all there was to see and do there.  She was spot on.  I found a tour company among the many offering services that stood out to me.  Over the Falls Tours was our choice and I’m glad we chose them. They offered a full day tour full of different things to see and do around Niagara Falls.  It was not inexpensive but I can definitely say that given the fact that we never would have been able to do all the things we were able to do with Over the Falls it was the way to go.  Our driver even knew how to short cut the trip over the bridge to the Canadian side. That alone, on this holiday weekend, shaved hours off any self-guided tour we would have attempted solo. 

For whatever reason, I have, up until this trip, thought that Niagara Falls was an over-hyped destination.  I imagined the place being crass and overwrought with cheap commercialism, and probably not that great a waterfall anyway.  I just thought it was not worth a trip to see.  Brother, I was dead wrong.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  This series of falls is one of the most fantastical and over the top (pun intended) sights I have yet seen.  Inspiring as a description, does not come near measuring the awe we felt as we experienced the Falls. And, if you allow yourself to get wet, you do experience the Falls. 

Our tour met at the Aquarium on the American side of Niagara.  There we boarded a bus that took us to the various points of the tour.  First stop was the Maid of the Mist boat ride.  The Maid of the Mist has been in operation for over 100 years I believe.  It’s an American institution.  We boarded the boat and soon discovered that this boat was entirely electric, powered by green energy.  Now, that’s a first for us.  We donned our Maid of the Mist rain ponchos that the tour provided and off we sailed under silent, electric power.  Had we been diesel or gas powered we wouldn’t have heard the engines anyway as the ferocious roar of the falls overcame all sound save the excited screams of some of the folks on board.  The sun was shining brilliantly in the blue skies above, yet as we neared the Falls on the American side it soon began raining buckets down upon us.  We were literally feet away from the monster.  The Captain turned the bow of the boat so that we experienced the full brunt of the shower of foam as it released its fury upon us.  The same for the Canadian side of the Falls. Ponchos or not, we were drenched and laughing and screaming with the rest of the folks on board.  We were delighted.  We were experiencing the full power of nature and technology simultaneously.  I tried to take pictures of the ride but mostly what came out of my attempts were harried side-long photos of flailing water, wetness, and people being wet.  It was thrilling! 

After the 20 or 30 minute ride we trundled our way back up to the parking area dripping with the cool, fresh water, The warm sun drying us quickly as we walked.  We had the perfect weather for this tour. 

Our next stop was the Cave of the Winds tour.  This tour takes you down to the base of the American Falls where the tour used to go behind the falls into a cave that had been carved out by centuries of hydraulic pressure.  Well, the cave...caved in not too many years ago and so you can’t go back there any longer, but you sure as heck can go right up to the base of the Falls.  Descending a series of long steps you come face to face with 60,000 gallons of falling, thundering water per second. 

Our tour continued throughout the day as we continued viewing both the American and Canadian side of the Falls.  At each stop I was reminded of how I formerly thought that this mighty of mightiest scenic wonders was an over-hyped, commercialized tourist trap.  Certainly, the surrounding towns have done their best to capitalize on its drawing power, on its ability to instill awe and wonder, fear as well as romance, into the spirits of visitors. You cannot escape the place without dropping a good deal of wampum.  But...to put it plainly...it’s worth every dime you might spend to see it. 

I must comment, though, that there is a stark contrast between the ambiance of the two cities upon whose banks the turbulent waters pitch into free-fall.  The American cityscape appears old, crumbling, worn down. Perhaps the best metaphor is the American Falls itself.  Once a pure dead-drop falls, the American Falls is fast becoming more of a cascade as the river bottom stone is eroded away through the very friction of of its water. Poverty placed amongst the plenty of nature is painfully obvious on the American side. 

The Canadian side, featuring the more complete Horseshoe Falls, is alive, vibrant, youthful.  Poverty within its populace seems invisible.  Folks are walking everywhere, enjoying themselves and celebrating the day. It appears to be a most international of places.  Folks of nearly dozens of nationalities and skin tones walk about with no apparent apprehension of each other. I felt very happy and free there.  The infrastructure of the town is strong, seemingly withstanding economic downturns.  When asked why the stark differences exist between the two towns our tour guide responded by saying that the Canadians have a tax structure in place on purchases that redirects those collections back into the town itself, a self-fulfilling and continual reinvestment structure upon which the citizenry and the businesses prosper.  Whatever the reason a more contrasting image of two cities placed on either side of one of nature’s greatest constructs couldn’t be more obvious.

The next day we spent in Buffalo visiting the harbor where the terminus of the Erie Canal was/is located.  There is a wonderful display of US Naval ships you can actually tour there.  The USS Little Rock, a cruiser, The USS Croaker, a diesel powered submarine, and the USS The Sullivans, an escort lie in the harbor side by side.  Each served duty in World War ll and in the Korean War.  The USS The Sullivans, named for the brothers who all died fighting in WWII, cannot currently be toured due to it having partially sunk as its hull weakened and gave way in the salty, corrosive water of the harbor.  The other two fighting vessels can be toured in detail.  We poured over every nook and cranny of their inner hallways and tiny rooms.  We were filled with that sense of proud patriotism and deep appreciation for what our nation both built and defended during the days when these vessels of freedom sailed.  We anticipated spending an hour or so here but spent the better part of an entire afternoon on board.  It was so worth the visit.  Our imaginations were in overdrive contemplating the hours and days spent under sail in foreign waters... days of endless drills, days of maintaining the ships’ readiness, hours and days of uncertain, deadly combat. 

Tearing ourselves away from this wonder of the Niagara area we continued our Vision Quest eastward on to Letchworth State Park near the western boundary of the Finger Lakes region of New York State.  The park is a good deal larger than most state parks as it follows the Genesee River through beautifully carved canyons and over dramatic water falls. The area, due to the river and the abundantly productive soil of its valley, has drawn farmers and philosophers, artists and tradesmen, for well over 200 years.  Of course, tribal towns were once set up here by the Seneca people and other smaller tribes over the millenia.  Within the park proper are former hotels and guest homes of the wealthy residents that now serve vacationers with lodging, food, and beverage. We partook of these summer fruits ourselves on the veranda of a small lodge and restaurant set near the lower Genesee Falls, Diane with her wine and I with an iced tea. 

The lodge was actually a large house, ample for living yet small as a lodge per se.  A wide porch girdled two sides of the building that faced the direction of the lower falls.  The wooden walls were painted thickly in subdued khaki.  The outdoor window trim and the ceiling are a dark forest green.  The very colors themselves initiate stately summer relaxation.  The windows themselves stand a good 6’ high and must have provided welcome breezes during the Summer afternoon in those gilded days of old.  A low railing decorates the roof of the veranda and produces an inviting New York country estate feeling.  Heidi and Dash lay at our feet in the warm afternoon sun as we took in the full measure of the New York summer afternoon, the trailing mist of the falls a few feet from us lilting in the trees.  Time evaporated for us into moments, immeasurable beyond the enjoyment of the experience.  We ordered another round of drinks.  Our conversation in that contemplative setting turned to the ephemeral, those issues beyond objective surety.  For the while we were those 19th century august philosophers on retreat in the handsome woodland hills of western New York state. 

It is said that Letchworth State park is the finest state park in the United States and that might well be true. Certainly, from our growing experience with state parks it ranks high if not highest on our list.  The campground is very nice with shaded and semi-secluded spots complete with electric and water.  Remote camping for tenters is plentiful as well. The surrounding little country towns are nestled perfectly into the New York hills and stream valleys.  Old, yet neatly kept brick and frame houses stand as they have for decades, their yards decorated with blooming flowers and nicely arranged shrubs. 

The outstanding feature of the Park are its waterfalls and heavily wooded, riverine canyon.  There are two dramatic waterfalls located closely together tied by a walking trail that offers inspiring perspectives of their grandeur.  We took pictures a plenty as we walked the pathway between the falls, pausing to embellish our spirits in the mists and leafy aromas of the forest. 

Over the upper falls and just upstream stands a railway bridge that was rebuilt from an earlier era’s wooden beam structure that miraculously spanned the river chasm.  Seldom do I find man’s intervention into nature appealing.  A bridge over a waterfall is not my typical idea of an inspirational moment.  Yet, this bridge by this waterfall seems a perfect combination of man’s art and ingenuity matched with God’s eloquent garden.  How rare that combination has been in my experiences.  Somehow it all works together to make you feel really good about our place in this world.  I suppose a plainer way of saying it would be...It’s a really cool place to be, a living postcard. 

Being that we were in the heart of Summer and in the woods where ticks, mosquitoes, and the nation’s highest concentration of Lyme disease exist, we did not venture out to hike the heavily wooded areas.  We stuck mainly to the roads and wide paths.  I can see that in the Autumn and Winter months this would be a wondrous hiking park, though.  I imagine the colors of the Fall are glorious here, the crisp mornings luring you to explore and exciting your soul. 

A Real Bucket Lister 

When I was 4 or 5 years old I thought I was going to be a fireman.  Specifically, I was going to be the fireman on the back of the fire truck hanging on while the siren blared and the truck sped down busy city streets on its saving missions.  My young friend, Jimmy Schulte, from 3 doors down was going to be the other fireman on the back along with me.  We would save lives and buildings and homes from ruin.  Of course, sliding down the brass pole in the firehouse looked like a lot of fun, too.  There was that part. 

Somewhere along the line when I was about 6 or 7 years old a new dream entered my life.  It’s that dream that if I’m honest I still hold deep in my soul even though I am 10 times older now than when it first hatched. Baseball… 

Yes, baseball entered my life.  It entered my life the way it enters so many youngsters lives, even today.  My dad played catch with me.  My dad took time and focused on me, just me, as we threw that tired and smudged baseball back and forth to each other while my dad offered encouragement and instruction in a way that only a loving dad can do.  With each smack of the ball against my glove I felt more confident of myself.  Every time I missed catching his throw, or I threw wildly back to him, I vowed to do better, listening intently to his comments. 

“Stay in front of the ball and low so that if you miss it or it takes a bad hop it will bounce off you and stay in front of you and not get by.” 

“Never take your eyes off that ball!” 

“Charge the ball and try to get to it on the big hop. Don’t go back on the ball, always charge it.” 

“ Atta boy, atta boy, good catch, Johnny.” 

“Hey, you put a little mustard on that throw. That’s the way to do it.” 

As each little new skill developed in my ability to play the game, to grasp and perform the fundamentals, the lessons got a little deeper.  My dad taught me well.  He even coached a few of my little league teams, starting with Cub Softball at old Holy Redeemer School in Webster Groves. MO.  Of course, like many, I remember vividly my first major league baseball game.  It was at the old Busch Stadium, formerly Sportsmen’s Park on Grand and Dodier Avenues in St Louis.  I could talk for hours about that hallowed ground.  Fenway and Wrigley Field have nothing on old Sportsman’s Park. 

As I grew I pestered my dad with endless questions about the old stars of the game and who he saw play when he was young.  He had a program from the World Series in 1934, the St Louis Cardinals Gashouse Gang versus the Detroit Tigers.  I have that treasure nowadays.  I devoured every baseball book that the Webster Groves library had...several times over.  I think I read The Babe Ruth Story 8 times.  I listened to every St Louis Cardinals game that I could on a little transistor radio, many times at night in bed with it tucked under my pillow and a single earphone plugged into my ear.  I listened to the live sports talk radio shows on KMOX and marveled when they would interview the actual players before and after games.  And then, when I didn’t think I could get any more steeped and obsessed with baseball, Stan Musial entered my life. 

Stan Musial, purely and simply, is my hero.  He is a man’s man, a player to be looked up to on and off the field.  I had the supreme good fortune to have met Stan several times.  He was always the consummate great guy, the gentleman, always ready to sign an autograph or shake your hand, always smiling.  Everyone I know loves Stan and I’ve never heard anyone ever say a negative word about him.  When I was a kid my big brothers, Norm and Mike, bought me a “Stan the Man Learn to Hit” LP record album which I wore out listening to.  My son, Eli, bought me a replacement album for Father’s Day some years ago.  Where he found such a treasure only he knows but let me tell you something, that gift made my heart sing.  Of course, I, in turn, as my dad did with me, steeped Eli in baseball from his earliest days.  That smack of the glove catching the well-thrown baseball was now returned to me as the dad.  It was I who now offered the instruction and encouragement.  The joy of it all returned again to me ten-fold as Eli became a terrific baseball player and even through his high school baseball team days we played catch in the front yard.  I say all that to say this...Getting to Cooperstown, NY to see the Baseball Hall of Fame has been a dream of mine, a bucket-lister big time.  I finally made it! 

Leaving Letchworth State Park we headed southeastward on two-lane New York back roads. We rolled along over gentle hills and past beautiful, picture perfect farmland. The hills began to get a little steeper as we neared Cooperstown until we dropped down into this wonderful valley where a large lake dominated the scenery.  This is James Fenimore Cooper country, the Last of the Mohicans author.  This was his Glimmerglass Lake from those Leatherstocking Stories of long ago.  On the southern end of the lake lies Cooperstown. On the northern end is Glimmerglass Lake State Park, a gem of little park.  That is where we set up camp for our Cooperstown experience.

Glimmerglass Lake State Park is a beaut.  The campsites are very well spaced apart and wooded.  Wild flowers dot the hills even in July.  A very small creek, barely moving in the heart of Summer, empties into the lake here. Across its narrow width an old covered bridge spans the banks, perhaps 50 feet long. It’s old and sagging in a few spots, but basically very sound structurally.  They will tell you at the park that this covered bridge is the oldest in America.  It may well be.  The timbers they used to build it are definitely from a time when trees were so much larger than today.  They’re monsterously large...and long. This is the first of many old covered bridges we will see in the coming months. 

I wasted no time in getting over to the other side of the lake to Cooperstown.  We left relatively early the next morning after our arrival and arrived as the Hall of Fame was opening. I stood at the entrance of the Hall for a moment and marveled as I took it in and framed it in my my mind as a portrait to be hung for eternity in the halls of my memory.  Folks from all over the country, and even outside the US were busy buying tickets and buying souvenirs.  Lots of little kids buzzed around me coming and going, some with their baseball uniforms on as I stood there for the moment.  Every baseball movie I’d ever watched, all the great baseball cards of my youth, all the highlight moments from the Cardinals’ illustrious past, the legends passed down from my dad, the great plays that my son, Eli, made in the field, and even some of mine, the pages and pictures from the books I devoured...all of this flooded my mind.  It overwhelmed me.  It was joy.  It was joy as you knew it as a child, unadulterated, unpolluted, unapologetic.  We slowly, even reverently went inside. 

The Hall of Fame changes its exhibits from time to time.  There are three floors of treasures and many sections that feature various aspects of the game.  There is ample space devoted to the earliest origins of the game and the growing professional aspect of it.  After all, it is a space dedicated to the best of the best professional players.  There you can discover the origins of your favorite teams.  Much is said about the St Louis Cardinals’ formative years and there are even some highlights of the St Louis Browns.  There is a very large amount of space dedicated to the Negro Leagues and its stars.  The player’s struggles not only to make ends meet, but the hardships they endured touring the states during the Jim Crow days were featured prominently.  I reveled in learning even more about the olden days of The Pastime than I had previously known.  Old baseballs, old uniforms, and all the trappings of The Pastime were there as if the clock had been turned back. 

There’s space set aside to feature and discuss the exploits of the major characters from the steroid days.  Videos recall baseballs launched into the heavens by McGuire, Sosa, Barry Bonds, et al.  McGuire’s 61st home run, which I witnessed when it happened with Diane and Eli, runs in a continual loop video.  There’s an entire Babe Ruth section and a Hank Aaron section, rooms unto themselves.  A few prominent eras of the St Louis Cardinals are also featured.  There’s a Whiteyball display complete with Ozzie Smith on continual video loop doing his back flip to start the World Series.  In another area the Gas House Gang lives again. Rogers Hornsby bats .400+ yet again in this Hall. Stan Musial is featured, but not as prominently as I feel he should be.  I was disappointed that more space was not given The Man.  Of course, I wore my Stan Musial uniform shirt proudly on my visit.  Be true to your school I always say.  They even had a minor exhibit for Albert Pujols...who is still playing to this day.  They showed him sending a ball to the moon off Brad Lidge in that momentous playoff game between Houston and St Louis that we all remember and Lidge tries in vain to forget.  Yeah, it’s all there.  It really is Baseball Heaven. 

Then, there is the Hall itself.  I wondered what it would look like during all these years of me fantasizing its architecture and space.  The ceiling is impossibly high.  The room echoes a bit if you speak louder than a whisper and I found that’s what everyone in the Hall was doing...respectfully, admiringly, whisperingly.  After all, most of these players have gone on to their Field of Dreams.  Plaque after plaque line the Hall in reverential alignment.  I thought for a moment that they might consider putting candles in front of the plaques as they do in Catholic churches in dedication to the Blessed Virgin.  (just kidding, of course...well, maybe they could try it out) 

I was not disappointed in my visit to the Hall of Fame despite my vapid anticipation built up over the years.  I eventually walked out with Diane back onto the street and we were both satiated. It was as if we had just finished off a Thanksgiving feast and needed an overstuffed chair to sit and digest for a while.  It probably goes without saying that all the little shops around the Hall in the carefully preserved old buildings were there to sell souvenirs and mementos you could bring back home.  I didn’t find them cheesy or crass, though. By and large the stateliness and decorum of Cooperstown is well preserved. 

Infused with baseball fever Diane suggested we take in a Little League game in town.  There, in Cooperstown, they’ve built a baseball complex called Dream Fields where there must be a dozen ball fields in one spacious vale, diamonds back to back and kitty corner to each other.  One theatrical ball field sits off by itself, set up to resemble a major league field, albeit in miniature form.  Little League teams from across the country, some 60+ each summer week, come to Cooperstown to play in tournaments against each other.  The culmination is a night game staged as the championship of the tournament.  We just happened to be in town for that week’s big championship game and so we decided we’d take it in.  It would be so appropriate we thought, to watch a little league game in the town that Baseball built.  After all, Little League Baseball is really what the sport is all about when you boil it all down. 

A team from Atlanta rated as the 4th best team in the nation played an upstart team from Tennessee for the championship that week.  The air was fairly electric and the stands were packed with not only the parents of the players but with the teams who had lost games that week to these two behemoths.  It didn’t take long for team Atlanta to establish themselves.  We watched in amazement as Atlanta launched ball after ball screaming through the air, some of which left the stadium, not just the field... the stadium!  Before the 5th inning it was 12-0 Atlanta.  It was a rout.  Not the tightly fought game we hoped for, but baseball in its very pure sense played by boys on the cusp of their teenage years. 

It is true as is often said, Cooperstown and the Hall of Fame is a hard town to get to.  But, I think it is altogether fitting and proper that it is so.  Once there, it is really worth the ride, especially if you ever played catch with your dad, or your mom, or your brother, or your sister, or your best friend. 

The Adirondacks

 

Through April and May of this year we meandered northerly through the Appalachians from the foot hills of South Carolina to our eventual northeasterly exit from them in West Virginia on our way to Michigan as camp hosts.  Now we rejoin them in northern New York State as we enter the Adirondacks.  We’ve always wanted to experience them having heard and read so many cool stories about them.  Now we’re here, we’ve arrived. 

We came at the Adirondacks from the southwest, driving northerly by Interstate 95 skirting their eastern flank. Fairly soon after we jumped on I-95 we began to gain altitude and Nell, our trusty Conestoga motor home, began chugging, laboring along as she pulled Tank in tow.  Nell just hasn’t been right since we left Texas.  I had a truck repair shop check her out there before we left and they had assured me she was in tune ready to go.  I’m not so sure.  I’ve been at the wheel with her for 4 and a half years and I know when she’s not right.  For now, we’ll just have to keep going until I can figure out what to do next for her.  Nevertheless, on we drove north, our next goal being Lake Placid, New York, that Olympic town where the Miracle of 1980 occurred...the US Hockey Team beat the Red Army Olympic team and took home the Gold Medal. 

In fact, Lake Placid has hosted two Olympics.  It’s hard to imagine now that a little village town like Lake Placid could host an Olympics.  They’ve become such a world stage event.  There’s no way Lake Placid could possibly host and hold all the people attendant with a world event such as the Olympics these days.  But, once upon a glorious time it did. 

The Adirondacks are stunningly high mountains for being set on the east coast.  The sides of these mountains rise sharply from the surrounding land making them seem somehow higher than the Smokies.  Roads typically follow streams and rivers and climb and dive over the passes where they must, making the drive through the twists and turns a blast.  There are no cities here, just villages and towns in the most picturesque settings imaginable.  Houses are beginning to have that New England look about them to us, some stone structures, some clapboard and wooden framed, some Victorian with filigree woodwork about their porches and eaves.  It feels new and exciting to be here for us, yet so familiar in many ways. 

Just north of Lake Placid there is a KOA campground called North Pole KOA and that’s going to be our home for a few days as we explore the area.  Usually we don’t like staying in KOA’s.  They’re pricey and crowded.  This one, however, is very well set up. The section in which we are staying is set in the forest proper and there is ample space between camp sites.  The overstory of trees keeps the air cool even during the heat of the day.  Our location is great for getting around to see the sights as it were. 

Roughly speaking, the Adirondacks cover some 5,000 square miles which has been designated Adirondack Park.  There’s almost no end of to the things to see and do here.  At some point we will have to come back here and spend some more serious time exploring this massive region as this time through we’re really just going to scratch the surface so to speak.  Our camp is close to Whiteface Mountain, a well respected ski slope.  Mount Marcy, the highest peak in the range at 5,344 feet, is close at hand as well.  That’s where the famed Hudson River sources itself.  There are regions within the Park that contain impossibly beautiful lakes as well.  Small rushing rivers lace the interior of the mountains and remind us of the rivers in Colorado where we spent so much time during past summers.  Rocky, boulder strewn, cut through solid granite, these rivers, though smallish in size, mean business.  We spent one afternoon hiking along the banks of one of these, the Ausable River.  Near our campground we took along Dash and Heidi, our two indefatigable canine companions, making our little 50 Amp Vision Quest family complete for the afternoon.  There are a couple of great swimming holes along this stretch of the Ausable and folks gathered there to cool off, though the temps were pretty mild for swimming in my estimation, perhaps in the high 70’s.  Towards the end of our hike we came across a large, and what seemed like permanent, beaver pond.  The beavers were in their lodge this day so we didn’t see them but they assuredly had been busy little critters.  Freshly gnawed tree limbs were everywhere. 

On another day Diane and I checked out the Ausable Chasm.  There is an adventure trail there that features stairs, landings, and formal trails which give you access to viewing points you’d be hard pressed to get to without them.  It’s stunning!  Even with the drought that has enveloped the region this Summer, the river was diving, cascading, and cutting yet today through the seemingly impregnable granite.  We would pause at the various points and just simply stare and breathe, taking in the full measure of sights, sounds, and smells of the place.  It was soul-stirring for us. 

Lake Placid itself is the perfect little town for the Adirondacks.  You can easily see how the Winter Olympics would have been perfectly suited for this location.  There is a central boulevard that runs the length of the retail center and it’s crowded with shops and restaurants and all manner of folks bustling around doing what they do on vacation.  We didn’t stop to shop here or hang out, but we drove along the banks of the Lake to take in the beauty.  The Winter Olympics Center is there which contains the hockey arena.  Remarkably, the setting for the other ice skating events is outside.  You have to imagine that the ice conditions would be subject to the temperament of the weather on whatever day they were held.  Sunny skies might mean a sloshie track you’d suppose.  It’s another reason besides adequate housing that the modern Olympics can’t be hosted here today. 

We drove off into the surrounding mountains to check out the other Olympic event sites.  Some 5 to 7 miles outside of town lie the bobsled and ski jumping sites.  Of course, it’s odd to see them so stark and naked in the summer.  The ski jumping platforms terrified me just to look at them.  How in the devil can someone fly off those things?  I have to say, they seem much higher, much steeper seeing them in person than on television.  The US Olympic Team has set up a practice facility here for the more daring events.  There is a short steep hill the skiers fly down. They gain their speed and then they do their stunts while landing in a very small lake to deaden their fall.  The bobsled and luge set up is very elaborate.  You can tour it even during the summer. It’s set up for tourists at this stage, though the Olympic team practices here during winter.  During Summer you can take the bobsled down the track as they have the sleds set up on wheels.  With a pro at the helm, you can experience some of the thrill the Olympians feel as it screams down through the track.  If memory serves it is $120.00 to take a fly.  We should have done it.  But, with gas prices nearly $5.00 a gallon we thought we’d conserve a little on the cash.  I think now it was a bad decision. 

It’s funny...I recall so well a ride at the Highlands Amusement park back in St Louis during the late 1950’s called “The Bobsled”.  It was set up just like a real bobsled course and featured a wooden track whose sides would creak and moan every time a sled would run its course.  Half the thrill was not knowing if the whole thing would come crashing down with you on it. It felt old and decrepit.  The Highlands were located where Forest Park Community College is now located.  The place was a classic old school amusement park with rides and contests of skill and side shows galore.  I remember saving up milk carton coupons on Adams Milk containers for months to get enough to trade in for free admission.  My parents couldn’t afford to take me there at the time but God bless Adams Milk.  They gave me the opportunity.  My mom gave me $2.00 to spend inside for the rides.  Besides the Bobsled ride and the rickety roller coaster I spent most of my time hanging around the Carney folk at the side shows. 

“Hiya Hiya, step right up, see the Yak Woman tangle with the Wolf Man.  Just a dime folks, a thin dime, step right up there. Who will win the wrastlin’ match?  Come see it all right before your eyes.  Hey, move away kid, you’re botherin’ me.”  Carney barkers...you gotta love ‘em. 

I had heard they had a guy there who would eat a live chicken.  That’s what my dad told me, anyway.  I didn’t see any evidence of that, not that I didn’t look all over the place for him. 

The Adirondacks are close to 40-50 million people living on the East Coast.  Who knows?  It does get crowded there, and it really is hard to find a place to set up your RV.  The major nature sites on the tourist maps her in the East can get very busy.  But, there are still places you can get to away from the summer crowds.  There are inspiring hikes to be had where you can steal away alone.  Diane and I would pack up and just go, exploring the area down little two lane roads wherever they took us.  We’d follow the rivers and streams, coming to little hamlets here and there where folks would carve out a living catering to tourists or perhaps logging to some extent.  It’s a delightful way to spend some time.  No direction predetermined.  No direction home, as Bob Dylan would say. 

Often, as we move around through the country I think about that.  We have no home now.  Home is wherever we are.  It’s a little unsettling once in a while, but more often it’s quietly exciting.  We don’t know where or how this journey ends, or if it will end.  But, I suppose everything does eventually. For now, in the Adirondacks of New York State and the lyrics of Robert Earle Keen echo around my mind...The Road Goes on Forever and the Party Never Ends. 

The Green Mountains

 

Vowing to return one day so that we can dive deeper into the mystique and wonder of the Adirondacks we pack up and leave the Lake Placid area to continue east into Vermont.  During our time off from camp hosting we are trying to cram as much into our trip to Nova Scotia as possible.  It’s never about getting to one destination as fast as we can these days for us.  We try to linger and experience all we can at destination points along the way. Rather than project that we’re going to Nova Scotia per se, we might say to ourselves...”We’re off to the Green Mountains in Vermont,” that being our next stop.  Still, there is a time limit of sorts for us as to how much time we can spend in one locale since we have committed to camp host in Texas for the Winter. 

We drove north towards the mouth of Lake Champlain.  This land is loaded with historical events in our nation’s formative history.  Robert Rogers led his Rangers here, some 600 strong, during the French and Indian Wars in the pre-revolutionary days.  This outfit acted as guerrillas, assembling intelligence on the movement of French and Native fighters in the area.  Often they would board long canoes and paddle mile after mile north along the banks of Lake Champlain dodging detection by traveling at night.  They would strike fierce and fast blows against pockets of French troops or occasionally bands of natives and then hightail it back south either by canoes or on foot through the heavy woods.  Winter or Summer, it made little difference to these woodsmen fighters, they would strike when the opportunity favored them in typical guerrilla fashion with stealth and precision.  Hardships upon them were intense as some died by freezing and starvation.  Nonetheless, Rogers’ men were very loyal to him. 

After the Battle of Quebec situations began taking a turn for the worse for Rogers.  He eventually led expeditions across the Great Lakes for the British breaking new ground on the American frontier.  The British always suspected Rogers of ulterior motives, however, and felt he was acting at times as a double agent of sorts.  For all his loyalty and fighting for the Crown of England he was treated very poorly by the British high command.  Typically, he was not reimbursed for his expenses for food and ammo, the British chafing at his insistence that he needed cash for supplies to fight for them.  Rogers ran up large debts due to this, though he seemed to have always made good on paying his creditors back.  Eventually, Rogers and his lieutenants were stripped of their commissions and back pay and more or less kicked out of the British Service for suspected treason and attempting to defraud the Crown for services and supplies. 

After that Rogers drifted for a while, became entangled in alcohol, and died penniless and alone in 1795.  He had gone from the charismatic leader of a highly successful Ranger team, respected throughout New England, to a broken man, alone and discarded more or less in the gutter of America’s progress.  Rogers Rangers’ tactics are still taught to this day in US military schools and the modern Ranger class unit in the US Army is molded after his model.  Of course, in reality, most of the tactics that Rogers employed in both fighting and survival in the woods came directly from copying Native Americans’ tactics.  Where Rogers differed was in creating a European style discipline in his methods.  Rogers wrote down rules of survival and warfare so that they could be taught, recalled, and used by various sub-Ranger groups not under his actual direct command.  These rules survive and are published even to this day. 

Rogers’ is a fascinating story and one which is not commonly taught or known about outside of military and academic folks.  If you enjoy non-fiction, historical reading there are some very good books written about Rogers and his company of Rangers.  I really enjoyed researching his story a few years back.  There is less black and white and more gray to our country’s early history than one might casually be taught. 

One of the highlights of our travel to Vermont and the Green Mountains was taking the ferry across Lake Champlain from New York to Vermont.  The ferry got our entire motor home with the Jeep attached on board for the ride.  Off we bounded over gentle waves in the bright morning sun of Summer on the Canadian Border.  We began to see highway and road directions in both English and French while we viewed the Green Mountains off in the distance to the South. 

Our good friends, Wren and Nan, hail from Vermont currently and live just outside Montpelier.  They generously detailed several great campgrounds we could check out for our stay in Vermont.  We wanted to meet up with them but fate had other plans for the moment as they were out in the West and we were on the move east.  We were going to spend just a few days in Vermont, hoping to come back this way on our return trip to St Louis.  We really want to see Wren and Nan.  We bid them a farewell last during the Winter back at Pedernales Falls State Park where we were all camp hosts. 

We chose to stay at one of the campgrounds that Wren told us was one of her favorite spots in Vermont called, Limehurst Lake Campground.  Great recommend!  Limehurst is a family run, small and very comfortable campground on a picturesque pocket lake set back into the hills and away from the traffic and road noise of the small town nearby.  There happens to be a lot of seasonal campers who call it home for the Summer.  A saltwater pool is on site and it is super refreshing during a hot Vermont afternoon, though hot in Vermont is not nearly so hideously uncomfortable as St Louis or other forsaken heat and humidity drenched places around the country.  The pool, though, abides! 

Limehurst made for a great base of operations for us as we tooled up and down and around the Green Mountains close by.  A must-see mini-destination for us was the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, Vermont.  This is the original Lodge and land that the Von Trapp family chose for their new home in America after escaping Austria at the outset of World War II.  We’re all familiar with the story of The Sound of Music and the Trapp Family Singers and the movie is one of our most favorites.  The true story is somewhat different than the movie, though.  Still, theirs is an amazing story and touring the Lodge and the grounds high up in the mountains with the wildflowers still blooming and the cool breeze wafting up from the valley was revitalizing.  We had a marvelous time imagining Maria and the kids romping around these grounds. 

Below the mountain in the valley below you can tour Cabot Cheese Company and get all kinds of great cheeses, which of course we did.  You can also tour Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory, a thought almost too dangerous for us to consider.  What would I do if I found myself in Ben and Jerry’s factory?  What if I got locked in overnight somehow?  Would I perish from Cherry Garcia overload?  I know the answer.  Funny thing about visiting Ben and Jerry’s, they have a graveyard outside in the back with flavors that have “died”.  These guys have always had a great sense of humor. 

The Green Mountains are exactly that...green.  The valleys bend and fold as a disheveled, viridescent blanket on a bed.  Some contours are sharp and rigid while others are gentle and wavy.  Most of the valleys are carved by some manner of creek or river.  I can only imagine for now what the picture transforms to in Autumn or Spring, Winter for that matter.  The wonderful aspect of our journey at this point is that we are experiencing so many new places and cultures.  Though we have ample time to make our way to Nova Scotia and back we are still on a sort of deadline.  We have committed to be in Texas to camp host starting in November.  Along our way we also want to see New York, Boston, and Washington DC where my brother and his family live.  We want to visit old friends in St Louis, too.  So, we keep moving, always wanting to spend more time in this place or that along the way.  Vermont is definitely one of those areas that we want to return to. 

We plan to come back to visit with Nan and Wren late Summer or early Autumn.  I know as I post pictures of our travels on facebook that folks feel we are so lucky to be able to live this gypsy life.  We, too, know we are ever so fortunate as well.  It’s interesting, though.  The more we see, the more we seem to want to see.  Travel for us is relative that way.  Are we greedy in living out our dreams?  Are we unappreciative for always wanting to experience more?  There’s not a day goes by that we are not overtly thankful for this life together.  Yet, we pinch ourselves at the same time.  We are without a home, nothing to fall back on.  We are now at home, when, where, and however we got where we are. 

The White Mountains 

The next earthen fold eastward are the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  We trace along two-lane, blue highways.  Semicircular transits up and down, like a Tilt-O-Whirl carnival ride at a summer county fair, carry us in gradual steps into New Hampshire.  New England townsfolk carry on their day to day as we enter and leave each new hamlet, some large enough to resemble Anywhere USA, most so entirely New England, just as we imagined they’d be...Quaint, picturesque, old, rundown, restored, unique unto themselves. 

History is deep here as opposed to the West, or even the Midwest.  Revolutionary days blend with the occasional wind turbine.  Civil War memorials in town squares dedicated to troops who went off to fight for the Union blend with the ghosts of Native Americans whose place names survive to this day.  The little boutique in town may have a wooden floor and a tin ceiling dating from 1890 but they take your wampum with a hand held computer.  We have fallen in love with the place, this area of New England.  The folks, somewhat predictably, are somewhat stand-offish.  Once you strike up a conversation I have found the locals to be just like folks most places, helpful, and friendly.  It’s getting past that granite-like first impression countenance you might encounter that takes some doing.  They don’t self- coruscate warm and open countenances, but, given some time and honest conversation their inner lights shine like lighthouses. 

We’ve elected to set up camp at White Birches Campground just outside the small town of Gorham, New Hampshire for the next bit.  We could not get into the local state or national campgrounds as they were jammed up with summer vacationers.  I’m finding that to be more and more the case as we travel east.  White Birches, for a private campground, is fine though.  The management folk are very customer-centric and open. The location is great. 

Gorham seems to be the perfect spot to visit the area around Mount Washington, the highest peak in New Hampshire.  Outdoor activities seem to be nearly endless here.  The timeless Androscoggin River runs through here on its way to joining the Kennebec in Maine and at times offers some good paddling and floating.  This season it has been dry as it has in so many parts of the country and it is too low for much kayak play.  We’ll do some hiking and drive around and see the sights and open our senses to the White Mountains for a while. 

This place is magnificent.  For starters, Mount Washington is a big dude.  At 6000+ feet it’s the tallest, most imposing mountain in the Appalachian chain outside of the Smokies.  From my perspective it is almost more impressive than Clingman’s Dome, the famous point at the height of the Smokies.  I feel that it rises to its massive height from a much lower base altitude than Clingman’s.  Man, it just rises and rises and rises as it transcends several climate zones of flora.  The nation's, if not the world’s most extreme weather, haunts Mount Washington.  The world record for strongest wind was measured there, some 220 MPH! Think about that for a minute. 

One afternoon, before we took a short hike on its eastern flank to a gorgeous waterfall, we stopped into an information center.  A lot of folks were getting ready to head out for multiple day hikes up and along the sides of the mountain.  They were stopping by for updates.  There they had real-time updates on weather up top with warnings for hikers along with food and supplies and such.  I picked up a large notebook that was chained to a 3-D topographical map of the area large enough to fill a standard living room.  In the book were the names of hikers who died on the slopes along with the dates of their passing, or in some cases, their findings, as they had been reported missing for a while.  I noted a couple of the names and dates were current from this season. 

From that point Diane and I tracked up the slope a ways along a small rushing creek to as beautiful a waterfall as you ever might see.  Granite boulders the size of Lazy Boy recliners, worn round with constant water pressure, were strewn over the creek bed as if some great hand had placed each one individually so as to create the maximum amount of swirl and foam as the water tumbled downward.  Gnarled roots lay exposed over the trail bed from decades old trees, digging ever deeper into the earth for sustaining water and nutrients.  The trees were so dense that we felt we were in tunnels of vegetation for much of the hike.  Ever mindful of ticks, we did not stray from the path.  Lyme disease here is serious business.  Throughout the day mighty thunderheads enveloped the peaks hugging the slopes as they passed over.  They bent and fractured the afternoon sun into beams of radiance.  One caught us by surprise on this hike and dumped a bathtub of water on our heads drenching us.  It was over as quickly as it began, however. 

After a couple of days of touring around the area we decided to check out a National Forest Campground close by called Dolly Copp.  Dolly, as it turns out, was a real person, a pioneer in the area who seemed to be not only pretty darn resourceful, but pretty irascible, too.  After 50 years of living with her husband she announced one day, 

“ Fifty years is enough with any man, no matter who he is. I’m leaving, goin’ out on my own for a while.”

She never returned to old man Copp.  She lived out her life by her lone self out in the woods.  This campground is set up on her old stomping grounds.  I wondered, did this flinty land leave its mark on her or did she fashion the hardscrabble landscape through her own gritty attitude? 

The campground is the best National Forest Campground we have yet seen in 4+ years.  It has just recently been rehabbed, rebuilt, with new paved roads and 50-amp electric and water.  The campsites themselves all have great privacy and are large, surrounded by deep woods.  There may be 75 to 100 sites here but you wouldn’t know it.  Shower houses have been updated and are as clean as possible.  Trails leave the area at several places and one traces a mountain stream that features a great swimming hole that the Ranger on duty told us about.  We moved here and stayed three days after our stay at White Birches ended.  We thought about the possibility of camp hosting here one Summer.  It would be grand indeed, a cool place to volunteer and work through the summer. 

Another in the series of wonderful waterfalls to experience in this area lies just south of Dolly Copp, a short hike from the main road.  Glen Ellis Falls must be seen. Steps have been built into the sharp ravine that take you to successive stops where you can get close and personal with the Falls.  Spray whips your face and hair refreshing you on such a warm summer day.  Along the way down the ravine you notice trees growing from impossible places, granite rock outcroppings and crevices stuffed with chunk rock.  Their roots stretch and bend over the boulders seeking purchase.  Life is amazing in what it can accomplish and where it can thrive.  Being in the presence of waterfalls such as Glen Ellis make me feel more alive than nearly anything else.

One morning Diane wanted to sleep in, the travel and hiking having worn on her somewhat.  I lit out for a morning 2 hour hike along a creek that led ever deeper back into a widening valley between peaks.  I passed two fairly large beaver ponds along the way and had to clamber over some large rocks and boulders as I continued.  A walking stick would seem mandatory for this hike and I fortunately had mine.  The creek that continued along between beaver dams was simply elegant.  This creek was not the roaring mountain stream but the pastoral-like flow that nurtured bending trees shading its banks.  The sun was bright and gaining height and I could feel alternating warm and cool air pockets as I walked along, some laying in from the night before just now rising from the shadows while the warmer tones had already risen and embraced the day. 

Along the way I met a woman, I would guess in her 60’s, who was hiking solo through the mountains.  Her knees were scuffed up and her shoes were so well-worn, showing that she had been at this stuff for a good while.  Her back pack had sprung some holes and her stuff kept spilling out as she navigated the boulders.  She cussed her luck.  She stopped for a brief moment and she told me of her travels in the days prior and where she was bound for on this day, all the while still cussing her blown out back pack.  I offered her some plastic bags I was carrying in my backpack that she could use to stuff in the holes.  She thanked me and in short order was off on her way, intentful, with a purposeful gate steadied by her two walking poles in perfect cadence, driven it seemed to make time in the mountains.  I wonder now if she made her goal for the day.  I wonder if her backpack held out. 

South of us some 40 miles or so a great road has been built called the Kancamagus Highway.  It’s run is 35 miles from Lincoln to Conway, NH.  The Kancamagus Highway was the first National Scenic Byway in the northeastern US.  The road and the land it traverses is a watershed of historic, cultural, and scenic/recreational opportunities.  We took it up one afternoon, though we only traveled about half its length.  Along the way we stopped at yet another riverine gorge, this one named Rocky Gorge.  Holy Moses it’s grand!  Though not found out in the wilderness, it is preserved in near pristine shape within a special park where you can hike and even swim along its rocky banks, though well before some of the falls occur, hopefully.  A bridge spans a waterfall of some 30-40 feet in height and we watched and contemplated the oxygenated water as it boil and bubble beneath us.  After that pause we crossed over on a trail that led us to a small lake, as pretty as any you’ll see. The trail led off into the hills but we lingered by the lake side just enjoying the day and the moment. Diane stepped out into the water ankle deep and proclaimed it perfect for swimming.  But, within a brief moment, what has to be the longest leech I’ve ever seen, appeared and made a beeline for her inviting ankle, slithering along in rhythmic fashion.  Nope, no swimming today we decided.  No re-enactments of Humphrey Bogart hauling the African Queen through that swamp littered with leeches. 

Because I am wont to do so, here’s a little history of the area and the road, Kancamagus.  The current roadway was completed in 1959 during the time when the great infrastructure investment by our country was full tilt. Highways and roads were being laid everywhere across the country.  “See the USA in your Chevrolet” was America’s new theme song heard on every television show.  In 1937 the actual road was tied together from disparate parts by the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp).  In our travels it seems nearly every state park had its beginning with CCC handiwork.  You can’t help but wonder if this would work again today in some fashion.  But, that’s another story.  Some of the original roads around the mountains tying villages together were laid around 1837 give or take a few years.  Most of the original settlers arrived in the area around 1799, not the pioneers passing through and trading with the natives, but the folks who came after them and laid down roots and communities. 

Kancamagus, (The Fearless One) for whom the road is named, was a chief among the Penacook Confederacy. This was an organized amalgamation of 17 small tribes from the the area that Kancamagus’ predecessor, Passaconaway, (Child of the Bear) had forged in the hopes of creating protection against larger tribes and occasional small groups of Europeans attempting to wrest control of the rich hunting lands of the White Mountains.  Towns, rivers, peaks, all carry names from the indigenous leaders and the early settlers to this day. It has always been, and continues to this day, to be a wondrous land most worthy of protecting and enjoying for as long as we can.  Blood, sweat, and tears have been spilt by generation after generation to bring it to us as it is today, Native and European alike.  Layers of history and the stories of peoples unfold easily here.  The soil is shallow.  The souls and the lives of those who’ve gone before are easily released. 

Highway 2

 

Somewhat regretfully, somewhat eagerly, we find we must leave the White Mountains for now.  We could, of course, stay here and enjoy more of what the region offers.  The outdoor recreational and indoor cultural opportunities are near endless, I feel.  For now, this season, we take up travel again to continue on our loosely organized trip to Nova Scotia and the easternmost places of Canada and the US.  We are flexible yet we have a loose timetable for movement to and from geographic stopping points.  For us now, it’s on to Maine. 

All across the US and Canada there are iconic roads and highways that people take up season after season. We all know Route 66, for instance.  There are also less iconic yet inspirational roadways as well that make us glad we can travel.  Memories are made there, sometimes to last a lifetime.  As for us, we will always remember Highway 2 that rambles through New Hampshire and Maine.  A two-laner that dissects some of the best scenery in New England, it is a joy to drive.  Seemingly around each new bend lies an ancient farmhouse, a river corridor with an Indian name, a small town sans Wally World (Wal Mart), a vista that makes you want to stop and inhale the scene for a while.  We’ve seen a lot of roads.  This Highway 2 ranks way up the chart for us.  It’s classic New England.  It’s the pure maple syrup of 2-laners so to speak. 

As we drove on through the day on our way to Bangor, Maine where we decided we’d end our day of travel we eventually left New Hampshire and added Maine to our growing list of states we have visited on our 50 Amp Vision Quest.  The stoic clapboard houses we had grown accustomed to seeing here in the East continued.  The little communities that the highway bisected began to look a bit shabbier though, paint peeling, front porches sloping a tad needing a fix.  Diane noted that it seemed that Maine had more poverty than she expected to see. Logging trucks, loaded down with pine, became a common sight, their sheer weight and seemingly unstoppable momentum being impossible to ignore.  The rivers we had been tracing began to grow wider.  They, and we, were drawing ever closer to dates with the Atlantic Ocean.  Anticipation for the coastal life began to build in us. 

As we began an ascent of a long hill heading east on Highway 2, not 30 miles into Maine from New Hampshire, we nearly met our end.  I say that without exaggeration. We just about lost our lunch box for good that afternoon out on Highway 2.  As I just mentioned, we were heading up a long gradual hill.  A long line of about 10 or 12 cars and trucks were approaching heading west while we were heading east on this 2-lane.  As we were towing the Jeep and chugging up hill several cars and pickups lined up behind us.  We were traveling at about 60 MPH. I was trying to maintain momentum for the hill climb. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a logging truck traveling towards us, pulled out to pass the car in front of him.  He was not more than 150 yards from me barreling down the asphalt.  At that moment time lapsed into slow motion for me.  What happened next seemed as if it took a full minute to occur, yet it was scant seconds. 

I instantly thought to myself, 

“ He’s got to pull back into his lane...surely he’ll do that.” 

He did not.  He kept coming.  I instinctively checked the shoulder of the road to my right.  It fell off into the bush precariously.  Making for the right hand shoulder would most probably flip the motor home over.  I couldn’t slide into the oncoming lane either.  There was a line of vehicles coming down the hill in front of the logging truck.  A head-on with multiple cars was guaranteed.  The logging truck kept coming right at us.  Diane did not scream or call out but I could see her bracing herself against the dashboard from the periphery of my right eye.  I locked up the brakes on the motor home.  It was the only move I could make and it would only lessen the impact a little if we hit the logging truck.  I could feel the Jeep bang against the tow bar behind us as its own momentum carried it forward while I locked up Nell.  The brakes on the Jeep had not had time enough to engage through our tow vehicle braking system. 

We had a full tank of gas, 90 gallons give or take, 30 gallons of propane on board, and a Jeep with a full 15 gallons of gas.  We were a bomb on wheels.  We weigh in fully loaded as we are in the motor home around 29,000 pounds, not counting the Jeep.  The Jeep clocks in around 5,000 pounds. God knows how much the logging truck weighs.  Something akin to 3-megaton firebomb was getting ready to explode all around us. I felt my face turn flush, that tingling sensation you get when you are really scared. 

All of this happened in 2 to 3 seconds, top.  Yet, as I experienced it and as I recall it, it felt like a good minute went by.  Just when I thought it was really over, that we were going to crash head-on into the truck, he veered to my right, his left, on to the shoulder of the road.  He passed me on my right as he finally hit his brakes as well, throwing gravel and dust up in a cloud as he fought to maintain control of the monster truck.  I continued skidding but as he passed on my right and we somehow didn’t crash into each other I let up on the brakes and my immediate attention turned to the cars behind me.  I expected to feel a collision from behind.  My immediate thoughts veered towards avoiding a rear-end crash.  Surely... that was coming.  Brace! 

No, somehow, by the Grace of God, there was no crash.  We were alive, we were unhurt, we were upright and moving.  I quickly pulled over to the narrow shoulder myself.  I needed to check the tow bar and the Jeep.  I imagined that the tow bar would be bent pretzel style and wasn’t sure if the Jeep was damaged in the incident as well.  I now noticed my heart.  It was pumping as if there were no tomorrow.  I was sweating.  I jumped out of the motor home and ran back to look things over.  Cars behind me had pulled over off the road as well. Everyone there seemed to be trying to catch their breath, return to some kind of normalcy, I suppose.  I saw a long line of rubber on the road where I had locked Nell’s brakes up.  I saw the logging truck turn onto a dirt road just past the near impact point.  There was a loader waiting for him with his next package of logs.  What was this guy thinking?  Why would he try to pass when he needed to turn off the road just a few hundred yards up road? What the Hell!  I seriously thought about running down there and throwing some punches at this fool.  Rage filled me.  Diane was furious, too.  Instead I spent the next 10 minutes checking everything out with the Jeep and the motor home.  No apparent damage!  No one died!  No one was injured.  The cars behind me that had pulled off got back on the road, off to wherever and whatever they were doing and going that day.  The look in their eyes as they slowly passed me showed amazement. 

I got back into the drivers’ seat and just sat there for a while.  Diane, still furious over this man’s insane act, called the police and tried to get them to act on the situation, if for no other reason than to get this obviously careless man off the road before he killed someone else.  They were not motivated.  Finally, we pulled back onto Highway 2.  We drove on.  Neither of us spoke for a while.  I’ve said it before… 

...There are times in your life when you make grand decisions on the direction you want your life to take.  But, sometimes you simply make a left turn, or a right turn, and your life changes forever. 

You wake up earlier than usual.

You leave a little early for work. 

You make a right turn where you always do as you leave your neighborhood. 

You decide to stop and get one more cup of coffee along your way. 

Traffic is light as you leave the coffee shop and you decide to take the long way to work. 

You drive along the street with all the little shops and restaurants in the old part of town.  It’s been a while since you checked out the area. 

You see an old buddy whom you haven’t seen for a few years walking along the street and you stop to say Hi and talk for a moment. 

He tells you that he just changed jobs and he loves his new employer, never had it so good. 

He says you should check them out, they’re looking for talent, with your experience. 

You make a call into them on your lunch break. 

...And your life changes forever.  That’s just the way it works.  Sometimes you’re the baseball bat, sometimes you’re the baseball. 

That sunny afternoon out on Highway 2 in Maine in our motor home, we were the baseball...a fastball right down the middle of the plate.  The batter swung and missed.  We drive on. 

Down East Maine 

While loosely making plans for this segment of our trip to Nova Scotia we considered taking a drive north from Highway 2 to Moosehead Lake, Maine.  The research we did on the area really entices us to visit there. Moosehead Lake is in the northwoods of the state and once you arrive at Moosehead, the roads really peter out. It looks to me that much of northern Maine is wilderness, few, if any roads, lots of lakes and streams, and not many people.  We tried to get a camp hosting position there at a state park called, Lilly Bay, but the positions were filled out. Nothing was available this season. As tempting as it is to our tastes to check it our we decide to keep our heading east to the coast, perhaps hitting Moosehead on our return trip or some other time. 

We spent our first night in Maine in Bangor, or along the outskirts at an RV park, Pumpkin Patch it was called.  I had arranged to get Nell, our motor home’s engine checked out.  She’s just not running right lately.  The truck repair shop I was able to get look into her, Leonard’s, was just down the road so it was a perfect landing spot for us.  In the morning we dropped Nell off and toured around Bangor for the day while she was getting worked on. While in Bangor we checked out Stephen King, the illustrious and superiorly successful author’s house.  There’s no formal tour of the place or anything of that nature.  You just drive up and gaze at the place, knowing that the guy who owns it is genius of the weird story, an Edgar Allen Poe on steroids as it were.  Sure enough, there was a small crowd there gawking at the house.  Some folks were die-hard Stephen King fans with t-shirts spelling out his best known books.  Others, as we, were just curious. 

The house fits the author.  There is a wrought iron fence all along the perimeter of the property.  I’d guess it to be an acre or so in size.  Various bats and gargoyle type figures adorn the fence and gate at tastefully awful intervals.  One doesn’t want to appear overly-indulgent to one’s fan base.  There stands a dead tree in the front yard that has been carved by some wizard of an artist into all manner of beasts and attendant imps, each one over-arching the other in grotesque forms and features.  A bat with a bifurcated tongue menaces.  An antique desk emanates from the central trunk of the old dead tree.  Stories and tales emerge upward towards the sky in the oaken form of The Minions of Satan and The Creatures of the Night.  A dragon menaces from deep within its wooden sanctum.  Owls and cats and crows stare holes into your brain.  The entire tree trunk, a good 12 to 15 feet high cascades with foreboding symbols, all glazed with a deep stain to an amber glow.  I felt it had the effect of having a hand held lantern’s light illuminating it.  It’s a marvelous sculpture, perfectly fitting for Mr King. 

Also perfectly fitting is the giant black wrought iron spider web that makes up the double-sided front gate to the house.  Two three-headed dragons guard either side of the top of the spider-webbed gate.  All is locked at Mr King’s house.  It’s not a museum or a tour.  It’s just a curiosity in the midst of a well-to-do neighborhood in Bangor, Maine.  I imagine dozens of folks drop by everyday to contemplate the complexities of such a mind as Mr King possesses.  Perhaps something or someone outside his mind possesses him. 

We also visited an old cemetery on the banks of the river that dissects the town.  You could say were imbibed with a strange taste that day.  The cemetery was interesting, though.  Many of the town’s pioneers lay there. Some entire families were interred and often we noticed so many children's’ passing within a few months of birth.  Sometimes several children from the same family would seemingly perish within days and weeks of each other.  As my mother used to say to me, 

“Life wasn’t all THAT good in the good ol’ days.”

No, disease was often more initially fatal than today’s treatments allow.  Having said that though, these days we see huge outbreaks of seemingly uncontrolled epidemics. The latest, Monkey Pox, is currently knocking upon our collective door.  Quote the Raven, “Nevermore”. 

Having gotten old Nell tuned up we turned our sights towards Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park along the coast of Maine.  She is running like a top right now and the guys at Leonard's in Bangor did a Bang-up job fixin’ her up.  Not cheap or inexpensive, they do solid, excellent work and that’s what counts. 

The run of roads towards the coast of Maine from Bangor are not the best, but the drive is pretty.  We motored along hugging the river as we followed its course to the sea.  Seafood, lobsters specifically, began to dominate the billboards and storefront signs.  Yep, this is Maine alright.  I couldn’t wait to bite into a Haddock sandwich myself.  Haddock has replaced Cod as the principal fish these days in these parts.  Cod is available in some places but it’s been so heavily fished their stocks are depleted and who knows when and if they are going to come back.  I’ve read that when the early explorers came here the Cod were super-abundant and that their average weight was 20-30 pounds each.  They would salt them and send them back to England or France, the ships loaded to the point of being dangerous.  Now, they sail out to the Georges Banks to find a few.  As for me, I’ll take Haddock any day of the week.  Fry me up a fillet and put it between a toasted bun with the trimmings...Whoa!

As predicted by everyone we spoke to about Acadia National Park and the immediate area, there was no campsites to be had.  Everything was booked solid for the rest of the Summer.  Sometimes you get lucky and someone will cancel giving you a shot at a campsite, but no such luck today.  We found a campground, a private one, north of Acadia about 30 miles called Sunset Point Campground. This gem was almost too good to be true. If you drive out to the peninsula that sits near Harrington, Maine you will find a bay with an old time campground nestled along the small bluffs overlooking the water called, Sunset Point Campground.  Perhaps there are 20-30 campsites there, if that.  The gentleman that owns the campground is there all the time and he is the prototypical old school “Mainer”.  He’s a man of few words, but when he speaks common sense and wisdom gained from decades of life along the coast cascade from him.  Tall, lanky, tough as hickory, he has done a terrific job building and maintaining this little park.  Every campsite has bushes and trees surrounding it so as to offer the visitor some privacy and a feeling of solitude.  He’s cut a path that traces the bluffs along the banks of the bay that offers wondrous views of that bay, particularly at sunset...hence the name of the place. 

It was here that we first experienced the dramatic tidal swings that characterize Down East Maine.  At low tide it seems as if God himself had pulled the plug on the ocean floor to drain it.  Little crabs and critters skitter around and try to hide from the gulls who circle above.  Mats of seaweed and assorted other ocean plants line the granite boulders showing off their brilliant green jackets.  We could have just hung out here and enjoyed every minute, relaxing in the solitude with nature’s finest, but we had things to do and places to see.  However, each evening we would return and linger outside taking in the salt air as it weaved its way to our bank.  The sunsets were as advertised, sublime. 

We drove over to Bar Harbor and Acadia several times during our stay at Sunset Point.  It was near an hour from us on skittish 2-laners bobbing in and out of alternating glimpses of deep woods and small New England hamlets.  Some of the small towns are mostly dedicated to lobstering and the lobster-men’s ( and women’s ) boats and drying traps would be gathered around the bay fronts.  The scenes were just as you might imagine the Maine coast to be.  This is a coast of plenty, but life is tough, nonetheless.  It always has been and probably always will be.  The characters who cling to its bays and bars are salty, splinty, and hard-working. They’re a no-nonsense lot. 

One of the interesting things about Acadia National Park is that it is largely intermittent, meaning it covers a lot of territory but is interrupted by bustling civilization.  Due to the heavy tourist trade, Bar Harbor and the surrounding towns vie for living and working space within the greater peninsulas that make up the National Park. We did not spend but a few hours in Bar Harbor proper.  It was just too busy and too full of vacationers buying doodads, drinking pirate themed adult beverages, and eating lobster.  Admittedly, for some this could be Heaven.  Not so much for us. 

First off, we took in the Schoodic Peninsula which is part of Acadia National Park, but sits just a bay northeast of Bar Harbor.  This part of the Park is one of my favorite places in the area.  It is much more quiet than parts near Bar Harbor.  Schoodic is a long peninsula that jabs out at the sea in rocky, granite fingers of boulders and bluffs. Assortments of pines and other hardy trees line the banks and the road that traces the shoreline.  Here and there you can stop and get out of your car or off your bike and clamber down onto the rocks to experience them crashing against the solid boulders.  If you dare you can get close enough to feel the spray of the ocean as it relentlessly tears at the rocks.  Different times of day give you entirely different perspectives of the same scene as the tide rises and falls so dramatically.  It is truly mind-boggling to witness this phenomenon of the sea.  As does the Grand Canyon, Acadia makes you feel small.  This is nature on a grand scheme and scale. 

The next day we took in Acadia proper and Bar Harbor.  Bar Harbor for food for the stomach, Acadia for food for the heart and soul.  It is ever so true, if you cannot get your fill of Lobster and Haddock here you never will. Lobster rolls were our delicacy on this day.  Man, they did not disappoint!  They were awesome and we ate them outside on a picnic table by a roadside stand.  Roadside stands here create the best Lobster rolls and fried Haddock sandwiches imaginable and, they are more affordable than the glitzy restaurants where you can spend $30.00 or more for a Lobster roll. 

We did a lot of driving this day so as to get the lay of the Park and experience as much as we could of its variety. There are hiking trails galore here and normally we like to take a few in to get out in it so to speak.  Today, we drove and got out of the Jeep at intervals.  This Park is a jewel with a thousand facets.  The woods are deep and the shoreline is sharp and rough with crashing waves alternating with quiet little harbors with little hamlet style villages still intact from the olden days.  These small harbor villages are much more interesting than downtown Bar Harbor, I feel.  You get more of a sense of Old Maine there, the ambiance being more literal Maine and less gift-store-ish, if that be a description. 

One day upon returning to Acadia we found a great little hike out onto a small peninsula.  It was just down the road from South Harbor, a cool and historic village way out on the peninsula.  We walked through fragrant woods noticing ferns and even mushrooms and toadstools in the damp shade of the forest.  Walking slowly on we reached the rocky, boulder-strewn beach and shore at low tide.  The waves as they found landfall rumbled. We climbed around the seashore and picked at the interesting rocks and shells, admiring our finds.  We watched the sea birds scanning the shore for delicacies and indeed, they all found at least something to eat.  No one was starving today. 

The sun was just starting to set and intermittent rain showers were sweeping over the area in short bursts.  The massive cumulus clouds had golden outlines wrought from the low angle of the sun in the west.  You could make out curtains of rain showers a ways out at sea moving along with the wind, perhaps a mile or so in width, framed by the setting amber sunshine on either side.  These are the times and places that Diane and I search out in earnest.  It’s when we feel most alive and part of the world.  God grant us the wherewithal and the money to keep this life up for a while longer.  I know that within the Bible it warns us all not to be “of this world” because it is not our ultimate home.  Yet, we do love the Lord’s creation and we so appreciate and are grateful for every single minute we have together on this journey, this 50 Amp Vision Quest. 

The long and short of it is, Acadia National park lives up to its spectacular reputation.  It is a bucket- lister for certain, for true, for sure.  The thing is, though, the surrounding area and coastline is a treasure unto itself.  We also set out to explore the coast north of Acadia where crowds are few if any and the prizes for exploration are plenty.  For instance, in the town of Machias you can find Burnham’s Tavern. 

Job and Mary Burnham built and ran this tavern in the years leading up to the Revolutionary War.  It was a meeting place for the local militia and it was used as a field hospital for the wounded from the battle capturing the British ship, Margaretta, in 1775, reputedly the first naval battle of the War.  It lay high on a hill overlooking the town and small harbor below just as it did those 270 odd years ago.  From Machias you can drive out along yet another of the seemingly infinite peninsulas to Bluffs State Park and Jasper Beach.  At Jasper Beach you will find as pretty a cove as there may be on this earth.  It lay in a semi circle, rocks and pebbles of every imaginable color and texture lining the beach.  The rocks have been thrown up at the back end of the beach over the millenia from billions of ocean waves creating a wall that holds back the ocean at high tides.  Along the northern edge of the beach are a series of shallow caves that have been hollowed out of the sandstone bluff walls by the undercurrents of the sea at high tides.  Moss and sphagnum type stuff cling to the caves’ floors and lower walls. We were told that there is a lot sea glass that glides onto the beach but we didn’t find any that day.  It’s a long beach and we probably just weren’t at the right place to find it.  No problem for us, though.  Our treasure lay in the array of pebbles and rocks which we picked at for just the right colors and effects to use in Diane’s art projects.  Diane is ever the artist in everything she does.  Her media is planet Earth. 

In a rare bid to outdo Missouri’ in hillbilly style tourist attractions, the Blueberry Heritage Center presents itself for inspection near Columbia Falls, ME.  There you will find a blueberry blue geodesic dome housing all things blueberry.  Old round, steel buoys that used to act as breakwaters around docks sit at odd points around the large lot, all painted the same blueberry blue as if Gulliver had collected them from his Travels and set them there for the Lilliputians to harvest.  Whose blue ambition it was to create this Heritage Center is a Bel Esprit cum Laud.  You just have to check out something like this when you see it.  Of course, we did.  I am now steeped in Blueberry lore and history.  Truth is, Maine is pasted with an abundance of wild blueberries, as well as blackberries and raspberries.  You can pick ‘em while your hiking. 

Last Stop in Maine, Eastport 

Just a tad and a scallop further north along highway 1 lies Eastport, Maine. It’s just about the last stop before you cross the border into Canada at Calais.  It is there that we set up camp at Seaview Campground.  Our little campsite was amazing considering we were at a private campground.  The campground is set up on a series of terraces overlooking the Atlantic.  All the campsites have wondrous views because of the foresight in the owners building plans.  Now, the ocean has really begun to change.  We are at the mouth of the Bay of Fundy, home of the world’s greatest tides.  They will rise and fall greater as we head north into the Bay, but you can really see the tide’s dramatic effects and actions here. 

There is a phenomenon here at Seaview and Eastport where the ocean behaves as a river.  By that I mean that the tide moves so strongly that there is a visible current that runs first one way, then the other depending upon whether the tide is running in or out of the bay we are perched on.  Here, in this part of Maine there are countless bays and harbors.  You can literally go down to the long fishing dock at the water’s edge and watch the current push and pull at the struts of the dock as it performs its 6 hour routine of rising and falling.  At one time during the day the river runs left to right, then when it’s run its full course it will reverse itself and run right to left.  I would estimate this bay to be about the same width as the Mississippi at St Louis, and the current runs just about the same speed as in St Louis.  The weird phenomenon that also occurs is that on one side of the bay, while the current runs left to right, on the other side of the bay the current runs opposite, right to left. I don’t quite understand it but it happens.  This, then, creates the world’s second largest natural whirlpool just about a half mile out from our campground, just off Deer Island on the Canadian side of the bay.  I asked not a few folks around here about that whirlpool and they all look at me with a deepening of their eyes and say, 

“ That whirlpool can swallow a boat, you know...and it has over the years.  You stray to close and it sucks you right under. Why, back in...( choose a year at this point ) ol’ Charles Pinkus (choose a name ) got a little too smart for his britches and thought he’d try to cross it and down he went.  All they found was his hat.  I guess Neptune has all the hats he needs.” 

The whale watcher companies around here will drive you by it as part of your trip to spot whales.  Whales come here in droves during the Summer months.  Minkes being the most popular, though they see a fair share of Humpbacks, too.  We didn’t take advantage of the Whale tours, opting to do it later.  All throughout the Maritimes at various spots whale tours operate.  The waters here pump up billions of tons of zoo-plankton and other micro life forms from the offshore deep through the strong currents.  That, then, draws the Mackerel.  The Mackerel then draw the Whales and the Seals and the Porpoise. 

Life here is abundant.  Folks stand at the dock here and fish at high tide catching two to three Mackerel at a time, all about the same size, about eight to ten inches long.  I’m told these waters are among the richest and most diverse on the planet.  As the breezes waft up the hillside and fill our nostrils with fresh air we can figuratively if not literally inhale the salty brew of life out there.  It inhabits your soul after a while. 

Less than two miles by boat yet 45 minutes away by car lies Campobello Island.  This is the famous island where Franklin Roosevelt grew up during his youthful summers.   He continued coming here regularly until interrupted by his presidency.   His home on the island is where he first contracted the dreadful polio that crippled him.  We toured the island and his home there and had a superb afternoon of it.  You can reach it by crossing a short bridge and going through customs.  It is officially Canadian territory, but after Roosevelt’s death it was declared a joint US/Canada territory.  Still, you need to go through customs, though.  The folks who live here are considered Canadian. 

Roosevelt’s home is a grand place.  Though large with many rooms furnished as it was during his lifetime, it is not ostentatious by any means.  Actually, for such a large house it is almost humble.  When Roosevelt lived here there was no electricity and the heat came from fireplaces mostly though a modest heating system was in place. It was so very interesting to go from room to room and hear the tour leader talk at length about the varied history of the place and the people who lived and visited here.  It was here that Roosevelt became steeped in ways of the land.  A Passamaquoddy chieftain from the Eastport area took young Franklin under his wing and taught him many of the natural ways of the Indians here as they have inhabited this place for an estimated 10,000+ years as some archaeologists claim.  There is a birchbark canoe that rests in the visitor center here that the Chieftain gave to Franklin.  There are pictures of him paddling it out in the bay hanging in his home.  Franklin was a strapping young lad, so virile and strong as compared to the photos of him after polio drug him down physically.  I wonder if those younger days spent so actively in the outdoors working and playing were an inspiration for him when he created the Civilian Conservation Corp, that group of young men who built so many of our state parks across America during the depression. 

Later in the afternoon we attended an Afternoon Tea where two young ladies adroitly retold stories of the Roosevelt’s time here focusing heavily on Eleanor and her ground-breaking approach to being First Lady.  In reality, it was her approach to life that was ground-breaking in so many ways.  We learned so much about Eleanor that afternoon.  We came away with tremendous respect and admiration for her, almost being brought to tears by the stories the two historians related to us.  They were that effective at their storytelling and history. 

On the opposite side of the Island of Campobello there lies a stately lighthouse on a spit of an island just a scant 100 feet from Campobello.  Though there are bushel baskets of lighthouses up and down the Maine and Canadian coast here, this one is very special.  You can only reach it during low tides.  When the tide is in, as it was when we visited, the walkway over to it and the base of the steps that lead to it are under some 25 feet of water.  All throughout the area for miles and miles the landscape changes as the tide waxes and wanes.  Entire bays go dry and then refill twice a day.  You will see folks in the mud a half mile out digging for clams feverishly before the waters return.  Clam digging is prohibitive these days and only in certain areas can you perform the ancient ritual, though I think the Passamaquoddy, who have a settlement in Eastport, can dig clams at their leisure on their land.

Man-made souvenirs occasionally pop out of the mud.  The hull of an old boat might stick forlornly out of the mud where it lay moored for life now.  Of course, it goes without saying that we dug into the local seafood with abandon, even feasting on of all things, a lobster pizza.  Diane, in her lifelong culinary quest for the perfect oyster, began searching the menus of the local eateries in earnest for oysters. 

The towns of Eastport and Ludec, separated by a little bay, both lay claim to being the easternmost towns in the US.  One uses the term, easternmost municipality while the other says, easternmost city.  Either or, both towns give you the ultimate Downeast Maine vibe.  Retailers shamelessly all proclaim themselves to be the easternmost this or that in the US...the easternmost golf club, the easternmost ice cream maker, the easternmost western wear store for goodness sakes.  Working lobster boats are everywhere.  Lobster trap buoys adorn the yards of most homes each painted to outdo the next in vibrant primary colors.  The houses are one and two story frame structures with the outside finished with cedar shakes painted in shades of blues and greens, even orange and yellow tones. 

Though the coast is certainly the object of a lot of tourists, us included, you don’t get overwhelmed with the crush of it.  For the most part, things are as they have always been Downeast, though fishing and forestry have taken a backseat to the tourist dollar.  The old-time Mainers sit on their front porches and watch the world go by as they crabbily complain about this and that.  It’s in their nature.  The weather makes you that way up here. And speaking of that, we’ve seen nary a day of 90 degree heat up here.  Seeing it so damn hot and humid back in the Midwest ( and everywhere it now seems ) we count our blessings for the superb weather we’ve encountered. 

A side benefit of the expansive tides is the sea glass that gets washed up on the rocky beaches here.  Though you can’t find sea glass on all the shores, there are certain beaches here and there for whatever reason that receive a lot of the stuff.  We asked around about where we might find ourselves some and landed on a particular beach that yielded a little trove of treasures for us.  As the tide receded on this particular beach, perhaps a half mile or so, we searched back and forth criss-crossing each other’s paths picking at the rocks and shells.  Every now and then one of us would holler out, “Treasure!”, and there, glinting in the sun, would be the remains of some forsaken bottle broken years ago clinging to the rocks.  We found the best hunting for sea glass in the rocky parts of the beach.  I think the rocks hold onto them better than the sand as the water drains. 

One day we decided to venture up into Canada to the town of St Andrews by the Bay, just 10 miles across the border.  Along the way we stopped for an hour at a lonely visitor center the US has set up to commemorate the founding of St Croix Island, a smallish spot a quarter mile out into the bay from shore.  It was here that Samuel de Champlain tried unsuccessfully to set up a colony in New France as it was called then.  After the local Indians told him it would be foolish to try to make it through the winter on the island he stubbornly did it anyway, his men nearly starving to death during the snow and icy months.  Forty percent of the men died of scurvy that winter.  The Passamaquoddy were right.  Go figure… So, Champlain moved his settlement across the Bay of Fundy to Port Royal in present day Nova Scotia.  This all occurred in 1604, pre-dating the founding of Jamestown by three years.  At the Visitor Center for the St Croix Island National Monument they have artifacts from that expedition that you can hold in your hand.  Little pieces of history from 400+ years ago are stored in drawers for you to examine.  A belt buckle here, the remains of a knife there, it amazes me to see it and touch it. Archaeological digs over the years have uncovered quite a lot of artifacts and evidence of the severity of this doomed attempt at colonization.  Being somewhat of a history nut, I relished the info and the detail the Ranger offered in the little museum. 

Crossing the St Croix river into Canada we drove over to St Andrews.  It’s another quaint little township with a working waterfront.  Several whale watching companies operate out of here as well.  We had a superba lunch of what else...mussels and oysters and Haddock sandwiches.  We also toured the Kingsbrae Garden located there.  Kingsbrae is an excellent place to lose yourself in the highly manicured gardens and artistic sculptures that fill the place.  It reminded me just a little of that outdoor art park in St Louis County, Laumier Sculpture Park, but with acres and acres of flower gardens set amongst the art. 

Sometimes as you travel the way in which we do you look back and think that perhaps you could have done things a little differently, maybe come at an area from a different direction or spent more time in a particular place than others.  I’m glad we came to Down East Maine before we hit Canada and the Maritime Provinces. Upon leaving we know there is much yet we could discover here yet unearthed by us as we move through the area.  You could spend an entire summer here and probably not experience it all.  As it turned out, though, it is the perfect beginning for our northeastern coastal journey, a very good introduction to the North Atlantic scene and culture.  The Maritimes of Canada await us in August.