On my agenda for Maine: hiking. Also, I wanted to have a day trip — something that took a little more effort and planning than idle meandering. So when I realized that we’d be only two hours from Acadia National Park, I pounced.  

My younger daughter stayed behind. She was still feeling yucky from the migraine, she said, and really, I think, she just wanted to be alone, in bed, for awhile. (Note to self: next time, do a better job managing expectations. I’d thought I’d thoroughly explained that we’d be doing things, not slumping around a house all day, but then the kids started fussing about not being able to sleep in and and I realized that I’d neglected to take into account that my kids might actually need a break: my younger son was weary from getting up early to milk every single morning, and my older daughter was bone-tired from four-plus months of ten-hour days, six days a week. Oops.)

As it so happened, our Acadia day was the one rainy day of the whole trip. It rained the whole way to the park, but then cleared just as we arrived. We parked and then headed straight for the Beehive. This hike, I’d read, was considered strenuous — it had vertical climbs with iron bars, and wasn’t for anyone afraid of heights. But I’m not afraid of heights, and I climb ladders just fine. Besides, it was only supposed to last 2 hours. Sounded kinda measly to me.

The first five minutes went fine. We read the sign warning of death and scampered happily up the rock-strewn path.

And then we started climbing and, ohshit, ohshit, ohshit. We had only narrow ledges to walk on, and once, in the absence of those, a few slippy iron bars sticking out of the rock with nothing to hold on to. One dizzy spell, one misstep, one loose rock, and we’d tumble straight down.

Not that I could see anything — the fog obscured the view, a gift for which I was supremely grateful. The couple times it lifted enough for me to see the far-away treetops, I used my hand as a blinder, or, on a couple occasions, just hugged the rock wall and tried to breathe. I stopped taking photos, and I didn’t look down, and I didn’t even really care where my kids were as long as they weren’t too close to me.

Keep going, keep going, keep going, I chanted between curses, half-wailing, half-laughing. At one point, I considered a panic attack but then I realized that’d be counter productive so I just laughed instead. 

the top

Because when you get yourself in a situation like that, what else can you do?

(For our second hike, I’d planned to do The Precipice, but when I realized that one was twice as high, and rain looked imminent, I said, No. No, no, no. Hell no. Just NO. My younger son was sorely disappointed. And to think he’s the same kid who cried at Tikal and Cabo Rojo because he was so terrified of the heights! Whatever.)

But even though I hated that climb and I really don’t think I’d ever want to do it again — turns out, I have limits! — I’m so glad I did it. Terror and exhilaration make a potent combo. I can see how some people get addicted to the rush. 

The hike down the other side was lovely, made all the more beautiful by our still-pumping adrenaline and the fact that we had just survived not dying. 

^{photo credit: my older daughter}

We spent the next little while exploring the coast. While the rest of the family busied themselves scaling cliffs, I hung back, alternating between yelling at them not to die and photographing slugs on the ground so I wouldn’t have to watch. 

count the people: there are three

It started to rain then, so we took shelter under a tree and people-watched. The parking lots were crammed with people, the road-side trails overflowing, but the rain chased many of them away. By the time we struck off into the woods, the rain still coming down, we had the (forested) place pretty much to ourselves. 

^{photo credit: my older daughter}

We got drenched (I could wring the water out of my fleece), but it didn’t much bother me. Well, except for slowing me down, footing-wise. My still-sore hamstring and knee made me more hesitant than ever, and the tread on my sneakers wasn’t all that effective, but I managed not to fall, so yay. The forest was gorgeous, the leaves brilliant green against the dark ground — I couldn’t get over it. Once the rained stopped, the kids entertained themselves by slapping trees to drench each other. 

Someone just got had.

We did another small hike then (read: I forced everyone to keep going) and stopped by Jordan’s Pond to use the bathrooms. 

I wanted to hike more — the day had turned sunny and lovely — but it was getting late and the kids were tired, so we quit. 

Next time we go, I’d like to have three or four days up there to hike, at least.

The place is incredible. 

This same time, years previous: burnt cheesecake, the quotidian (6.26.17), seven nothings, dark chocolate zucchini cake, lemon roast chicken.

After lunch, we drove four hours north, up through Portland and Freeport (where we stopped to do some browsing at LL Bean headquarters), to my friend Mavis’s house where we’d be staying for the next several nights. 

She had these shirts waiting for us on our pillows.

When I, worried about abusing their hospitality, had emailed Mavis a few days before we left regarding bedding — did we need to air mattresses? bedding and towels? — this was her response (summarized):

Dear Mrs. Murch, 

Thank you for reaching out. Here at Camp Butterfield we are a full service facility. In addition to the double twin room, we have 2 queen air mattresses with organic cotton sheets and new pillows for your enjoyment. We also supply all our guests with 1 cotton organic towel each. All our bathrooms come equipped with shampoo, conditioner, body wash, hand soap and toilet paper. Also available on request are toiletries such as toothbrushes, toothpaste, cough drops, q-tips and sunscreen. If you have any other questions about your upcoming stay here at Camp Butterfield, please don’t hesitate to drop us a line. We are here to help 24/7.

Sincerely, 
Mavis Butterfield
Co-Owner / Operator Camp Butterfield

I’d burst out laughing and quickly typed back: Point made, message received: WE ARE ON VACATION. Camp Butterfield, here we come!!!!! 

^{photo credit: my younger daughter}

After a quick tour of their new (to them) home, and a visit to the dock, we gathered around the table for a pickety bits extravaganza. Unsure of our arrival time, I’d told my friend not to count on us for supper and then, like my sister-in-law, she went all out anyway. Do I see a pattern here? 

Not that I was fussing! The feast was vast, varied, and very delicious. My favorite thing was super simple, too: the cream cheese topped with a sweet hot pepper jelly. I couldn’t stop eating it. 

The next day, we breakfasted on the deck and then took off with the kids for a little exploring. We went first to a lighthouse located nearly a mile out at the end of a breakerwater.

The wind was fierce, but it was gloriously sunny. We meandered, staring at the seagulls, walking down to the little side docks (on one, I layed down, shut my eyes, and savoured the rocking dock and warm sun), and waving at the passing boats. 

At a nearby town, we stopped for coffee and pastries…

the one nanosecond in which they weren’t fighting

And then we headed back to the house to go kayaking. (My son had already gone out early that morning with Mavis: while they were on the water, the tide went out and they had to hike back in through the thick mud. He loved it.)

^{photo credit: my younger daughter}

Being out on the water was slightly freaky. I couldn’t see the bottom and I kept worrying I’d run aground on rocks or tip right over. Plus, I was terribly clumsy with the oars: my hands kept knocking against the side of the kayak and I dripped water all over my legs. Gradually, though, I got a little better at turning and stopping and going straight (the hardest part, I thought). I even got brave enough to intentionally run the kayak aground on a little island and explore it. There was lots of poop on it — not runny bird poop, but actual turds. Do seagulls poop turds? Hmm.

^{photo credit: my younger daughter}

While the tide was still out, Mavis took me and my younger two (my husband and older daughter stayed behind to work on insurance stuff, lucky them) out in the little dinghy to get fresh lobster. Traveling by boat to get your food, tying up the boat at the dock (after first crashing into it, ha), picking lobster from cages that the farmer just hauled dripping from the water —- can it get anymore quintessential Maine? I think not.

The farmer, in his thick New England accent, showed us the difference between males and females, soft shelled and hard. I didn’t absorb much of what he said though — I was in “newness overload.” Also, lobsters are disturbingly similar to scorpions. Whoever thought to eat them? 

demonstrating how they measure them to make sure they’re big enough

The lobsters purchased — three soft shelled and three hard for 70 dollars total — we plunked them into the bucket we’d brought and headed back onto the water, this time to go to town to check out a general store, on our way passing the infamous Forrest Gump lighthouse.

And then then the waves picked up and so did our speed and soon we were skimming across the tops, which is akin to repeatedly slamming into five-foot deep potholes. The kids and I held on for dear life and screamed with laughter while Mavis dodged lobster buoys and focused on not-capsizing us. (Or maybe that was just luck?)

We poked our heads in the store (my son bought a whoopie pie) and coffee shop, and used the public portapotties (because wave jumping and full bladders do not a happy seafaring team make). 

On the way back, Mavis let my daughter drive, and I got to see what a gifted teacher she is: her instructions were calm and clear, and she was both trusting and hands-off, just letting my daughter get a feel for the dinghy, giving verbal direction only when necessary. It was impressive; my daughter was thrilled.

Back home, we did the whole lobster meal experience thing: boiled lobster dipped in butter, potatoes, rolls, corn-on-the-cob. (Except for my younger daughter who’d sprouted a migraine and spent the next day-plus in bed.) The lobster was good, but seeing as it was the first fresh lobster I’d ever had, I’m not really qualified to really say more than that. 

Well, except this: considering how much work it takes, and how messy it is — squirting brine! runny guts! drippy butter! — I can not imagine eating lobster in a restaurant with any sort of dignity. How do people do it? And why?

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.24.19), fruit-filled coffee cake, better iced coffee, my ethical scapegoat, the quotidian (6.25.12), two bad things, beef empanadas, one whole year.

The next stop was Keene, NH to visit my husband’s youngest brother and his family, our first time at their house.

It was such a treat to see them in their home! You know, you hang out with people and visit them here and there, but being in their home — seeing their projects, looking out their windows, eating their food — is such a completely different experience. It gives a much more nuanced and complete picture of who they are.

I’d told my sister-in-law not to expect us for supper. I didn’t know when exactly we’d be able to leave the farm, and I didn’t want to make them wait for us, but that McDonald’s pitstop (my one-time fast food concession for the whole trip, not counting Dunkin Donuts and Subway) turned out to be one of my biggest trip regrets. Because when we arrived, they were just getting ready to sit down to supper: a whole bunch of homeamde pizzas, the sourdough crust all bubbly and blistered black. Even though I wasn’t hungry, I had a piece of the white pizza — artichoke, basil, fresh mozzarella, and garlic — and it was, quite possibly, the best pizza I have ever eaten, and I’m not even being hyperbolic, promise. (Later, I took notes on her method and ingredients, and today I have plans to replicate her kitchen wizardry. The bar, however, has been raised quite high. I’m not sure I’ll be able to reach it.) 

The next morning after a feast of eggs, blueberry muffins, and a dazzling fruit salad, my SIL took me on a tour of her gardens. I’ve always known she liked to garden, but her gardens were like none I’d ever seen before, rambling and half-wild, and absolutely everywhere: in the woods, around the house, behind the shed, on the side of the hill, down in the meadow. I’d had no idea.

every inch of this, she knows

There were log-lined “raised” gardens, and rows of hay bales that she planted in directly — the bales made raised gardens one year and then, as they decomposed, excellent mulch the next. In the tree stumps, she’d drilled holes for mushrooms. There were stepping stones and little hoop houses and staked plants. There were little wild strawberries woven in among the asparagus and potatoes, cultivated strawberry plants here and there, raspberry bushes, fruit trees, little patches of lettuce and peas.

strawberries, mint, garlic, asparagus

She told me about how when they’d bought the house, the flower gardens were full of orange tiger lilies and how, over time, she’s dug them all up and replaced them with plants of her choosing: pear trees and flowers and different varieties of honeyberry bushes. I’d never heard of honeyberries before, but they’re like blueberries, only better — more juicy and tart — and shaped like a cross between mini mangoes and fruity pebbles. (In the fruit salad photo above, see if you can differentiate between the honeyberries and blueberries.)

Down in the meadow, beneath the grape arbor, she showed me her method for making a garden: she digs up a three or four foot strip of dense field growth, plants in the fresh strip, and piles the grass and weeds at the far end of the newly overturned ground. The next year, she sifts through the pile of composted sod, pulling out the weeds and rocks, and then uses the rocks to make a border along the edge. She plants in the composted section and then digs a new section. Bit by bit, she’s carving a garden into the hillside meadow in front of the house. 

note the new bed cutting into the field of ferns

As we walked along, she’d occasionally pluck a diseased leaf, or yank out a weed. I’d look at the ground around me and see what looked like rambly undergrowth, and then she’d come along and name each plant, cultivated and uncultivated. She explained how she gets a start from a bush — by stapling a branch into the ground, covering it with dirt and then, once rooted, clipping it off and transplanting. She talked about transplanting whole sections of garden, adding more “show” (her lingo for color pops) to different areas, and scavenging bits of wire to cobble together trellises. 

pear, herbs, roses, and lots of “show”

Hearing her talk as we walked through her gardens, it was like I was seeing an artist at work, but with soil and seeds instead of canvas and paints. The depth of her knowledge, her hard work, her exuberance and joy, her boundless creativity and energy — it was stunning, truely. And inspirational. To me, gardening has always been tied to drudgery and work, productivity and perfection, but to her, gardening is how she plays.  

hay bale bed

And it’s not like she’s spending boatloads of time out there. Shocking, right? But really, she doesn’t have much time to garden, what with the small kids and her other projects, like spinning yarn and knitting intricate sweaters she designs herself. When I pushed her about how much time she spends gardening, she said, after thinking about it a minute, about an hour a day, probably. Hearing her say that unlocked something for me — gardens don’t have to be all-consuming affairs. I’m not going to suddenly turn into a gardener, I know, but doing better at it — and maybe enjoying it even — could be within reach. 

grazing on wild strawberries

For example, and it might sound silly, one thing I gleaned from her is this: cut out the bad plants. I always thought I needed to pull the weeds out from the roots, but she repeatedly mentioned how she clips out the bad plants. So the day after we got home, I went down to the raspberry patch and cut out the big weeds I can never seem to get rid of. And it was good enough!  

This same time, years previous: teen club takes Puerto Rico, buttermilk brownies, lemon ice cream with red raspberries.