Sunrise over Bald Porcupine Island
12 October 2024
The events in this blog post took place on August 31, 2024.
I don't have to run down the path to the water today. I have plenty of time. There's a low cloud cover. I might not see the sun rise.
It doesn't matter. All I want to do is sit by the water for a while. I find a slightly chewed-up piece of seawall on the Shore Path construction site and sit down, my legs dangling over the edge.
At 5:57 a.m., a pink haze creeps over the top of Bald Porcupine Island. A few gulls squawk to each other.
Egg Rock Lighthouse is murky.
It's low tide.
At 6:07, I switch my camera to a shorter shutter speed.
It's Saturday. There are no lobster boats going out to pull traps today. It's just me and the birds.
At 6:17, I take my last picture.
I stand up and walk a little down the path to take some photos of the repair.
I've been out here for almost half an hour. I'd stay all day but I can't. I have to go back to Exile House and put the sheets in the washing machine.
I think I forgot to take pictures of the bathtub plants. I'll post these with the rest of the Exile House pictures.
I'm ready to go by the time Glen is supposed to arrive to pack my stuff into his car. He texts me that he's running fifteen minutes late. I have time to walk quickly to Choco-Latte. I think I'll order a cortado. Heddy has me hooked. I make it back to Exile House in time.
We stop for gas at the station next to Everyday Joe's before we leave the island. I find a fence to hang from to stretch my back. I step into the road to take a picture of Main Street, facing south, empty, with Champlain Mountain behind fog in the distance.
I'd promised Glen we'd visit Allagash Brewing Company on this trip. We didn't have time to stop on our way into our out of Portland, so we're going to aim for the brewery today. They open at 11:00. It's a 3-hour drive from here.
We're letting Google Maps tell us where to go. I assume we'll be on Route 3 for a while, then head up 1A to I-395.
We're lucky today. There's very little traffic, unlike two weeks ago. Was it really only two weeks ago? It feels like I've been on this trip forever.
When we reach Ellsworth, where Routes 1 and 1A split, we're directed to take Route 1. This is the scenic route, which hugs the coast and usually takes longer. There must be a jam up north.
As we near Bucksport, the Penobscot Narrows Bridge comes into view. Now I'm happy we've gone this way. Glen is a bridge engineer, and this is a bridge to marvel at. I open Wikipedia and read to him as we cross:
"The Penobscot Narrows Bridge is one of three bridges in the US (the others being the Zakim Bridge in Boston, Massachusetts, and the Veterans' Glass City Skyway in Toledo, Ohio) constructed recently using a cradle system that carries the strands within the stays from bridge deck to bridge deck, as a continuous element, eliminating anchorages in the pylons. Each epoxy-coated steel strand is carried inside the cradle in a one-inch steel tube. Each strand acts independently, allowing for removal, inspection and replacement of individual strands. The cable-stay system was designed with a system that uses pressurized nitrogen gas to defend against corrosion.In June 2007, six reference strands within three stays were replaced with carbon fiber strands — a first in the United States. Monitoring on the strands will evaluate this material for future use in bridge designs. These engineering innovations helped the bridge appear in the December 2006 edition of Popular Science as one of the 100 best innovations of the year. The total project cost was $85 million."
We're back on the interstate. It looks less like Maine and more like anywhere in New England now.
"What was the name of the hotel in Dingwall?" Glen asks.
"I, geez, I don't remember!" Not even two weeks ago. "Wait! Markman!"
We're less than five minutes away from Allagash. We follow what the Google Lady tells us to do, and find ourselves on a wrong turn that adds 15 minutes to our drive.
It's around noon when we pull into the brewery parking lot. We lock the bikes. We get our hands stamped. I head for the sour beers. There are so many this time! I have to ask for help, because Coolship Red is not among them. I'm guided to two that are closest to the no-longer-made Red. I get a taste test. One is slightly better than the other, but I decided to buy a case of both, a case being 6 bottles.
Glen is roaming around, building his own collection.
At the counter is a bowl of little pins with the Allagash leaf logo. There are green ones, purple ones, and blue ones. I take one of each.
"Want a pin?"
"Sure!" Glen takes a green one. I go back to get another green one.
We order lunch from the truck stationed outside. It's a fancy truck that serves lobster roll. I order a salad and the last Bavarian pretzel I'll see until I come up here next year. At the bar, we order flight pours. I choose a sour I didn't try inside: Little Sal, made from blueberries.
I like it enough that I go back inside and buy two bottles.
I take over driving for a while. I have a heavier foot than Glen does. He likes to stay at 65 mph. I find myself creeping up past 70.
I'm trying not to drink much so that I don't have to keep asking to pull over.
We stop for gas on one of the many parkways in Connecticut. I never know which one we're on at any given time. It seems we don't turn but the names change. The rest stop we choose is so crowded that we have to park along the exit road.
Glen takes the wheel again. The sun is setting as we reach familiar territory.
When I left home two weeks ago, my front yard was a pile of dirt with a backhoe on it. Two weeks before, we'd had a stately oak tree cut down because its roots had taken over our sewer line. For more than a decade we'd put it off. Now the tree was down, a pile of ground stump in its place. I'd spread as much of it as I could among the plantings in the yard.
The landscaper who has done all the work in our yard since Superstorm Sandy took out a tree, carted the rest of it away. The day before the trip, the plumbers arrived with the backhoe and a new pipe. The landscaper arrived to survey the blank slate while this was happening. I told him he could get creative. I told him I wanted wildflowers for the bees and butterflies. I told him I'd rather not have a lawn at all, but in this neighborhood, one needs one's postage stamp of green.
Jack has been sending me photos as the work progressed. I know there are rocks involved.
As Glen and I round the corner to my street, I warn him, "I might not recognize my own yard."
He pulls up in front of the house. He says, "It looks like Baa Haa Baa!"
"Rockefeller's teeth!"
*****
For a month after I got home, I had dreams about being in a big group, about houses on the water, about islands and tides, about getting another chance to climb North Mountain. With each blog post, the dreams became less frequent.
But I'm still processing.
I spent a year and a half stressing out about this trip.
Could I keep up with the Premeds? (Mostly)
Without getting injured? (This year, yes.)
Would I be driving all the way to Cape Breton and back by myself? (Fortunately, no.)
Would I be a loner for two weeks? (Yes and no.)
Would I be comfortable with this group? (Comfortable enough.)
Could I train well enough to climb those two mountains in one day? (Nope.)
Would all of this even be worth it? (Absolutely.)
When I wrote earlier that I felt like a college sophomore, I wasn't being hyperbolic. I really did feel the way I did when I was trying, as a transfer student, to figure out where I fit in among friend groups that were already established. There were plenty of folks I felt comfortable being social with, but I didn't really click with them. That's how this trip felt.
I got along fine with the Caboteers and the Party House people, but I couldn't really be myself. I don't think I made any new friends. Not that I've reached out to anyone but Heddy and Jeff either. It's mutual invisibility.
What I do feel now is relief. I can go back to doing whatever ride I damn please. There's nothing looming over me now. If I don't want to join the Premeds on a hella-hilly ride, I no longer have to.
By being so uncomfortable among the Premends, I realized how comfortable I am with the Slugs. That comfort didn't happen overnight, obviously. We've been riding together and trading snarky emails for the better part of a decade or even two.
Come spring, I'll join the Premeds on Wednesday nights when the ride starts up again. Maybe it'll feel different now that I'm not under any pressure. Maybe I can be myself.
Meanwhile, I'm back in glassblowing class and riding locally. There are dozens of photos on my camera that need to be written about. Stay tuned...
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