Dreaming of Downeast Maine
The past week I’ve been helping a friend plan a bike trip (without me - sad trombone) down the East Coast Greenway from the northeast tip of Maine to Philadelphia. It’s sent me down the wormhole of memories….
In June 2013, a work trip sent me to the most remote part of northeastern Maine for an oil spill drill (known as CANUSLANT) between the Canadian and U.S. governments. I lived in Seattle at the time so it took 48 hours of air travel and driving a rental car from Portland, Maine, to finally arrive in Calais where we would be working. The small, quiet town sits on the St. Croix River across from its equally quiet neighbor, Saint Stephen, Canada. Pulling into the hotel parking lot, I believe my exasperated quote was:
“There is absofukinlutely no easy way to get to the northeastern most part of Maine.”
I could have been in Barrow, Alaska, in that amount time. Heck, I could have been in Paris eating crepes.
It turned out that the hotel in Calais where everyone was staying and where I had a reservation was overbooked, so they punted me 30 miles down road to an even quieter town: Eastport, which we dubbed “Mooseport” because 1) it was on Moose Island, so 2) everyone was convinced I would hit a moose on the drive back after working all day.
After completing the first day working in Calais, I got back in the rental car fuming resentment that I had to drive an extra 30-minutes in the dark while everyone else was at their hotel bar drinking. I was exhausted keeping my eye on the road while dodging shadows that I was convinced were moose at the edge of the car’s headlights. A final bridge took me to Moose Island and the small town of Eastport. It didn’t take long to find the six-room hotel, and I arrived weary and pouting from the extra effort required to arrive here in one piece. I checked in with the hotel office thinking that there couldn’t be a more out-of-place hotel in the entire world. Turning the key opened the door to my room and I threw down my luggage in a huff, but when I looked up I found myself in a whole new place of magic.
There was a balcony overlooking the dark expanse of water. Maine was already quiet, but this was a stillness only found on the water. I could smell the salt air and in the dark, the stillness amplified the sounds of barking seals and waves rolling over the rocky beach below. I smiled as I realized that I was the luckiest person in our work trip. They could have their hotel bar. My 30-minute drive took me to a place of serenity, plunked on the edge of the natural world, and I could not wait for the next day to reveal more about where I was staying.
In northern Maine, the mid-June sun rises around 4 a.m.. I know this because the sun beamed through my windows at exactly that hour, unimpeded over the ocean’s horizon. I sat on my balcony eating yogurt and watched lobstermen head out for the day while Sei whales patrolled right off the beach. The only sound was the whoosh of their breath meeting water as they breeched the surface. So far east and closer to Canada than the rest of America, this stretch of Maine actually clocked on Atlantic Daylight Time, which I didn’t know existed and confirmed my entry into another dimension.
After a full work day, I didn’t bother staying in Calais with my coworkers to eat at the hotel restaurant. I hopped in the rental car and raced back to my special place. There was a lobster shack below my room where the boats unloaded, so every evening I ate like a queen for crazy cheap at a picnic table overlooking the ocean on the lookout for whales.
One night my coworker visited my new adopted hometown and we walked the historic Eastport main street. We heard a faint call for help and saw an older woman with curls of gray hair laying in a heap in the road. We rushed to help her, not realizing that she was Eastport's well known 90-year old resident who had fallen and badly banged up her head. One of us stayed with her while the other went into a shop to get additional help and call an ambulance. It was what anyone would have done and we didn’t think anything of it other than ensuring this lady was taken care of.
Delicious, cheap eats from the nearby lobster shack
U.S Coast Guard Challenge Coins
The next day sitting in a meeting, my coworker and I were asked to come right away into the main conference room. Word had gotten around the command post about how we had come to this lady’s aid, and the U.S. Coast Guard Captain presented us with his Challenge Coin in appreciation for our sense of safety and community. It means a lot for the USCG to be represented so well by small, selfless actions. These coins aren't given out often and we were so honored!
When I had free time after work, I took out my best little bike buddy, Kermit, to stretch my legs after a long day and to explore more of Eastport’s surroundings. I learned that the town is on the National Register of Historic Places thanks to its architecturally decadent sea captain homes, and in 1833, it was only behind NYC as a leading East Coast trading port.
Kermit in Eastport, Maine
History of Eastport
But my best memory of this remote part of Maine was the local people. The coast was dotted with tight, friendly fishing communities more Alaskan than anything else in the Lower 48. They have to be in order to hunker down nine months of the year. Maybe they were radiating from all the daylight, but I found them the most charming people, straight out of Northern Exposure.
I visited Eastport’s neighboring village, Lubec, which I would see down the coast from my hotel balcony. To celebrate coming out of hibernation, a Lubec shop owner shared the story of how they all dress up as pirates on Labor Day and “invade” their neighbors on their fishing boats. Eastport is always their rival and first to pillage. When I asked how they got along isolated all winter, he insisted that the winters “weren’t that bad” and insisted the ocean kept it relatively mild. I’m sure he was right, but I could only envision icebergs just off the coast.
Once my week in Calais and Eastport was over, it was time to drive back down to Portland and fly back to Seattle. I took the scenic coastal drive south. Downeast Maine is remote and full of pastures and low tree woodlands, and what I hoped were endless fields of blueberries. Right outside of Lubec it was an easy choice to detour to West Quoddy Head Lighthouse and State Park, which is the easternmost point in the U.S. It’s a simple, small overlook with a striking red and white-striped working lighthouse and caretaker’s building. We timed it just to get a glimpse of a private wedding taking place. Who needs a church when you have the whole ocean around you.
Between West Quoddy and Bar Harbor, there aren’t many places to linger, although there were plenty of roadside lobster shacks to keep me fueled along the way. My hours in Maine were numbered and I had to make them count at every lobster opportunity presented.
One last stop on my trip was a mandatory stop at Acadia National Park to ride the old carriage road trails and climb Cadillac Mountain.
The gentle crushed limestone trails were just lovely, and midweek perfectly empty. They were such a relaxing way to stretch the legs with Kermit after a day in the car and explore this unique park.
The next morning, to follow in my dad’s bike tracks, I reluctantly woke to my alarm so that I could begin the ride with Kermit up Cadillac Mountain. This is a bucket list for cyclists. It’s a gentle 3 mile climb on a very well paved road. If you time it right, you will be the first person in the U.S. to see the sun rise. That morning it was me and a few other cyclists and hikers, but there were even more paragliders surfing the air currants. I called my parents from the top, glad that I could share this with them.
This was such an unexpected pleasure of a trip. I was very fortunate that my job sent me to this corner of the U.S. that most will never think twice about visiting. Forget Europe, when the travel gates open I’m taking my bike back to Downeast Maine to ride bikes and find pirates….and eat my weight in lobster again!