The Maine Bridge

 

Penobscot Narrows

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Skirting the shoreline of the northeastern edge of the United States, Son Number Two and I found ourselves easily distracted.  For him, we cross a spattering of new states and first time visits to Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and Maine requiring photo ops as I cruise the rental car past each “Welcome to…” state sign.  For both of us, being so close to the Great White North, we felt compelled to stop for a leisurely hot chocolate and a sampling of Tim Horton’s pumpkin and maple specialties (see “Brock University” from January 2012), unknowingly our last visit while still in the control of its Canadian forefathers.  Admittedly, most people frequent donut shops in the morning, but by sliding in mid afternoon, we secured a cozy spot by the fireplace and relaxed ourselves into a sugar coma.

Once we rolled back into the car and onto the road, we continued towards our final destination on Mount Desert Island, but stopped for a few choice photos near the base of the Penobscot Narrows Bridge.  Named for the river beneath it, the crossing above the waterway offered us the access point over the last geographical divide between us and a plate full of lobster.  Noticing that travel to its observatory above the hill and tree lines was possible, we focused instead on getting across its span, still marveling at its size in the rear view mirror.  What we wanted to see laid ahead of us on the stretch of road between us and Acadia National Park.  The shortest distance to hot, buttered, succulent crustacean, and an equally tempting view of the ocean, carried us flatly eastward.

Vertical

The Sunday after Labor Day the bulk of New England glues itself to the television in hopes of a victorious kickoff to the football season.  For us, the prospect of a post-summer thinning and a local population engrossed in indoor activities gives us a clean palette to explore the partially submerged rocks hovering beneath the Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse.  When we head back to the landlubbers side of the scenery, we again face the two towers of the Penobscot Narrows Bridge beckoning us to consider its height, not just its breadth.  We acquiesce, and we have the observatory to ourselves.  While lacking in maple sweetness, this private afternoon perk far exceeds the previous day’s lounge.

One of only four bridge observatories in the world, and the tallest one at that, we see the ocean we leave behind to the east, tucked just behind the top of Cadillac Mountain, upon which we stood less than twenty-four hours earlier marveling at the sunset.  To the north, Mount Katahdin rises above the horizon noting the end of the Appalachian Trail, and the end of the nation.  Westward and to the south, the entire rest of the United States awaits our return.  Carved into the stone floor, the arrows point the way, but the brilliant sunlight hidden for most of the day by the morning’s rain clouds streaks through the glass lookout and lights our way home.  The river winds through the hints of autumn in the density of trees far below us, bumping into the piers and then continuing to the sea.  We depart similarly, quickly stopping at the bridge and then heading on our way.

O'Boisies

Two Northern Towns

My first trip through New England involved two distinct and contrasting views of life in autumn.  The company I joined for the weekend arrived at night so I enjoyed my first glimpse of my surroundings when I awoke.  Outside the borrowed cabin, the tranquil serenity of rural Maine tucked in the mountains standing low in the foreground masked the distance, the nearest town, the distant coast, and the rest of the world.  The same cozy exteriors of West Virginia two decades later reminded me of this scenery in Maine not too far from the Canadian border.  Every year, Rangeley triples in size when the snow melts and returns to its true size when its loyal residents brave the dark, cold winter.

Alternatively, the brief weekend ended with a return flight through Logan airport.  Unlike the peacefulness of my host town, the construction, the population, and the congestion of Boston contrasted the bucolic landscape.  In Beantown, the glass, concrete, brick, and steel structures blocked the view of the harbor scenery in the same way the Maine mountains hid the outside world.  The one quick glimpse out the car window at “Old Ironside” provided all the sightseeing afforded to me in the Massachusetts capital.  On my next voyage to Boston, I saw about the same amount of the historic city.  One of these days I’ll stay for more than a few hours.

Think Smaller

In Franklin County, Maine, the petite grocery store stocks just enough of the most essential items to provide a plethora of consumable options to a snow-bound resident’s pantry, but with just four or five aisles, the shop easily ranks just a step above big city corner market attached to a gas stations.  I purchase bread and condiments to serve as a handful of supplies to prepare breakfasts and lunchesfor the weekend. I know to keep it simple both to avoid wasteful leftovers and to stay within 

my travel budget due to more expensive wares in this more remote location.  The quaint general store offers just enough provisions for the weekend.

Having grown up in the suburbs, and having lived in a time of considerable choice, I rarely shop in bodega-sized stores, but even I know that this town of just over a thousand residents cannot provide every delicacy, brand, or selection.  So while I walk the handful of aisles in this little store in this little town, I forego my favorite peanut butter and I make do with the most simple of breakfast cereals.  And yet a woman three times my age asks the cashier at the store’s single register if the store has O’Boises potato chips – a brand limited to a brief period of time in a smaller segment of the country.  From a woman born before the Great Depression, whose family rationed its food during World War II, and who only knew a generation of excess in her later years, perhaps she should choose another brand of snack in this meager market.  Sorry, they just don’t have Super Wal-Marts in Rangeley; maybe you can pick some up in Boston.