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