The next morning, we drug the kids out of bed, loaded the van, and then started our trek back down the coast.

Lil’s Cafe

We stopped at Kittery for breakfast-which-was-actually-lunch and then headed on into Boston where we spent the rest of the day walking the Freedom Trail, poking our heads in little Italian groceries, and forcing the kids to keep walking. 

The warship’s mixer looks awfully familiar. Also, is that a sheeter?!

Ice cream cones coated with Rice Krispy treats!

Jerusalem bagel from Tatte.

We’d made reservations for a hotel close to the airport, but then we drove there and realized that it was in the airport and we had to pay 55.00 dollars for valet service and then our car was whisked away and we were stranded in airport land: a situation that, if we weren’t so tired and hungry, would’ve been hilarious (and still was, a little bit). Actually, it gave me twinges of PTSD, leftover trauma from our Belize fiasco which was, undeniably, LEAGUES worse than being stranded in a comfy hotel for a night. 

We made the best of it, though — my husband and younger daughter went foraging on foot for food and found a pizza place — and the next morning my son and husband played in the pool and then we feasted on the hotel’s hot, free (nothing’s free, ha!) breakfast.

And then we tore out of the hotel last minute to meet up with my (distant) cousin and his family to go whale watching — our trip splurge.

The whales were neat (we saw a humpback and her calf from a distance) but what I really liked was the boat ride. For much of the four-hour trip, I stood out at the front on the part that jutted out into the ocean. It was mesmerizing, watching as the boat lifted up over a swell and then nosedived back down. Like being on a roller coaster, almost. It was the first time I’d ever really been out on the open ocean like that; even with calm seas, it was thrilling. 

Then back to Framingham for the evening and the hard part: saying goodbye to our daughter.

It was much harder to say goodbye this time than when she’d first left home back in January, maybe because the separation feels more permanent now — we know she’s going to be at this farm for another year, at least — or maybe because, driving up to MA, we got to feel the physical distance between us. Or maybe because being with her for a week reminded me of how much fun she is, or because it was all of us leaving her there, by herself. She loves her work, and she’s with good people (and has good friends), but she’s doing all this on her own. Even though everything is as it should be, as we all want it to be, it’s still hard.

Another hotel…

another twelve hours of driving and then, after a grand total of one thousand, nine hundred and two miles, we were home again, and in our fridge there was a homemade supper from my mother, ahhh. 

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.29.20), roasted zucchini parmesan, we have arrived, fútbol, a break in the clouds, goat cheese whipped cream, red beet greens.

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.