We had the car packed and ready to leave early Saturday morning and, after spending the better part of the day crossing New York and Massachusetts, we rolled into Portland, Maine shortly after dark looking for food and a place to sleep. After finding a decent motel we wandered around downtown for a while searching for dinner and eventually ended up in a small Mexican restaurant somewhere near the waterfront. Later we drove around the city admiring the harbor and the old brick buildings before eventually admitting that we were, in fact, completely lost. Even so, Portland struck me as a remarkably pleasant city, especially at night.
The following morning we left in a cold rain that gradually disappeared as we drove farther north. Hours later we reached Millinocket where we stopped for lunch and checked in at Baxter State Park headquarters before continuing on toward the park itself. By the time we reached the gatehouse the sky had cleared and the late afternoon light had that cool northern quality I always associate with Maine and the North Woods.
Baxter is one of the finest state parks I have ever visited, due largely to the fact that they are serious about keeping it wild. There is a strict carry-in, carry-out policy and they are more than willing to send people back to clean their campsites if necessary. There are no conveniences beyond the absolute essentials. Water must be filtered, boiled, or chemically treated, and the campgrounds themselves are quiet enough that you quickly begin noticing things normally buried beneath the noise of civilization: wind in spruce trees, distant water, ravens somewhere overhead.
After setting up camp we drove to the Katahdin Stream trailhead and hiked several miles up past Thoreau Falls and nearly to treeline before turning around in the fading light. By the time we reached camp darkness was settling over the woods and the temperature had begun dropping rapidly. After dinner I walked down to the ranger station and bought a large bundle of cedar firewood which turned out to be wonderfully dry and aromatic. The wind had picked up enough that the warmth from the fire felt especially welcome and for a while we simply sat quietly watching sparks rise through the trees into the darkness.
Later that night I took my camera and tripod and wandered off looking for an opening in the forest large enough for time exposures of the stars. Eventually I found a clearing and spent the next hour standing in the cold staring upward. The Milky Way stretched across the sky as an immense band of light and there were more visible stars than I had ever seen before. Constellations I previously knew only from books suddenly became obvious. It was easy to understand why ancient civilizations built mythologies around the night sky.
None of the photographs came particularly close to capturing what we saw that night.
The following morning we visited another trailhead and spent the day hiking through gentler terrain of ponds, low forest, and sections of the Appalachian Trail while keeping an eye out for moose. At Dacy Pond we sat and watched a loon drifting silently near the shoreline before turning back toward the trailhead through quiet woods already beginning to take on autumn color.
Later that afternoon we stopped for lunch near an empty group campsite where a small red squirrel quickly decided we might represent a worthwhile investment of time and attention. It became progressively bolder until eventually it jumped directly onto the picnic table beside us. We were laughing at its increasingly determined attempts to steal food when suddenly a hawk flashed low over the picnic table, missing the squirrel by only a fraction of a second before climbing back into the sky.
That evening we visited Abol Pond hoping to see moose near the shoreline. We never did. Instead we watched the sky turn deep orange and red while the remaining clouds reflected softly across the still water. In the fading light we could hear scattered birds settling down for the night and eventually decided we should probably do the same.
After breakfast we broke camp and made our way north toward our second campsite at South Branch Pond, stopping along the way at several waterfalls and cascades. Pulling into the campground, another hawk swept low overhead at nearly car-top level before landing in a nearby tree where it studied us with obvious suspicion. After camp was set up we walked down to the shoreline and skipped stones across the pond until our shoulders were sore.
Just before dinner a storm moved through and it rained steadily for perhaps half an hour. As the rain tapered off and sunlight began filtering through the clouds I grabbed my camera and hurried back toward the beach, reasonably certain what was about to happen. Sure enough, a large double rainbow had formed over the lake. It had already begun fading by the time I set up the camera, but I still managed a few decent photographs.
The next morning was the coldest of the trip with temperatures somewhere around forty degrees and a stiff wind blowing across the ridges. Nevertheless, we decided to climb North Traveler Mountain.
As we gained elevation the forest gradually fell away and the views opened in every direction. The summit views were enormous, with forests, lakes, and ridges stretching away beneath a sky full of fast-moving clouds while the only visible evidence of humanity was our tiny campground far below. Standing there, surrounded by miles of unbroken wilderness, it was easy to understand why Baxter feels so different from most parks. There was very little to suggest civilization existed at all.
Later that afternoon the three of us climbed into a canoe and paddled across South Branch Pond beneath a cold clear sky. At some point during the crossing it occurred to me how improbable the whole scene would have seemed to me only a few years earlier: paddling a canoe across a remote lake in northern Maine surrounded by mountains and dark forest. The return crossing proved somewhat more strenuous since we spent most of it paddling directly into the wind, though I actually enjoyed the return trip more. A loon passed close beside the canoe at one point before disappearing underwater and resurfacing somewhere else entirely. Its calls echoed across the lake later that night.
As our stay at Baxter was coming to an end, we packed up and, with considerable reluctance, headed south toward Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park. Along the way we stopped at the Lumberman’s Museum where we toured a reconstructed logging camp and watched a short film about logging in northern Maine during the early twentieth century. The conditions those men worked under were difficult to even imagine: isolated camps, brutal winters, wool blankets, and beds made from balsam fir boughs.
Leaving Baxter behind, we spent a night near Ellsworth before continuing on to Mount Desert Island. The following morning I took my parents to a restaurant I remembered from an earlier trip to Maine. The blueberry pancakes were exactly as I remembered — enormous and overflowing with blueberries. After breakfast we wandered through Bar Harbor and eventually found a campsite at Seawall Campground. The remainder of the afternoon disappeared in the familiar way vacations often do, drifting between bookstores, small shops, and coastal overlooks until we suddenly realized we were about to miss the whale-watch boat.
We raced through town, skidded into the parking lot, and sprinted toward the dock just as they were preparing to pull up the gangplank.
We made it with very little dignity remaining.
The boat carried us nearly twenty-five miles offshore before we saw a whale spout rising in the distance.
When I saw the look on my parents’ faces I knew the trip had already been worthwhile.
Neither of them had ever seen a whale before. The distant spout was enough. Everything after that felt like a bonus.
Shortly afterward we found several whales moving slowly near the surface. An enormous black fin suddenly rose high out of the water before crashing down with a sound that carried clearly across the ocean.
The marine biologist explained that nobody really knows why whales slap their fins and that some individuals will repeat the behavior over and over again. This particular whale seemed determined to prove the point. Each time the massive fin rose above the water, streams poured from its edges before it crashed back into the sea and disappeared beneath the surface.
The marine biologist eventually identified the whale by the markings on its tail. A few minutes later a second whale appeared and the two began surfacing together, rising slowly, exhaling explosively, then slipping back beneath the surface in perfect synchronization.
At one point the engines were shut down completely and the boat drifted quietly while the whales surfaced nearby. The sound of their breathing carried clearly across the water. What struck me most was that none of this behavior was trained or controlled. The whales were there simply because they chose to be.
Eventually the boat turned back toward shore.
Most of the passengers immediately disappeared into the heated cabin, but we chose to remain outside at the front of the boat, riding back through the cold wind and spray.
Before heading west we spent another day exploring the coast, listening to a retired lobsterman describe life on the Maine fishing grounds and wandering through Freeport before spending one final night in a tent.
With the trip beginning to wind down, we decided to leave the homeward route flexible and simply see what we found along the way. Somewhere in Massachusetts I noticed signs for Walden Pond and, knowing my parents were both admirers of Thoreau, turned off the highway toward Concord.
We spent several hours walking around Walden Pond before eventually reaching the site of Thoreau’s cabin and later a reconstruction of the small house itself near the visitor center. Fortunately we arrived just in time to hear a park employee — clearly a serious Thoreau scholar — giving an interpretive presentation in character as Thoreau. He spoke with such familiarity and conviction that for a while it genuinely felt as though we were listening to Thoreau himself discussing Walden, nature, and how one ought to live.
Many miles later, somewhere in New York, we decided we were too tired to bother with camping and pushed straight through for home. After dinner near Albany we continued west through the night. By the time we arrived home around one in the morning, thirteen hours had passed since we left Maine.
The trip passed far too quickly, though by the time it ended we had covered a remarkable amount of ground and seen places I had long hoped my parents would one day experience for themselves. Even now, years later, when I think back on the trip, it is not any single destination I remember most clearly but rather the accumulation of smaller moments: cedar smoke drifting through cold air, loons calling across dark water, whales surfacing beside a silent boat, and stars bright enough to make the night sky feel almost unfamiliar.