Baxter

I am the black cloud of Sandy Stream.  

I've been there maybe a dozen times over the years and never once saw a moose.  Seriously!  This is the one place in the entire state where you are pretty much guaranteed to have a moose sighting.  People come here on "Moose Tours", Baxter state park has special "Moose Pass" parking spaces, everyone and their mothers come here to see moose.

I've seen them plenty of moose in other places, but never in the one spot where they flock to like moths to a flame: Sandy Stream.

It's a quick walk through the woods from the car park, and then it's elevated walkway to get to the clear, sparkling pond.  There are a few places to duck off the trail and take in the scene, which is just lovely.  A close-up of Katahdin and the knife edge to Hamlin Peak, South Turner mountain, and huge swarths of pine forest creating inky-black patchworks.

I did see plenty though.  Not only is it just a lovely peaceful place to relax in the sun, I saw oogles of critters around the pond:  Beautiful, flashy ceader waxwings-

I love these chipper little birds.  They sit so obviously in the pine-tops and stay there for a while, so I can usually get better than usual shots of them with a normal camera lens.

The squirrels were so frantically putting away pinecones, they were loathe to get off the trail until you almost on top of them.  Little piles of pinecone shavings dotted the walkway.

The water was full of ducks: Goldeneyes, Black Ducks, loons.

An elegantly long-legged spotted sandpiper darted from rock to rock.

More waxwings!

As the sun got lower in the sky, the songbirds made their way out into the open for a drink, and tiny chickadees and warblers flitted their way to a prime spot for drinking.  Across the pond, I saw a kingfisher diving for, um, fish.

Along came a hairy woodpecker to bang his head on a tree for a bit.

And close enough for me to not need a zoom lens, a whitetail doe sauntered on past.  It's really amazing how diverse the fauna is here.  Sitting quietly in one place and soon you become near-invisible.  Well, that is until a large family from New Jersey come by and say "HEY, WHERE ARE THE MOOSE??  HAS ANYONE SEEN A MOOSE?  WERE DO YOU GO TO SEE A REAL MOOSE?  WE CAME ALL THIS WAY TO SEE A MOOSE" and I wanted to cry a bit.

I could have sat there all day, but we did show up to hike.  Despite the rangers warning us that "moose pass" meant to sandy stream and back only, we took a, ahem, detour.  Or, "we got lost, I swear!" and headed up to Whidden Pond.

It was weird to walk in dense forest!  One thing England doesn't have much of is primordial old-growth forest.  So much more dark and fragrant, and there were mushrooms popping up everywhere, with lots of rotting and fallen trees, dense underbrush, and a foreboding sense of certain doom if you ever ventured off the trail.
 
While I do love walking here in Maine, I would never undertake the Appalachian trail.   Not enough to see!  Just endless hundreds of miles of walking in the woods.  

No moose at Whidden, either.

It's a magic place in its own right.

We sheepishly made our way back to the car park in dusk and headed down the long, bumpy tote road back to civilization, peering out into the roadside ponds and bogs, hoping for a chance sighting.  

My record still stands.  There will never be a moose at Sandy Stream as long as I am there.  

Camp

I don't really have a lot of family-oriented traditions.  I mean, I barely see those blood relatives as it is, and even growing up, everyone was so far apart.  We really only make a big effort to gather for weddings and funerals, and the only tradition we have there per say is drink like the booze is free.  

Still, every summer, at least for a day or two, the majority of the clan will gather on our island hideaway and participate in the ritual sacrifice of dozens of lobsters.  This barbaric tradition dates back eons, as early photographic evidence suggests.

This tradition carries on.  The eve that the most people can gather, we order about a million of these succulent searoaches, get these enormous pots on the gas broiler, and pace around, machete in hand, waiting for the last flail and scream to stop from the pot and the tell-tale orangey rouge to be peering out of the watery depths.  

There is something just so marvelously simple and decadent about this feast.

This year, I was late to the planning party, and there wasn't a single green veg on the table: just lobster, boiled shrimp, butter and corn on the cob.   While I can't say my stomach felt light and comfortable after that, I remind myself that it is once a year and snatch the last tail off the table.  No matter how many times I had gorged on lobster upon arriving in the state, it always seems much sweeter here.

Oh, and the leftovers!  Picking is a bitch job, but we put all the leftovers and the bodies in a garbage bag, shove it in the fridge and spend the next day with tiny picks, picking the meat out of each leg and knuckle that we couldn't be bothered with when we had the fast and easy tails and claws to work on.  Just reward: lobster omelets and lobster rolls the next day, and what ever after that is left over gets doused in butter and cream and leftover breakfast bacon and boiled potatoes, onions  and stripped-off corn to make a hasty and slightly unseasonable chowder.  

While we didn't get terribly hot weather (and in Northern Maine, hot is actually kind of nice with so many places to cool yourself) it wasn't so bad that sleeping outside wasn't an ordeal.   The camp has gone through a lot of changes over the years (electricity!  running water! private bedrooms!) and it's much more comfortable now, but I still would rather be outside next to the water at night.  A world of sounds- the loons calling across the lake in their mournful tone, owls, an occasional chilling mystery wail.

I'm also still in the habit of taking a bar of soap down to the lake and doing my bathing there.  We have hot, running water 40 feet away, but there is something about the pleasures of going for a refreshing dunk before nightfall.  It's also a good way to get rid of those dreaded lobster-scented hands.

I have abandoned the outhouse permanently and I'm happy to use the flush toilets as much as possible.  I'm a Luddite, but I do enjoy some comforts here and there.

My only gripe was that it was overcast enough to put a damper on star-watching,  I saw nothing, but we did have a few good lightning shows to keep things interesting.

Every year, I spend a lot of time staring out over the water at the big granite slabs on the horizon.

Despite the noise and inevitable drama that comes with not-oft gathering families (or any family, really), there's still a real sense of peace here.  People gather here because of the peace and quiet, and it ends up becoming anything but.  I find it stressful to try to get to know and get on with these near-strangers all over again.  We have our moments.   Thankfully, we brought kayaks, and a short paddle off the island and you are once again in a zen-like trance.  The smooth, clear lake, the wind in the trees, the mountains and the loons.

Its amazing to think that in a few months' time, you will be able to walk across the lake.

I think I will remain a summer visitor, even if it means having to deal with a crowd.    

Holidayland

It was good to be back in Maine.  

New York seems to wash my soul in the blackness of a thousand midnights.  Even after a few days, I just feel exhausted from anything more than a layover there.  You know when you are ready to leave, even if the welcome mat is still on the doorstep.

Maine is a good cleanse.  The fresh air, the trees and the ocean.  If only the ocean wasn't so bone-numblingly cold, it would serve me well.  

I crave the simplicity of life here.  I left because there were few opportunities, and I think that is probably still the case outside the bustling metropolis of Portland as I end up doing basically the same thing every year that I return for those brief summertime weeks:

Daily doggie walks, bike rides down a winding road to the beach, sand and sky and surf, corn on the cob from the farmstand down the road, cheap and plentiful lobster.  I gussy up the gardens and usually put a tent out in the back yard and sleep out there if the weather is nice.

The simple pleasures are best.

I always have to carefully remind myself that yes, there is a winter time here, and holy hell it is brutal.  Spending a week or two in July and August will have you dreamily ignoring the much earlier memories of ice storms and blisters on your hands from the snow shovel of yore, and it becomes more and more distant a memory the more summers spent lazing on a beach.

Speaking of which, even though it was far from hot during my time here, I felt like I really deserved all that time of being an unmoving lump on the sand.  I probably haven't been someplace where I've just done nothing but sit around and read a book, well, since last summer when I was here.  I'd barely have the energy to pour myself a glass of wine in the afternoon once the laziness took charge.  It was fantastic.  Even if I have to wear a hoodie and yoga pants while sunbathing, I instantly fall into a trance at the beach.  The Siren's call is a lullaby to me apparently.

One afternoon, the fog was so thick at the shoreline that we almost gave up then and there and turned around, but I insisted.  BEACH.

Even without the sun, it's just so lovely.

I was only home for a couple days before we headed up north to visit family.  Those couple of beach days stay with me all year though.

My last day there it even got hot enough for a brave swim in the Atlantic.  It's so cruel:  the water looks so beautiful and blue and full of playful waves, but a quick dip and instantly your lips turn blue and you feel plenty cooled off.  The ever-warming gulf stream veers offshore at arm of Cape Cod, not to return its warmth until Nova Scotia.  The waters of the Gulf of Maine are perpetually chilly.  

The first summer I spent in New York, penniless and clueless, and I headed out to Coney Island as I heard there was a beach there.  I went down to the water, and despite it being early in the summer, the water was warm enough for even the wimpiest of beach-goers had no problem with a quick dunk.  I had no clue that ocean water could actually be warm enough to tolerate.  I remember calling my mom that night and informing her that the water here (though filthy) was warm enough to go in and stay in without a wetsuit on for more than a few minutes.  New York City was pretty much in a tropical paradise as far as I could tell.

My need to go go go and see see see here becomes non existent.  I feel like every time I have a chance to travel and see something new, I take full advantage and I'm running myself to pleasant exhaustion to experience all that I can.  But here?

Nope.  I can't be bothered.  It hasn't changed so much since my last trip here that I feel the need to do it again.  I have about a 5-mile radius that I'm happy to hit, and that's about my range. This is the one place where I can relax and not feel like I have to do anything at all.

I keep coming back.

I probably always will.

Arcadia

I'm always so conflicted about national parks. The idea to make things more accessible by building tons of roads through it kind of ruin the beauty of the place for me.

Still.

It is a really spectacular place. Ditch the car and take a hike and you'll find some peaceful places you wouldn't see otherwise.

While the weather wasn't ideal...it's still totally worth a gander. Get up early to watch the sun rise from the top of Cadillac.