The license plates read, Vacationland. The surf crashes its cold, saline spray upon the promised craggy cliffs. Eagles really do soar. Boats sail. Lighthouses toll. Maine delivers on its legacy and left me hungry for more.
The menu for the trip to Maine Mr. Mix and I took last week was a multicourse affair complete with copious amounts of lobster and blueberry pie. We started our adventure in The Forks, Maine, a town that seemed eerily reminiscent of vampire-strewed scenes from Forks, Washington. (Yes, I saw the movies, I follow the tabloids, and I eagerly await watching the now defunct famous duo break dawn).
In The Forks, the rain made the greens even greener and the grounds even wetter for my first ever camping trip. I won’t say I slept well through showers and snorers, but I wasn’t exactly roughing it either. Inside our six man tent was just us two lovebirds and a queen-sized luxury areobed. There may have been mosquitoes nipping at the nylon door and thunder cracking up above, but wrapped inside my 300 thread-count sheets with the warm glow of a whiskey buzz, I was content.
In the morning, we set off with Mr. Mix’s MBA buddies for an an afternoon of white water rafting along the Kennebec River. Campfires, s’mores and lobster boiled over an open-flame followed. Next we ventured to Acadia National park where we met up with another couple and their five-month old puppy to tackle the trails, dip into icy cold lakes, and lay out atop sun-drenched boulders. We climbed down to remote beaches, kayaked across puddle-still water, and watched the sun set over the Wonderland trail–a most magnificent corner of Maine’s unadorned coast whose curious rock formations seem as close as I’ll ever get to a lunar landscape.
Acadia is the Eastern most tip of the United States, and from its eagle’s nest atop Cadillac Mountain, one can spot the very first rays of sunrise. Not surprisingly for this night owl, I slept through that vista each morning we were there, choosing instead to stay up late watching the stars form perfect constellations in the ink black sky.
The final leg of our vacation to Vacationland took us through Portland and Peaks Island. This was our return to civilization, restaurants, and a king-sized bed. We rode bikes around the island, picnicked on local cheeses and charcuterie (if ever you can get your hands on Hahn’s End City of Ships raw cow’s milk cheese–do), and taste-tested the best of Maine’s capital city cuisine. Of course, hard-shell lobster and wild blueberries were bountiful, but so too was the gravy-laden poutine at Duckfat, the farm-to-table Italian food at Vignola Cinque Terre and the pan-seared seafare at Street and Co.
Maine was one of those trips that you leave already plotting your next return. Mr. Mix has a birthday coming up. I wonder what local Maine lobster tastes like in the crisp, autumn air.
I’ll let you know.