a drop in the bucket

Lauren Wayfaring II: Epic Integratron Adventure

Lauren Wayfaring I

In an effort to consolidate an online presence, here are some experiments with travel writing:

Having some time to kill in Maine during the dead of winter, my boyfriend—Jake— and I decide to head north. Our destination being West Penobscot Bay.

I imagine that the coast of Maine looks fragile from satellite, like old frayed paper disintegrating into the ocean. As we make our way east, we weave up and down thesescraps of land. Our first stop is Popham State Beach, a hook of land that juts out into the ocean just south of Phippsburg. The wind stings my bare cheeks as we trudge through the sand guessing at which blustery whitecap is actually the famed beach break. It’s a bit eerie standing alone on a remote beach in wintertime; all of the driftwood, bright scraps of rope, and broken shells seem like they’ve been here for a hundred years.

We drive along the endless bays passing by thick forests and homes dwarfed by 20-foot pyramids of lobster traps hovering in each yard. Jake’s got a hankering for oysters and dark beer, so we brake for lunch at the Newcastle Publick House in Damariscotta. I had the haddock Rueben, which I’ll be reminiscing about for a long time. Jake orders a dozen Angry Al’s oysters (Charbroiled and topped with bacon, spinach, gorgonzola, and hot sauce. Amazing.). The original habitants of the central coast— the Abenaki Indians—also indulged in the local shellfish. Their legacy resides in a 2500-year-old dump of oyster shells along the shore of the Damariscotta River. One such deposit, the Whaleback Shell Midden, was more than thirty feet deep and more than 1650 feet in length. As I sip my stout, the light hits the bay just right, and the bridge that connects Damariscotta with neighboring Newcastle couldn’t be more charming unless it were running a campaign (best bridge?) but we have to move on. I vow to visit the original Reny’s on my return.

Part of the reason we came to this stretch was because I wanted to see Wyeth country; I wanted to know if the central coast landscape—the yellow fields of long grass and bleached wooden barns— had the same milky glow as it does in his paintings.

We cruise into Rockland, home of the Farnsworth Art Museum, one of the nation’s largest collections of paintings by the Wyeth family and our destination for tomorrow. We weigh our numerous Bed and Breakfast options (very vacant on a January weeknight; less so in the height of summer) and are won over by the promise the fresh pie at the Berry Manor Inn— available to guests any time. I mentally commit myself to a slice of cherry, but for now there’s daylight to burn and more coastline to see.

If Epcot Center had a New England stop on it’s World Showcase, Camden would be the inspiration. I envision actors in full rain gear hauling nets from an imaginary sea; aged lady bar backs telling pirate stories as they hand the kiddies a mouse-ear bowl of steaming chowder; and rows and rows of the quaintest homes—shingled and shuttered with garlands of bright buoys. We drive through the center, remarking to each other about the loveliness of it all. The road winds through town between the Camden Hills State Park and the rocky shore. The Abenaki called this area Megunticook, meaning “great swells of the sea,” in reference to these hills.

Jake parks the car in an empty lot surrounded by thin winter trees. With no snow, we find a trail to the coast, balancing ourselves on large shaky boulders as we make our way down to the water. As we stand on that rocky shoulder, we take in the great blue basin: the tall tree stands of Islesboro, Dear Isle and North Haven; the swirl of the channels passing around and between. Perched along the top of the cliff is a swing set, so we ascend the cliff and end our day midair and side by side, pointing our legs out towards the bay and at the many islands beyond.

Look! New formatting.

Let’s see if this keeps me engaged.