Maine

Summer '04--Maine, Québec After juggling a number of dates (my eye operation, the renovation of the bathroom), we finally carved out a week in early August for a car trip. Saturday, July 31. We left West Island about 10:00 and drove to the Maine border at Kittery (about 3 hours with lots of traffic). We then made the obligatory pilgrimage to Freeport's factory outlet stores, but ended up buying nothing more than a dress for Blanca. We proceeded north (95--295--Newport) and got to Moosehead Lake about 6:00. On the way, we'd stopped in Monson for the best BBQ chicken I've ever had (Spring Creek Bar-B-Q.) We checked into the Greenville Motel, a nice enough place but rather overpriced ($80). Sunday, August 1. We drove up the west side of the lake, looking for a waterfront place for the next day. In Rockport, we found "Maynard's in Maine," a family run lodge with separate cabins. Gail, the owner, reserved us a cabin (two double beds, 30$ per person per night) for the next day. The cabin has a beautiful view of the Moose River and mountains on the other side. There's a dock with canoes and outboards 50 feet away. The lodge, built in 1919, is filled with animal heads, antlers, stuffed fish, and Indian implements (www.maynardsinmaine.com).

We shopped at Blanca's favorite general store in Greenville, where she stocked up on moosemabilia, and had broasted chicken by the lakeshore. After a siesta at the motel, we hiked on the nearby trail that goes to Big Moose and Little Moose Ponds (1 1/2) hours. Monday, August 2. After breakfast, we checked into our cabin ("Corostan") at Maynard's. We took a canoe out to the peninsula where Mt Kineo rises majestically to overlook the whole lake region. We resolved to return the next day to climb it. We were out on the lake about 3 1/2 hours. Blanca's canoeing skills continue to improve. (She still feels a bit guilty about tipping us over last year.)

We ate in Rockport Center at the Big Moose Inn.

Earlier in the day I'd made some inquiries about where we might go to see moose. We both felt we had "unfinished business" from last year, when we were deeply disillusioned about not seeing any. About 8:00, excited by an almost Hemingwayesque anticipation of exotic game in the proximity, I drove to a bog near the Birches complex, several miles from Maynard's. We parked and followed a muddy trail that finally came out on a road, which we followed to make a loop back to the car. The habitat was perfect--made-for-moose--but not a one to be seen!

Coming back in the dark, I managed to drive into a septic tank beside the cabin. The front wheel was in a foot-deep hole. No way was I getting the car out by myself. That night there was little joy in Moosehead. Tuesday, August 3. At breakfast in the lodge, we met a man named Myron Shapiro, and his French companion, Isabel. Myron, who has been coming to Maynard's to fish for 30 years, is one of those people whose personality is grounded in the effort to be funny. He's a guy right out of central casting. He reminded me of Woody Allen, although his corpulent body, gold chains, and fishing tales, didn't quite fit the image. Myron's business card bills him as "The Wandering Poet." When he's not wandering, he lives in Florida and works as an accountant.

Gail was not at all pleased when I reported the location of my car. She said she'd have her husband come take a look and assess the situation.

We took the canoe across the lake to Mt Kineo, which we climbed via a steep, rocky trail. On top, a fire tower provides a spectacular view of the whole web of lakes stretching into the distance. We canoed back just in time to miss a heavy rain. (The whole trip took about 4 1/2 hours.)

After a siesta, we reported to the lodge for dinner. A family from Oklahoma sat nearby. Enter Myron, modeling his new L.L. Bean's jersey for the assembled guests. We complained about not seeing any moose, and he suggested we go to a zoo. At one point in the middle of dinner, Myron amiably addressed the man from Oklahoma:

"Are you people going moose-watching tonight?"

Oklahoma (interrupted in his conversation with his wife): "Sir?"

Myron: "Don't call me 'Sir'; the most I ever made was sergeant."

I reflected on the fact that even though I'd "translated" the interchange for Blanca, she'd never be able to appreciate the nuances--which made for the real humor--the juxtaposition of the somewhat grave southwesterner with a slow heavy drawl and the ebullient Jew from New Jersey with his Yiddish cadence. Wednesday, August 4. At 8:00, the owner showed up with three guys and a truck. They jacked up the car and drove it right out. I had to pay $100 for the tow and the replacement for the top of the septic tank. Goddamn moose!

At breakfast, we took leave of Myron and Isabel. He was impeccably decked out in a white tennis outfit. Their plan was to go over to Mt. Kineo and rent a golf cart for the day. We promised to e-mail each other.

We headed north for the border a little past Jackman. The Canadians stamped both our passports and fussed a bit about Blanca's return from Boston, but there were no problems in the crossing. We continued north almost to the bridge over the St Lawrence that leads to Quebec City. Instead, we turned east and drove through the region called the Lower St. Lawrence (Bas-Saint-Laurant), passing through Levis, Rimouski and "Trois Pistóles," an area that was originally settled by Basques and whose regional specialty is delicious small shrimp ("crevettes"). We sampled these at a delightful restaurant and then stopped at motel "Le Campaguard" in Matane ($75Can). Thursday, August 5.

We spent the whole day driving along the coast of the Gaspé Peninsula ("La Gaspésie"), passing by the Gaspé National Park, Gaspé, Percé, New Richmond, and reaching Metapedia, in the heart of salmon country (motel $96Can). In the north, the road winds along a rough, rocky coast, punctuated with brightly colored lighthouses, with dense green forests and mountains to the south. The scenery is quite spectacular. There are fairly frequent small villages, with many campgrounds and motels. (Next time we'll be sure to bring camping equipment.) On the southern coast, the scenery is still quite dramatic, although much less mountainous. Percé and New Richmond are very touristy and crowded. Otherwise, there are relatively few people around. Friday, August 6.

We left Metapedia and crossed the river into New Brunswick. Traversing the border at Van Buren, we proceeded to Millinocket, Maine, where we hoped to find a lake and moose. At the Moose Shed Restaurant in Millinocket, I was told that we'd be sure to see moose driving south on Route 11. We followed instructions, but didn't see a one! I am beginning to be convinced that moose don't exist and that the whole thing is a capitalist ruse hatched by locals in order to attract tourists and sell chotchkas. (Virtually everything, from bars to tee shirts to mugs to, well, you name it, has a moose theme.) We found a motel in Pittsfield ($55). Saturday, August 7. We decided that for our last night we'd look for a lakeside cottage. A peek at the map revealed some lakes fairly close by: Belgrade Lakes. We were there in about an hour, and we started driving along the shore. It was not long before we fortuitously followed a back road that leads to Castle Island Camps, a complex of a lodge with 12 separate cabins (www.castleislandcamps.com). We lucked out and had a choice of two cabins right on the lake. The place is mostly visited by Field And Stream types and is owned by a nice young couple, Rhonda and John Rice. Problem: they don't take credit cards, and we had very little cash. Solution: we got in a canoe and paddled across the lake to the village of Belgrade Lakes, where there's a store with an ATM. When we got back, I took a swim in the bathwaterwarm lake. At 6:00, the bell rings announcing dinner. Everyone eats the prepared menu at large rustic tables, dominated by a gigantic moose head. Tonight was turkey. As we sat down, Blanca saw several slices of cranberry sauce on a plate. "Remolacha" ("beets"), she proclaimed confidently. (She'd never seen cranberry sauce in her life.) "No babes, it's called 'cranberry sauce,' and it's typical with turkey." She continued to be skeptical and did not relent completely until she'd tasted it. Later, after we'd had seconds on everything, including the delicious berry-rhubarb pie, she saw a man opening one of three large tins. "That's where you put the tips,” she suggested. I demurred:” It’s for teabags." Every once in a while I get an inkling of how foreign things here must seem to her.

We went back to the cabin and read contentedly on the screened porch. (I've been devouring the wonderful Ventanas De Manhattan, by Antonio Muñoz Molina. It's a loving portrait of New York by a cultivated, perceptive, and adventurous Spaniard.)

At 6:30, I got up and went for a short run. When I got back to the cabin, I jumped into the lake. As I opened my eyes under the murky water, I reconnected with my 7-year-old self, at Camp Pokomoke on Lake Sabago, doing the pre-breakfast "Polarbear Dip." At the call of reveille, everyone runs out of the cabins and lines up, wearing only a bathrobe. At the peal of the whistle, we sprint the 100 or so yards across the campground, down a steep flight of steps leading to the lake; then 50 feet of sandy beach, throwing off the bathrobes, we plunge into the scrotumtightening lake. (The boy who gets in first "breaks the ice” and is treated with great respect during the rest of the day.) I was the proud winner of 5 consecutive Polar Bear Dip badges. To get one you must miss no more than 3 days during the whole summer. I had my Mom sew them on my hooded camp sweatshirt, along with the only NRA marksmanship badge I was able to qualify for in 5 years.

After a sumptuous breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and home fires, we returned to the cabin, where I read by the side of the lake. Blanca went back to sleep.

We left at about 11:00. It took about 4 hours to drive the 245 miles back to West Island.

We covered almost 2,000 miles during the week. It was a super mini-trip. Next year I'll learn how to fish!