It was just before a summer
sunrise on a point of land jutting into
the Atlantic. The sky was pink. Hills on
the horizon were pale blue. The ocean
was pink.
Incredible.
No wonder so many people yearn for a
summer place in Maine.
At night, the black sky dazzled with
stars. By day, the view was of a
coastline of rocks lapped by the sea.
And there were the tall trees, rich in
number and variety: birch, poplar,
maple, oak, spruce, white pine, hemlock
and balsam. I soon learned to be
grateful for the canopies of shade
created by those trees. Friends of mine
built their dream house here and their
cathedral windows provided the views.
This was my first stop in a quest to see
and savor more of New England,
especially Maine.
The next step was a Wayfarers walk, a
yearly tradition, heretofore in Europe.
As always, the week had variety,
including a late-afternoon sail on a
schooner into a light fog, which
eventually revealed a lighthouse - a
Maine signature.
Earlier we had walked along the coast
road between Rockport and Camden, two
towns memorable for picturesque harbors.
They are on Penobscot Bay. Nearby is
Mount Megunticook. Who can resist the
names?
We encountered lots of splendid
scenery on that walk, including an
open-air Vesper chapel and a herd of
Belted Galloway cattle (an old Scottish
breed, black with a wide belt of white)
at Aldemere Farm. Dinner was a learning
experience with lobster cooked by
Englishman John Doncaster, who taught us
where and how to crack the shell
(Lobster 101). A retired headmaster, he
was the walk's co-leader with Jory
Squibb, a former sea captain.
The enduring description of Maine's
coast as rugged and rockbound isn't
exaggerated. We were never far from the
sound of the water crashing against
rock. It was beautiful, but challenging
too, like walking Bald Mountain. I
huffed and puffed partway up, then left
it to the others to climb to the top.
In Camden, our base was the spacious
Whitehall Inn, one of many 19th century
houses. Here, a young Edna St. Vincent
Millay (later to win the Pulitzer Prize)
once recited poetry to guests. A ferry
took us to Monhegan Island one day. With
rocks and tree roots underfoot, plus ups
and downs, we reached a high point to
see and hear the Atlantic waves below.
Those mighty Maine trees shaded the
return walk through Cathedral Woods.
It was on this island that the toes
of my walking boots parted company with
the soles, but duct tape borrowed from
the Barnacle Cafe came to the rescue.
Most memorable was a two-day jaunt to
Mount Desert Island, a glorious collage
of mountains, woods, ponds, lakes, bays
and smaller islands, and Acadia National
Park. Early in the 20th century, wealthy
summer residents donated land to a
trust, and by 1919 had created the first
national park east of the Mississippi.
Among the notable names was John D.
Rockefeller Jr., who gave 10,000 acres
of parkland and built 45 miles of
carriage roads not meant for
automobiles, but for hikers, cyclists,
carriages and horseback riders. We
stayed in the attractive Bar Harbor Inn
in the appealing town of the same name,
with more lovely views and more rocks.
One day, we had lunch at Jordan Pond
Cafe (delicious seafood chowder and
popovers, need I say more), then
progressed on a walk around the clear
water of the pond, with a view of two
mountains called the "bubbles." It was
explained the Victorians named them thus
because it wasn't appropriate to suggest
the resemblance to a woman's breasts.
Eventually, it was time to say
goodbye to the coast, lobster shacks and
all, and go inland - to more mountains:
New Hampshire's White Mountains. In the
little town of Jackson, up a shady road,
was Carter Notch Inn, a lovely, huge
house with congenial British hosts Dick
and Sally, who prepared bountiful
breakfasts. The real star of the inn was
Henry, a gray and white old English
sheep dog, who welcomed guests.
The area boasts both beauty and
bargains - walks in the woods and forays
to nearby North Conway's outlet stores,
too numerous in New England for my
taste. Mount Washington was scratched
from the itinerary because of fog, but
locals highly recommend a trip up by cog
railway or van. Thoreau hiked up the
mountain twice and wrote about it.
Kancamagus Highway, named for an
Indian warrior, curves its scenic way
west through the White Mountains. Called
the "Kanc" by the cognoscenti, it was
one of the first roads designated a
National Scenic Byway. The beauty of
these mountains lured 19th century
painters such as Thomas Cole, Albert
Bierstadt and Winslow Homer.
Beauty was a lure, too, in the Green
Mountain state of Vermont. Woodstock is
a town with numerous Federal-style
houses, a village green, bookstores, a
covered bridge and nice people. How
pleasant it was to stroll around, admire
the architecture, then toddle over to
The Prince and The Pauper restaurant,
which excelled in cuisine and service.
The village backs up to Mount Tom, a
favorite of locals and visitors and a
fairly easy climb for an overall view of
houses and church steeples. On the other
side of town is Mount Peg, another name
enhancing the friendly town flavor.
More Brits, David and Dora, were the
hosts at the Woodstocker Inn, with hot
English breakfasts to order; their dog
in residence: Stanley, a Wheaten
terrier.
The journey's finale was Concord,
Mass., where on April 19, 1775, at the
North Bridge, minutemen were ordered to
fire on British soldiers, launching the
Revolutionary War. A century later,
Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote the poem with
the line "the shot heard 'round the
world." Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne,
Henry David Thoreau and Louisa May
Alcott lived and wrote here in the
1800s. It's worthwhile to walk up to
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and "visit" them
on Author's Ridge.
The outstanding Concord Museum has
re-created Emerson's study with its
original furnishings; Paul Revere's
lantern is on view, too.
Most symbolic to me was walking
around Walden Pond, though the humidity
of the hot summer day was like an
invisible, enveloping cloud. Emerson
loaned land to his friend Thoreau, who
built a cabin in these woods and later
wrote his enduring "Walden" of living
simply and revering nature. However, the
cabin was not too remote, as he walked
into Concord often and welcomed
visitors, too. Thoreau also visited
Maine's woods (the title of an essay),
and mountains in New Hampshire and
Vermont, often during Concord's hot,
humid summer.
Smart fellow. I hope to return
someday, but in the cooler days of
spring.
IF YOU GO
Tourist information: Maine,
