"Ba Haba"

You simply cannot live in Maine and never make your way someday to Bar Harbor on Mt. Desert Island.  It's a must see, but probably more memorable in the dead of summer when the tourist are packed like sardines on sidewalks, in hotels, bed and breakfasts, cottages and beautiful huge mansions.  Although the folks taking up summer residence in the fairyland homes with the breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean are probably not considered (nor do they consider themselves) tourists.  They are summer residents from far away places.  Their summers are probably more spent behind the privacy fences in their luxurious "summer homes".  But I could be wrong. They may well love the hustle and bustle of the crowds that overtake this paradise island from the 2nd week in April until Labor Day.


We chose to go a couple of weekends ago. Easter weekend. One of the last weekends before the quiet goes away. Hotels and business were putting on the final touches and signs heralded the approaching season and the opening of those establishments.
 
The ride up US 1 is interesting.  All along the way there are the rows and rows of white coffins some in a line, some squeezed in this way and that. At least that is what the boats with white shrink wrapped tarps in every port along the way looked like to me. Coffins or rows of soldiers waiting patiently for their unveiling when they could once again breath life into themselves and the men and woman that captain them.

As we drove up the sun was beating in through the passenger's side window toasting my right ear and face.  The warmth penetrated the window.  I closed my eyes and let myself feel the wet sand as the water laid itself in lapping motion against the shore.  I could smell the salt wafting off the water through the air. The warmth and my imagination transformed me from the car to a warm tropic beach.

Our trip took us through Brunswick past the St. John's Parish Hall and the strangely named St. John The Baptist Catholic Church.  We scooted past the Wylie Gallery-Contemporary Craft and the stop light at the "Town Mall".  Then on past Bowdoin College with it's lovely campus and painstakingly cared for old buildings. Brunswick is a town with lovely old homes.  Not far down the road (or should that be up the road) is the town of Bath, home of Bath Iron Works where they build huge ships for the United States Navy.  We waved hello as we past the Morring B and B and the Taste of Maine. We noticed that Suzie Ater had her sign out on a few houses for sale.  We traveled up over the bridge that brought us to some wet lands.  We went out past the Ledgeview Road following the meandering of U.S. 1.

The Shelter Institution and Montsweag Farm brought us into Wiscassett past Simpson's Seafood and a sign advertising "Solar Clothes Dryers"...(Is that a fancy name for a clothes line?). Another turn of the road held the sign to the Two Bridges Regional Jail, Blue Haven, and Big Al's Super Value. Wiscassett is Small Town USA.  The road curves on down a hill past some lovely homes, past the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office, "Real Eats" and the water of the Sheepscot River glistening like jewels lulling us right into Edgecomb.  6 miles from New Castle overlooking the Sheepscot River was a beautiful salt water farm. At the cut off to Booth Bay Harbor, up on the hill, sat Cod Cove Inn.

That took us into lovely little Maine town of Damariscotta.  Right on past the Pioneer Motel on the left and a church with no steeple.  Well actually the steeple was there next to the church, on the ground, surrounded with scaffolding.  Right in front of the church was a huge sign with a huge goal line set on it and the words that said it all: RAISE THE STEEPLE.  Beckoning us on were the signs to Nobelboro and Waldoboro, past the Duck Puddle Campground, Moody's Diner that has been there for years.  As usual, business was booming. Waldoboro passed in the blink of our eyes and all along the way there were antique stores with memories for sale.  We went through Warren and Thomaston that was established in 1605.  Thomaston is the home of the old Maine State Prison known as "Tommy Town" and on down the road was the General Knox Museum.

 The afternoon found us in Rockland home of the Dragon Cement Co. claimed in the Indian Claim Settlement.  The road dead ends and turns right into the Atlantic Ocean (well it doesn't turn right into the Atlantic...it turns right....looking right into the Atlantic).

We saw the Samoset Resort overlooking the ocean and the lighthouse with entry by way of a breakwater.

You just know there are people in these little quiet, picturesque, quaint little towns looking out their kitchen window at the glorious awesome view of the ocean thinking ' in a matter of weeks there will be throngs--masses of people, shoulder to shoulder tourists, all trying to squeeze out of a weekend or 2 weeks, a month, a summer-- whatever amount of time their real lives allot them --the joy and postcard fantasy that I know as home'.

Out of my window passed Camden with its old mansions that speaks of big old money.  When we rolled past Linconville, the fog rolled past us.  But as we neared Northport and moved north away from the water, the sky opened to a tender blue being kissed by sunshine.  You could see all the way to heaven.

I spied a bald headed man with a beard that hung down to his waist.  He looked like he had been sitting there on that porch for as long as the old house had been there.  Sitting and rocking as the world whizzed by.

On past Searsport where we saw an old house that had literally crumbled into itself.






Then up over a bridge to Bucksport and the Jonathan Buck Monument.  We stopped at the cemetery to see the tombstone and read about the legend of  Captain Buck 

Ellsworth seemed more commercialized and there were huge signs advertising the GREAT MAINE LUMBERJACK SHOW on U. S. 3-- not opened for the season--yet.

The water along our trip was ever-changing.  In some places it was in constant motion, some places with white caps...other places like sheets of glass.  All a writer's paradise.

This is the ride up the rugged coast of Maine. Beautiful, serene, quaint, post card picturesque.  This was the road that took us to Bar Harbor.

For the most part on this Easter weekend, Bar Harbor was closed.  The season not yet "open".  The hotels still stood silent.  The stores and parks and sidewalks patiently waiting, all being buffed and polished and readied for all that the coming weeks and months would bring.  We were able to see the exhibit at the Abbe Museum by a breathtakingly poignant  writer Mihku Paul Anderson that I met at a writing workshop at UNE. Mihku  We were able to take a beautiful ride around the island and into a small part of Acadia National Park that was opened. I was mesmerized by the beautiful homes, by water trickling down the mountain sides; trails of water rushing to become one tiny stream, tiny streams rushing together to become one small creek, creeks rushing to the river that poured into the bay that swirled around the rugged coast of Maine and into the Atlantic Ocean.

The solitude, the fresh air, the ducks bobbing like tiny white buoys in the water. The foam of the water slapping against the jutting rocks.  I sat on the edge of a mountain in the park and thought what a writer's paradise this was--a writer's paradise surrounded by nature where imagination doesn't have to ask permission to run wild.

Someday we will go back when the season is in full swing, when the traffic is bumper to bumper, when there are lines outside the restaurants and ice cream parlors, when the hotels, motels and bed and breakfasts are filled to capacity.  We'll be there when there is laughter in the air, walkers on the trails, boats and tours and people--lots and lots of people. None of that was there this weekend but it was perfect for us.  It was what we needed. A quiet escape, a long easy ride up a beautiful coast.  This weekend started out to be about the destination, but it turned out to be about the journey.....and really isn't that what's important.