Magical Maine

Right now Maine’s rugged landscape is embellished with spring, decorated and gorgeous. The forests here are a mix of pine, oak, maple, birch, and beech trees, and the effect is magic—the quintessential Maine I’ve only known to exist through books or on TV. Scenic roadways trace the water's path and connect a network of small towns that come alive in the summer months like idyllic illustrations of the good and simple life. Stoic boats sit in wait, hoisted high above the ground on stilts for repair; their weary bows find reprieve from the unforgiving sea. Lobster traps are stacked in high rows, four cages deep, with buoys carefully draped on the walls of dilapidated homes. The lighthouses stand tall at their cliff's edge, softened only by the rolling hills that rest behind them. The deep rhythmic boom of waves breaking on bedrock that juts from the coastline in dramatic display is a familiar comfort. Bright skies or fairweather clouds decorate the horizon on any given afternoon. Sea spray drifts and morphs into that delicious salty ocean air.

Water beyond the coast appears still, ruffled only by the cool breezes that make their way inland or when the slow siphon of the tide exposes it's underbelly of black mudflats. On the lake the birds brashly chirp in harmony, and the struck chord of a banjo string is the call of the frog. The waters of the lake are ever-changing, never boring. This morning they were a still pool of green, chartreuse and indigo; a rainbow of muted tones reflecting off the surface, mist rising near the shoreline. I would happily greet the first light of every summer sun in this way.

The air up here is much cooler than down south, still in the 60s and 70s mid-day, and sweater weather in the early morning and evening when we sit in nature’s silence after the kids have gone to sleep. Day and night Maine is brimming with life and beauty. It’s the beginning of high season now—the tourists are pouring in and claiming little bits of the state as their own. As we are too.