(WHITEHALL, Penn.) — I came down sick this morning, and it sucks, but on some strange level, I’m at peace with it. It’s a low-grade thing in my chest, nose and head, just enough to slow me down and remind me of my basic needs. I do feel fuzzy, but a few things are clearer in this state. For some reason, I am reminded of how desperately I want to be able to support myself as a writer and how dearly I really do want to continue on this trip for a year. All I want is to write things that matter, make a little money, and keep my trailer clean. Right now, I know this. Through my sick haze, everything else seems like gravy.
I’m drinking my hot tea and feeling woozy at Panera Bread Co. in an industrial part of some small Pennsylvania town, and memories of the wedding I just attended are drifting through my mind. I really do want to tell you about the surprising comfort I felt meeting all those people and seeing an old college friend take a leap that made her look so happy. But I feel that’s for the next post. I have to finish up with Maine first. It’s too rich of a state not to give it more due.
As I wrote recently, I spent most of my Maine time in Portland, a coastal city which I had once visited but about which I remembered nothing. I liked its cozy yet lightly urban feel as well as being so close to the Atlantic, but I knew I was looking for something else. It took about a week of hanging out with (and working for) my friend’s parents before I became antsy. Of all my desires, my only one that is truly insatiable is the need to hop into my car and explore the world alone.
During my last few days in Maine, that’s exactly what I did. Though I missed the trailer, it was freeing to leave it behind and just go.
One of the very many, very old cemeteries along Maine's coast.
Route 1 is a deceptive. Though it’s tiny and bending, meandering through Maine, it’s so much busier than you would expect. Whenever I pulled off to take a picture of a falling down house or something, cars whizzed past me with an intensity that was continually jarring. For the first few hours out of Portland, the road teased me, allowing only passing glances of the ocean as it dropped me into one quaint tourist town after another. God, I wished that I had time to explore these places. I knew I wasn’t getting their best side. I have to believe there’s more to Freeport and Belfast and Camden than traffic and strolling leaf peepers (my favorite new piece of slang, meaning those who travel to New England for the fall colors). But that is all you see as you drive through. I don’t mean to degrade it, as I have the greatest respect for Maine, its remoteness and its individualist spirit. I only wish I could have taken the time to look beyond the state’s most popular main drags.
But not this trip. I was being drawn north, as I often am, and this time it was because of John Steinbeck. I knew I should see Acadia National Park, but what I was really curious about was Deer Isle, a small island connected to Maine via one little road. In his book, Travels with Charlie, Steinbeck described Deer Isle as something so strange and intriguing that he wouldn’t be surprised if it disappeared at night in the fog. He painted a picture of an area vividly different than anywhere in the US. It was as though he knew exactly how to sell me. His words were enough to make me drive for miles off the main road and onto a miniature highway in the dark. The only reason why I knew I getting even slightly close to my destination was the sporadic signs telling me that the island’s main town was still ahead. Stonington 18, Stonington 12, Stonington 5. As I read these, Maine’s geography continued to taunt me. I couldn’t see much, but I knew trees were thick around the road, and I could feel my elevation dropping as I neared the coast. By the time I crossed the long causeway onto the main island and the moon sparkled across the water, I was sufficiently revved up. Bring on the weirdness, I was thinking. I was ready to be completely surprised. When I crawled under my truck’s camper shell to go to sleep, I wasn’t at all worried that I was parked on a main street (in front of the post office, even). The sleeping village felt safe and full of promise.
Deer Isle's rocky coast.
It’s funny how quickly you can adjust to being disappointed. When I woke up in Stonington, I found it was just another town, albeit an interesting one. Being a fishing community, it wakes up early, and even at 7 a.m., I felt like a slacker. The town is cute, encircled by a calm, clear ocean and little boats tethered close to the shore. I spent some time walking up and down the quiet streets, and while I didn’t feel nearly as transformed as I was hoping I would, I appreciated the place. Without fail, each person I passed looked healthy and awake, and they all wished me good morning. I wanted to photograph and interview them all. This was the first village in Maine I had encountered that didn’t look completely beholden to its seasons and visitors, and I gave it kudos for that in my head.
The cheapest rent on Deer Isle
Then I left.
After Deer Isle, something shifted in me, and I was able to enjoy Maine fully, without the mess of too much expectation. Acadia’s beaches are no more interesting than what I’ve seen in Northern California, but its Cadillac Mountain caught me off-guard with its beauty. From its rocky top, I could see for miles in all directions. Being confronted by that much open space was a release. The colors were vibrant — blue ocean and sky, white clouds, green and yellow grass. People were everywhere, but it didn’t matter. The vastness made me happy, and I sensed a connection to the nature near me in a surprisingly personal way. For a moment, this was my ocean, my sky, my grassy fields. It was perfect how, at the peak of this headiness, a Korean couple from Denver offered to take my picture against the rugged backdrop. From our conversation I could hear that they, too, were feeling something strong being in that place. We were in one of the country’s most visited national parks and yet, it felt fresh and intimate.
Looking down on Bar Harbor, Acadia National Park.
That juxtaposition left me surprised and energized the rest of my day-and-a-half in the area. I poked around Bar Harbor, and even though it was touristy to the max, I didn’t even mind. A certain, famous cruise ship was docked nearby for the first time, and because of this, the town was celebrating. There was free cake being handed out and performances being given by Native American drummers and an improv troupe and more. I marinated in the excitement. I hadn’t expected to like Bar Harbor, not with its unending supply of T shirt and ice creams shops, but I could feel myself growing fond of it. There was a basic friendly and intentional quality to it. By the time I arrived at the local movie theater to see a free showing of a Ken Burns documentary about the national parks, I was sold on the idea of coastal Maine. My fantasies about moving there were gone — I couldn’t even tell you when they left — but they were replaced by something perhaps more interesting and definitely more complex. I felt a deep respect my surroundings, even though I knew I probably couldn’t live in them. Though I wouldn’t have expected it, that let down freed me up.
Acadia National Park.
What geography will I fantasize about now? I can’t know for sure, but I feel desire for the desert creeping in. I’ve only been away from its dry openness for three months, but its scrappy draw is already trying to reel me back in. I’m curious how I’ll feel for the next few months, as I let that hunger steep.