October 7, 2011 - Deer Isle, ME
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| Jesse, Eric and me on Little Goat Island. |
Eric has a slew of friends from his hometown that had adopted me into their clan. One of them, a wiry and smart young man named Mark, had a plot of land on Deer Isle -- or rather his family had a plot of land up there. On this land there was nothing but a tent platform and a shed to house a canoe, some kayaks and whatever raccoon was clever enough to get into it before the long winter. The land is made up of a large field -- probably two or three football fields, end to end -- and a winding Hemlock forest that brings you to a rocky inlet. The trip to Deer Isle is long, as anyone with a map can imagine, so trips are always made during long weekends. With Eric in school and me -- as I was tactfully putting it at the time -- "between jobs," we decided to leave early on Friday so we could set up shop. Mark and our other companion, Jesse -- a goofy soul who tries to keep his head amid our collective shenanigans -- would meet up with us later in the evening. They had jobs, the suckers.
So here Eric and I were, staring at Fort Knox (no, not that Fort Knox), wishing the gloomy day would deliver us, when the sun finally began to break through.
"Half an hour left!" Eric cried, bashing the steering wheel with open palms, as he does when excited and driving.
The tide was going out when we passed over the bridge that acted as a gateway to Deer Isle. It wasn't very late, but the sun was setting fast, blasting the sky with deep purples and violets (God sure does have a pretty paintbrush). Eric and I were famished, having taken little food with us for the long drive. We yearned for dinner, but knew we had work to do first. We had to make sure the camp site was clear.
You see, the plot up there in Deer Isle doesn't get many frequent visitors from Mark's family. This must have incentivized some young vagabond to make it his home, because the last time the group had ventured up for a weekend, they found the site occupied. A tent stood off at the edge of the woods, a fire smoldering beside it. The first two to arrive -- Adam and Hillary -- believed that a friend had beat them there; they were wrong. Upon investigating the tent, they found a disheveled man lurking inside. Adam asked the man what he was doing, without receiving much of a response. Eventually, Adam told the man he couldn't stay there. The man ignored him and began to spout out rants and conspiracy theories -- contrails, reptilians, etc. -- and Adam walked away. The rest of the group arrived, one by one, and were unable to figure out what to do with this unstable man. In true New England fashion, they ignored his presence and drank themselves into a fearful sleep. When they woke the next day, the man had vanished.
We had to make sure he wasn't back.
Eric and I briefly explored the field and found no evidence of recent human activity, but we did find a few apple trees full of fruit. We quickly set up a few tents and the cooking area. Satisfied that we'd completed the tasks at hand, we hopped back in the car and made our way down the quiet, winding backroads into town for dinner. Parking in the center of town, we found the one open joint at 7:30 on a Friday night, clearly Deer Isle's premier restaurant. The place was packed with vacationing AARP cardholders enjoying tuna salad sandwiches and chips. When we walked in, the place went silent and everyone stared. Eric and I could not figure out if we were such a spectacle because we were the youngest customers present by about 30 years, or if we merely seemed out of place with all the yuppies.
A kindly, young waitress came over with water and asked what we'd like to order, telling us that the kitchen would be closed soon, so we should order quickly. I asked how the "Pizza Cheeseburger" was.
"Oh, don't get that." She replied flatly. "Yeah, I'd get anything else on the menu."
I got the chicken salad sandwich.
After we'd been there for a while, the customers began to forget about us and go back to what they were doing. A middle aged man sat with his elderly parents, who were treating him very tenderly. I listened in to their conversation briefly, as Eric and I were too tired to talk between ourselves (eavesdropping is rude, I know, but gosh is it entertaining) and I noticed that the middle aged man spoke slowly, with difficulty. My first thought was, "Oh, this man has had a stroke or some such issue, and he is out to dinner with his folks on vacation. How nice." It was at this point that Eric and I both heard a key phrase uttered by the man that changed out whole vision of the restaurant's dynamic.
"Ya know buddy, I don't know ya, but I fuckin' love ya."
At this point, we began to notice the buckets of beer present on every table but ours. The slurred speech, the stumbling patrons, the listlessly staring eyes. That man had had no stroke. Those were not his parents. Everyone wasn't being rude for staring at us. These people were all hammered. All of them. Except Eric and me.
As the waitress brought our check, the drunken retirees began to jingle their car keys, indicating they were getting ready to get on the road. I, too, stood up to leave after we'd paid, when Eric grabbed my arm and brought me back down to my chair.
"Hold up," He said quietly. "Let's wait til all these people drunk-drive away from us before we leave."
We sat, finishing our luke-warm coffee as the drunkards trickled out. Walking back to the car, a man was getting into his Saab convertible, singing some unknown, out-of-pitch tune to his wife. The car took off with a screech and disappeared into the Maine night.
Back at the site, Eric and I set about building a fire and cooking some treats for Mark and Jesse. The night was crisp and chill, reminding me how I missed the humid summer nights we'd just left behind only weeks before. The last two companions arrived and were pleased with not being in the car any longer. It was a feeling I could identify with. We sat around the fire for a while, drinking whatever godawful beer they had brought before we all headed off to sleep, watching our breath condense in the night air.
* * * *
When we woke the next day, the temperatures had already reached the mid 70's, projected to rise to the 80's by midday and through the weekend -- uncommon not only for October in general, but especially for October in Maine. We took advantage of the pleasant, summer-like weather and set about exploring the island. As I was jostled in the trunk of Jesse's Wrangler, listening to David Bowie, we picked up some food and drink for later before venturing to Peter Beerit's "sculpture town" -- for lack of a more appropriate name. It is an enchanting place, which words struggle to describe. Populated with Picasso-like abstract human sculptures, rendered from salvaged wood, metal and other parts, the town is made up of a few themed areas: A Western town, with a Saloon, gunslingers and the like. There is also a Medieval village, where knights battle dragons and a king holds court. Bicycles and wheel barrows turned into monsters and abstract forms dot the property. We marveled at the creations and snacked on some Nervous Nellie's Jams, which are sold there as well. While I petted a greasy-coated, sleepy shepherd dog, we eavesdropped on the artist talking to other tourists (it's a real problem for me).
We left the installation for our camp and spent much of the afternoon shooting cans with our Daisy Red Rider BB gun, smoking cigars, and enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. When the daylight began to waiver, we took to the woods to gather firewood. At the other end of the property was a large rock outcropping that juts into the inlet. In this rock is a natural bowl, which acts as a neat fire pit when the tide is out. When the tide comes back in, it carries the charred firewood out into the ocean. It's not very green at all -- but hey, neither are campfires.
Darkness had set in by the time we'd gathered all the firewood and finished our dinners. The tide was not all the way out, leaving some seawater clinging to the bottom of the rock bowl. With a bit of critical thinking, we devised a plan to build a platform for the fire to sit on. At first, the fire roared, fueled by dry pine branches and a cooperative breeze. But soon, as we should have expected, the platform ignited and collapsed into the bit of water that was still in the fire pit. The fire smoldered and quieted down, troubled but not defeated. Quickly, we all took to rebuilding the fire, but had a bad case of "too many cooks in the kitchen." The flames still clung to the wood, but they were slowly becoming embers, despite our efforts.
Several times, Jesse repeated an idea that we should stomp on the fire to get it going. Eric argued that it would do more to harm the fire, but Jesse insisted. Finally, a frustrated Eric shouted "FINE, JESSE!" and took a long leap onto the fire, sending sparks, twigs and small flames around. Jesse and I ducked back, shielding our eyes from the shower of sparks and debris, while Mark took the opportunity to snap a photo. The bottom embers sizzled in the puddle of sea water, but the fire maintained its lazy blaze. We kept at the fire for a few more hours, but were never truly able to get it to a bon. As the stars grew brighter in the Maine sky above, we grabbed buckets of water, doused the waning embers, and headed back up the mossy trail to our tents.
* * * *
When we woke the next morning, the sun was bright and the smells of low tide clung to the air. We made our way back up to the field and our makeshift kitchen to cook up a simple breakfast. Soon, with our bellies filled, we took two canoes and painstakingly carried them down to the rock outcrop (damn, are canoes heavy!) -- there was much swearing. Gently nursing stubbed toes, we waited for the tide to come in just a little more before we slowly and laboriously lowered the heavy vessels into the sea. It was a tricky maneuver, getting not only our gear, but also ourselves into the boats below us. There was little to hold on to and the water was a bit wavy -- being the ocean and all -- but we nevertheless succeeded, dry and uninjured. The inlet took us out of Long Cove into Deep Hole, and the open ocean beyond. The shoreline was dotted with run-down, quaint fishing huts and more elaborate vacation homes. We slinked by unused lobster boats and one large, Water World-esque boat that was covered in rotted plywood. It bobbed gently in the small waves, neglected and forgotten in the water. As we neared the ocean, the houses became less numerous and the coastline uninterrupted. The rocky shore was lined with tall stands of pine, giving the impression of a North Western vista. There were few other boats sailing around and we enjoyed the solitude.
Now out in the ocean, we could see small island all around us. In the distance, Mount Desert Island erupted from the horizon, the view unimpeded by the lowlands around it. Seals splashed in the water off the starboard. Trying to decide which island to venture to, we steered our canoes to the largest, uninhabited one ahead of us -- let's call it Goat Island (the island is technically private property, so I'm disinclined to give its true name, as I would like to go there again without getting into trouble). There was a nice, long, flat rock that lead to the beach, giving us the ideal place to pull up our canoes. We dragged them as far onto the beach as we could, sitting down under a tree to reward ourselves with a beer when we were done. We wondered aloud "what should we do?" now that we were here. There was no one on the island, and the woods seemed dense, impenetrable. We circled the coastline a bit, examining sea specimens and wading in the cold water, before returning to our landing site. I looked around and noticed some coyote scat on a log. Beyond it, a grassy patch with a trail head on the far side. I called Eric, Mark and Jesse over and we decided to explore the trail to see where it went. A private beach? A madman's house? Who knows! Let's find out.
The trail meandered through the forest, sometimes forking left and right. We tried to keep to the left, so that we could walk the perimeter of the island to keep from getting too lost. Hemlock, pine and the occasional birch filled the woods and limited our visibility. Ferns and thick moss blanketed the ground, and strange mushrooms protruded from rotting logs and under lichen-covered rocks. Though there were no signs of people living on the island, humans clearly came here from time to time. Occasionally, we would pass a felled tree, laying across the trail. More often than not, a section of the tree would have been cut away to clear the trail. In some instances, there was still saw dust on the ground, perhaps a month or so old. We were also noticing an abundance of seagull wings dotting the trail. Never a pair, only one at a time. When we would come to a clearing near the water, shells would line the trail, cracked open so some unknown creature could enjoy the shellfish.
Along the way, we had found many lobster buoys* laying on the rocky beaches or washed up near the trail. With a long rope we'd procured, Eric and I took to scavenging these forsaken buoys and looping them into the line. Before long, Eric was dragging a long chain of buoys through the woods, occasionally getting it stuck on roots and rocks.
It was after noon when we found a nice, sandy beach. We'd been walking for some time now, and decided it was time for a break. Jesse and I sat on the beach while I smoked my pipe. Mark, ever a busybody, rummaged around, finding a few new buoys and pieces of a lobster. Eric, rather boldly, stripped down to his boxers and jumped in to the ice cold water. Despite the air being in the 80's, the water was still rather unwelcoming. We laughed as he screamed out, splashing in the surf. Eventually, it proved too cold for even Eric, and he was forced out. He squeegeed himself dry and we continued our walk, eventually finding our way back to the boats.
The day was now growing later, but with the tide going out and the sun still high, we decided to stick around a little more. We had procured far too many buoys, so we took them and began sticking them onto the dead branches of a white pine, like some New-England-seaside-Christmas-Tree (my mother later told me that that is, in fact, a thing people in New England do. And we thought we were so creative...).
With the tree adequately decorated and the island satisfactorily explored, we drove our canoes back into the ocean and made our slow way home. Before we could leave, however, we had to circle back to the beach -- which was on the clear other side of the island -- for Mark had forgotten his socks (or shoes? or something. Doesn't matter, it was an ass ache either way). We pulled up to the beach briefly and gathered his belongings -- shocked that someone hadn't come and taken them (hey, if this had been Allston, those socks woulda been long gone, baby). And on we went, stopping briefly at a small island off the western shore of Goat Island -- Small Goat Island. Atop this tiny isle -- which was more or less a glorified rock -- was a lone juniper tree and a sign that indicated this was a state-owned camping ground. We played on the rock, jumping around and such, for a while. We sat under the juniper, admiring the vibrant sky painted by the setting fall sun, when we realized with a start, "Oh my. The sun is setting."
With great haste, we made way back to the inlet. With timing unparalleled in all my adventures, we passed the opening to the bay just as the sun settled over the tree line. Good, I thought. Now we can't get lost at sea without the sunlight to guide us. Just follow the inlet back to the camp and we'll be golden.
Thunk! Went the bottom of the canoe. Thunk! Screeeeeeeeep! The tide, we suddenly noticed, was almost all of the way out. The sickly sweet smell of low tide clung to the air, penetrating our senses. Our canoes could barely make it down the inlet without scraping the ground. When it became too shallow to push on, Eric and I tried to get out of the canoe and drag it. But no! Dear reader, we could not! The ground was completely covered in a carpet of mussel shells and our feet, bare of any sandal, could not walk over them without risking slicing our soles open. We were trapped. To make matters worse, it was growing darker by the minute and we had yet to go to the grocery store to pick up food for dinner.
"Wait," Mark pondered."You see, here's the thing. My grandparents are renting a house right down the road from the bridge up ahead. If we can get to the road, we can stop in, say hello to my grandparents, and hang out until the tide comes back in."
"Genius!" We all cried. Mark had saved the day. We managed to find the deepest bit of water -- merely a stream at this point -- and navigate it up to the bridge. Stepping on the muddy banks of the inlet, we dragged our canoes up onto the shore, through the salt grass, and into the trees. Twilight had surrounded us, so we let our eyes adapt to the darkness while we found our way to Mark's grandparent's house. They were staying off of the main street, down a dark, winding dirt road. The deeper we got into the road, the darker it became, and the harder it was to see. Finally, ahead, we spotted some lights. We arrived at the rented house, a large structure that boasted a tidal pool in the back yard. (No, not like what you learned about in your marine bio class. This was a swimming pool that was fed by the ocean and filtered by the changing tides. That's rich, people.) We knocked on the door, rang the bell, but no one was home. This, however, being Maine, no one locks their doors. We opened the door to see what was going on and decided that we could borrow a few food items -- a box of pasta, some potatoes, an egg or two -- for our dinner. By now it was nearly eight and nothing would be open in town when we returned. Desperation; you'll steal from your own grandmother! Just kidding, they wouldn't have minded as long as we didn't take the wine.
We waited around a bit longer, hoping to bump into his grandfolks, but they never arrived. So we headed back to the boats, praying the tide had come back in. When we made it back to the boats, we could see the moonlight reflecting off of the still water. The tide was coming back in, with a vengeance! Grabbing our canoes, we quickly dragged them to the water and made our way home. With the current working for us, the ride back was easy -- a nice bit of luck, as we were quite tired by this point. Schools of little fish were erupting from the surface of the glassy water, chased by some unseen predator. I watched Jesse and Mark's canoe, silhouetted in the moonlight, glide gently across the water's surface. Lights turned on and off in the houses we canoed by, and a dog barked at our passing, not ceasing until it was sure we were long gone.
Finally back to Mark's camp, we dragged the canoes back up onto the rock with haste; hunger and fatigue drove us to finish the task quickly. Securing the boats to a tree, we made our way to the kitchen, were we threw together a chop suey of whatever was hanging around. The best camp food I've ever had, it was not. But it worked in a pinch and it went along nicely with the Bud and PBR. Drinking ourselves into a stupor, we stumbled back to the tents and into a well deserved sleep.
The next morning consisted of the usual camp-breaking activities. Collapsing tents, cleaning up trash, pouring water on embers, combining all of the leftover food into a grand omelet. Apparently the boys have a rule about Deer Isle: the last one to poop in the woods becomes the least manly esquire of the trip. I had solved this problem on the first day, so I was not at risk of becoming the weakest of the group. It was Mark who had yet to utilized our more primordial toilet: nature. Mark, however, is a rather competitive man. While he is very modest about his accomplishments, the boy runs marathons and bikes across whole states in a sitting. Don't attempt a foot race with him on a mountain ridge (story to come). He is not to be outdone. While we were packing up our things, he grabbed the toilet paper and made for the woods. We spotted him through the trees, climbing the branches of a pine before disappearing out of site. A few minutes later, he returned, a smile from ear to ear. He had outdone us all, by pooping from a lofty tree branch. Touche, sir.
While we finished packing our things, I found a few small garter snakes. Yearlings, no doubt, as they were barely four inches long. Eric is not a fan of snakes, so he asked me to kindly move the serpents away from him.
Before I knew it, the weekend was at its close and we were making our way to the highway. Leaving the shore-dwelling pine groves, deciduous trees took over the land. The fall colors Friday's gloom had hidden were now revealed by the brilliant sunshine. I'm not much of a leaf peeper, but I couldn't help but admire the range of colors displayed by the maples, oak, beech and birch. We were about to leave Maine, passing by the Freeport exit, when Eric, who had been calm and quiet up to this point, started bellowing out like a rabid ghoul and jerked the car across three lanes of traffic without signalling. I grabbed onto whatever I could, terrified that this was it, the end. He pulled the car into the breakdown lane, still shouting like I'd never heard him shout before.
"What's wrong?" I begged of him.
"SNAKE!" He bellowed. "THERE'S A SNAKE! IN MY FUCKING SHORTS!"
He hopped out of the driver's seat and I followed suit. He was shaking out all of his clothes, swatting at all his appendages like he was being attacked by bees, when I saw it on the ground. It was one of the baby snakes from Deer Isle. It must have creeped into some of our gear and, eventually, into Eric's crotch. I picked up the harmless asp and brought him into the grass. Eric, still a bit shaken, took to the driver's seat, hands white knuckled on the driver's wheel, staring straight forward.
"Alright." He said, calmly. "Let's go home."
*Yeah, I know it's illegal to take buoys off of traps, but these were washed up on shore. The lobster men can go back to the island and pick them up whenever they want; they're still probably there.
All photos by Mark B.
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| Blastin' shit with the bb gun. |
We left the installation for our camp and spent much of the afternoon shooting cans with our Daisy Red Rider BB gun, smoking cigars, and enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. When the daylight began to waiver, we took to the woods to gather firewood. At the other end of the property was a large rock outcropping that juts into the inlet. In this rock is a natural bowl, which acts as a neat fire pit when the tide is out. When the tide comes back in, it carries the charred firewood out into the ocean. It's not very green at all -- but hey, neither are campfires.
Darkness had set in by the time we'd gathered all the firewood and finished our dinners. The tide was not all the way out, leaving some seawater clinging to the bottom of the rock bowl. With a bit of critical thinking, we devised a plan to build a platform for the fire to sit on. At first, the fire roared, fueled by dry pine branches and a cooperative breeze. But soon, as we should have expected, the platform ignited and collapsed into the bit of water that was still in the fire pit. The fire smoldered and quieted down, troubled but not defeated. Quickly, we all took to rebuilding the fire, but had a bad case of "too many cooks in the kitchen." The flames still clung to the wood, but they were slowly becoming embers, despite our efforts.
Several times, Jesse repeated an idea that we should stomp on the fire to get it going. Eric argued that it would do more to harm the fire, but Jesse insisted. Finally, a frustrated Eric shouted "FINE, JESSE!" and took a long leap onto the fire, sending sparks, twigs and small flames around. Jesse and I ducked back, shielding our eyes from the shower of sparks and debris, while Mark took the opportunity to snap a photo. The bottom embers sizzled in the puddle of sea water, but the fire maintained its lazy blaze. We kept at the fire for a few more hours, but were never truly able to get it to a bon. As the stars grew brighter in the Maine sky above, we grabbed buckets of water, doused the waning embers, and headed back up the mossy trail to our tents.
* * * *
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| Sea specimens! |
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| Exploring the coast along Goat Island. |
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| Eric and Jesse, enjoying the sea. |
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| Drag them buoys, Eric! |
It was after noon when we found a nice, sandy beach. We'd been walking for some time now, and decided it was time for a break. Jesse and I sat on the beach while I smoked my pipe. Mark, ever a busybody, rummaged around, finding a few new buoys and pieces of a lobster. Eric, rather boldly, stripped down to his boxers and jumped in to the ice cold water. Despite the air being in the 80's, the water was still rather unwelcoming. We laughed as he screamed out, splashing in the surf. Eventually, it proved too cold for even Eric, and he was forced out. He squeegeed himself dry and we continued our walk, eventually finding our way back to the boats.
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| Eric goes swimming. |
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| Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree... |
With the tree adequately decorated and the island satisfactorily explored, we drove our canoes back into the ocean and made our slow way home. Before we could leave, however, we had to circle back to the beach -- which was on the clear other side of the island -- for Mark had forgotten his socks (or shoes? or something. Doesn't matter, it was an ass ache either way). We pulled up to the beach briefly and gathered his belongings -- shocked that someone hadn't come and taken them (hey, if this had been Allston, those socks woulda been long gone, baby). And on we went, stopping briefly at a small island off the western shore of Goat Island -- Small Goat Island. Atop this tiny isle -- which was more or less a glorified rock -- was a lone juniper tree and a sign that indicated this was a state-owned camping ground. We played on the rock, jumping around and such, for a while. We sat under the juniper, admiring the vibrant sky painted by the setting fall sun, when we realized with a start, "Oh my. The sun is setting."
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| Eric and me in the canoe, making our way back to Deer Isle. Look how close the sun is to setting! Ack! |
Thunk! Went the bottom of the canoe. Thunk! Screeeeeeeeep! The tide, we suddenly noticed, was almost all of the way out. The sickly sweet smell of low tide clung to the air, penetrating our senses. Our canoes could barely make it down the inlet without scraping the ground. When it became too shallow to push on, Eric and I tried to get out of the canoe and drag it. But no! Dear reader, we could not! The ground was completely covered in a carpet of mussel shells and our feet, bare of any sandal, could not walk over them without risking slicing our soles open. We were trapped. To make matters worse, it was growing darker by the minute and we had yet to go to the grocery store to pick up food for dinner.
"Wait," Mark pondered."You see, here's the thing. My grandparents are renting a house right down the road from the bridge up ahead. If we can get to the road, we can stop in, say hello to my grandparents, and hang out until the tide comes back in."
"Genius!" We all cried. Mark had saved the day. We managed to find the deepest bit of water -- merely a stream at this point -- and navigate it up to the bridge. Stepping on the muddy banks of the inlet, we dragged our canoes up onto the shore, through the salt grass, and into the trees. Twilight had surrounded us, so we let our eyes adapt to the darkness while we found our way to Mark's grandparent's house. They were staying off of the main street, down a dark, winding dirt road. The deeper we got into the road, the darker it became, and the harder it was to see. Finally, ahead, we spotted some lights. We arrived at the rented house, a large structure that boasted a tidal pool in the back yard. (No, not like what you learned about in your marine bio class. This was a swimming pool that was fed by the ocean and filtered by the changing tides. That's rich, people.) We knocked on the door, rang the bell, but no one was home. This, however, being Maine, no one locks their doors. We opened the door to see what was going on and decided that we could borrow a few food items -- a box of pasta, some potatoes, an egg or two -- for our dinner. By now it was nearly eight and nothing would be open in town when we returned. Desperation; you'll steal from your own grandmother! Just kidding, they wouldn't have minded as long as we didn't take the wine.
* * * *
Finally back to Mark's camp, we dragged the canoes back up onto the rock with haste; hunger and fatigue drove us to finish the task quickly. Securing the boats to a tree, we made our way to the kitchen, were we threw together a chop suey of whatever was hanging around. The best camp food I've ever had, it was not. But it worked in a pinch and it went along nicely with the Bud and PBR. Drinking ourselves into a stupor, we stumbled back to the tents and into a well deserved sleep.
* * * *
The next morning consisted of the usual camp-breaking activities. Collapsing tents, cleaning up trash, pouring water on embers, combining all of the leftover food into a grand omelet. Apparently the boys have a rule about Deer Isle: the last one to poop in the woods becomes the least manly esquire of the trip. I had solved this problem on the first day, so I was not at risk of becoming the weakest of the group. It was Mark who had yet to utilized our more primordial toilet: nature. Mark, however, is a rather competitive man. While he is very modest about his accomplishments, the boy runs marathons and bikes across whole states in a sitting. Don't attempt a foot race with him on a mountain ridge (story to come). He is not to be outdone. While we were packing up our things, he grabbed the toilet paper and made for the woods. We spotted him through the trees, climbing the branches of a pine before disappearing out of site. A few minutes later, he returned, a smile from ear to ear. He had outdone us all, by pooping from a lofty tree branch. Touche, sir.
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| A little garter snake. |
Before I knew it, the weekend was at its close and we were making our way to the highway. Leaving the shore-dwelling pine groves, deciduous trees took over the land. The fall colors Friday's gloom had hidden were now revealed by the brilliant sunshine. I'm not much of a leaf peeper, but I couldn't help but admire the range of colors displayed by the maples, oak, beech and birch. We were about to leave Maine, passing by the Freeport exit, when Eric, who had been calm and quiet up to this point, started bellowing out like a rabid ghoul and jerked the car across three lanes of traffic without signalling. I grabbed onto whatever I could, terrified that this was it, the end. He pulled the car into the breakdown lane, still shouting like I'd never heard him shout before.
"What's wrong?" I begged of him.
"SNAKE!" He bellowed. "THERE'S A SNAKE! IN MY FUCKING SHORTS!"
He hopped out of the driver's seat and I followed suit. He was shaking out all of his clothes, swatting at all his appendages like he was being attacked by bees, when I saw it on the ground. It was one of the baby snakes from Deer Isle. It must have creeped into some of our gear and, eventually, into Eric's crotch. I picked up the harmless asp and brought him into the grass. Eric, still a bit shaken, took to the driver's seat, hands white knuckled on the driver's wheel, staring straight forward.
"Alright." He said, calmly. "Let's go home."
*Yeah, I know it's illegal to take buoys off of traps, but these were washed up on shore. The lobster men can go back to the island and pick them up whenever they want; they're still probably there.
All photos by Mark B.
