Driving Downeast:
a week in coastal Maine
by Shayok Mukhopadhyay
Driving Downeast:
by Shayok Mukhopadhyay
|
|
| Kennebunkport | Pemaquid Point | Damariscotta | Castine | Deer Isle/Stonington | Acadia National Park | Favorite Photos |
Peak of color tends to be a contentious affair between the armchair experts, the regular "leaf-peepers" who
make annual pilgrimages to New England in fall, and the states' Fall Hotlines, which perhaps have one eye
on the foliage and the other on the tourism till. In White Plains itself, barring a few rogue trees, most
remained stubbornly green, with the odd touch of a reluctant yellow. As I sped along I-95,
affectionately called the New England Thruway,
where traffic was fast but tense — two cars doing 75 mph abreast of each other,
one on the left and one from the right lane, deciding to move into the center
lane simultaneously, backing off just in time and honking angrily to make some point — I saw a turning
tree perched on a grassy slope, its fallen red leaves marking the ground around it; I made a mental note of
an image to be made some day, and held doggedly onto the gas.
Living only three hours from Boston for nearly three years, it seems a shame I've never been there, one of the few American cities that can reasonably claim themselves to be "historical" (the apparently gratuitous quotes allude to every -kill, -burgh, and -town that sports a "Welcome to Historical __, Incorporated 1690" at the municipal limits); this seemed a good opportunity to sample the city and drop by its North End, whose Italian color was the subject of a recent National Geographic story. I decided to play it by the weather; it'd be noon when I got there – only an overcast sky would do photographic justice to the architecture of the city.
It remained a cloudless blue; however, Boston seemed to exert its force at a distance – near where a highway split off towards the city, I was caught in an hour-long backup, punished for slighting the great tea-party town. Soon after, I got off I-95 and had my first taste of New England seafood: tastefree shrimp battered in a KFC-like coating (a magic new material patented by du Pont, one would think). It was late afternoon by the time I got to Kennebunkport, just inside the Maine border. In seven hours of driving, I had passed through four states (Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Hampshire) without seeing anything of any of them. I was tired enough and the rocky coastline was interesting enough that I decided to stay the night at Kennebunkport.
My detailed map of the
town gave me an exaggerated impression of the size of the place; judging by the size of the weekend crowd
and attendant traffic, one would think the entire world had made the same mistake. Making use of the free
Chamber of Commerce telephone, I booked myself a room couple of miles out of town in the Beechwood Motel,
and used the few remaining hours of daylight photographing off Ocean Avenue.
The mildly shocking eighty dollar price tag seemed a little justified by my first impression of the room – one entire wall given off to being a kitchen: stove, sink, counter, cabinets filled with basic pots, pans, and plates – the works. Good value, I guess, for a family with two kids that decides to spend its vacation cooking. Interestingly, there was no telephone, or was it a fancy new device that I was being a complete third-worlder to miss? I went down to the office and the clerk told me that rooms without telephones were common enough in this part of the world. Interesting, when compared to thirty dollar motels in Utah. His generalization was borne out, though, on subsequent nights in other parts of Maine.
Federal Jack's Restaurant & Brew Pub agreed to accommodate me at the bar for dinner, where the female bartender (when, oh when, will they start allowing 'bartendress'?) was enthusiastic about photography and internet. Learning that I was a programmer, she confided that she had this great idea for a website, and she'd tell me the idea to code it up, provided I'd share some of the money (the IPO millions, I guess, she was referring to) so she had enough for her daughter and herself. Learning that I was an amateur photographer, she told me about this great location at Blue Hill, further up the coast. "I'd have gone there myself, but my daughter is ill." The bar was extremely busy – each of her sentences was punctuated by half a dozen drinks orders she had to fill; something about her gave the impression of a life of tragedy and struggle – the invalid child at home, the single mother working evenings. She seemed to have enormous confidence in my photographic ability: "You must send me a print." I gave her my email address so she could tell me where to mail it. Thankfully, she has not written; I found the spot totally uninspiring.
Getting up in time to catch breaking dawn at your intended location is a science by itself. I didnt
allow enough time before the official sunrise, and managed to get lost in the country lanes, with
the result that by the time I landed in Ocean Avenue, the horizon was already a deep red – I must
have missed at least a quarter of an hour's worth of Velvia sky. (Velvia being a slide film with extremely
vibrant colors – detractors say cartoon colors.) I spent most of the morning walking up and
down the seaside road looking for compositions. I found a blowhole – a vertical shaft in rock hollowed
out by pounding waters that now rose through it with impressive spray and sound as wave after wave hit the shore.
Keeping my lens dry and myself from sliding down the mossy rock into the sea was challenging enough
that the mere mechanics
of taking photographs was entertaining. Going by the growing number of tourists,
I realized that this was billed as one of the town's attractions in the Chamber of Commerce map.
|
|
|
Taking note at last of the protests from my stomach, I went back into town for brunch, and to use the computer at the Federal Jack cybercafe to look up the website of the B&B at Isle au Haut, an island that forms a part of Acadia National Park, made up of several non-contiguous pieces of land. I'd got the site's address from the bartender of the previous evening; unfortunately, the B&B turned out to be way beyond my budget.
Shifting clouds kept me occupied photographing in the lanes of Kennebunkport for a little longer; ultimately,
this is one of those places that while not spectacular, are interesting enough to yield satisfying
results to the patient photographer who camps there, waiting for the right light, the helpful tide,
the cooperative gull, passing the midday hours cooking meals in the motel room to stay within the credit
limit a few more days.
Driving north and east from Kennebunkport (or downeast, as old-timers are supposed to say), I saw that fall had come to Maine; yellow and red foliage lined narrow state routes on either side, in stretches converging into the horizon, but somehow — even if I was prepared to ignore, or remove in Photoshop, the powerlines — this didnt quite line up with my vision of a landscape in fall foliage, that urge to hit the brakes and set up the tripod didnt quite come to me as it had the year before in Vermont.
Maine has a hopelessly tattered coast; the land breaks out into peninsulas, yields to the sea at bays
and fjords, and occasionally bits just float away and hang in at ferrying distances as spruce-lined islands.
The main highways steadfastly ignore this fact, the I-95 staying safely inland in spite of its general
north-easterly direction, and even the Scenic Coastal Route US-1 chooses to stay on high and dry land.
Even this intrusion is not welcome in parts – in a stretch where US-1 was particularly bumpy, I saw
placards protesting a proposed widening of the road: "D-O-T, what'll happen to our farms, our houses,
our way of life?", "Repair US-1, not widen it!". I find that roads warp my sense of the country –
I tend to take the scenery from the road as representative of the landscape, they blinker my senses
to the possibilities that may lie perpendicular to the direction of the highway; I was glad for the little
state and county routes that took me off US-1 to dramatic spots you'd never guess existed from the main road.
Pemaquid Point was one such place. From the parking lot, it was a standard issue lighthouse (or light,
as they're cutely called in these parts), but as you stepped
beyond the sign the U.S. coastguard had put up disclaiming all responsibility in case you slipped and broke
a limb or two, you stood on a jumble of rocks sloping maybe a hundred feet into the sea.
Waves would come up the rocks and climb to unexpected heights, claiming, I'm told, every year a tourist or two
who'd be snapping away the lighthouse itself, back disrespectfully turned to the ocean. The rocks, patterned
and split apparently along the direction of the seas, were covered with mosses and weeds that thwarted
my attempts to get down to the level of the crashing surf. As afternoon turned to twilight,
the horizon glowed a smoking red bouncing off the water. I was in no position
to set up a tripod, and my camera was loaded with slow film.
It was dark by the time I left the place; luckily, Hotel Pemaquid, barely a hundred yards away, still had
the VACANCY sign. The only other hotel in the area was open weekends only; Hotel Pemaquid would be
closing for the season the following Sunday. The place was run by a couple; the building apparently
is a hundred years old; they had a fire going in the living room that served as a guests' lobby; I
was checked in by the wife for sixty dollars, but was charged only fifty by the husband the next
morning when I left. This place felt so old, rural, and secluded after the sun went down
that it was possible to dismiss
the little inconveniences as quaint: they didnt accept credit cards, so I had to go down to the village to
get cash from the only ATM for miles (well, I had to go down to the diner for food anyway); the bed
had a brass head and a foot, between which I could fit myself only diagonally; the sink
had independent hot and cold faucets, so you were either scalding or freezing, unless you could convince
yourself it was all in the mind by rapidly switching between the two like particles in modern physics
with ambiguous states.
| 
| 
|
| 
|
I climbed back up to US-1, drove east for a bit, and dropped south into another peninsula, to its very tip,
Port Clyde. Ferries plied several times a day between Port Clyde and Monhegan Island. The island was
described as a totally wild experience – foggy, muddy, few paved roads; the atmosphere had attracted
an artists colony. It was drizzling steadily when I got to Port Clyde, and I saw a bunch of people with
bags and packs coming off a boat. They were returning from Monhegan, and I asked one of them how they liked it:
"It rained a lot, but it was good." Seemed like my kind of atmosphere, only if I could keep the cameras dry
and working. An inquiry at the ferry office revealed that the service would be down to a mail boat after
a week. They gave me a list of hotels I could stay at on the island and I decided to call some of them up
before committing myself to the ferry. I got some quarters from the office and used a callbox while the
rain dripped off the awning onto my copy of the New England Lonely Planet. After many rings, a
sepulchral female voice answered the phone at one of the hotels. The woman spoke slowly, pausing between her
words, and taking time after my sentences ended to start hers' – it was like she was in a world far away,
with the spirits. What I got from her was that all the restaurants on the island had closed for the year,
and if I had to come I should bring my food with me, and that it was raining incessantly.
Maybe I should have taken her up at her offer, bought some canned food and jumped into the boat. Perhaps it
would've been a wonderful experience. On the other hand, I was all by myself, and it might have gotten unbearably
depressing: stuck indoors on a howling island microwaving a frozen dinner.
I spent the rest of that wet day exploring the shores, the deserted harbors of the peninsula, followed
a whim and a sign to the Owls Head Light(house) where the wind was strong enough that it knocked my tripod (fortunately
without camera) over.
Castine's current importance lies in it being the home of the Maine Maritime Academy – young people come
here to be turned into strapping sailors. I was drawn into a bookshop on Main Street by a notice stuck in its window
for a talk on evolutionary biology by a Reverend Father, himself a biologist.
This was an independent bookstore
you'd find being run by Meg Ryan and an elderly woman – I mean the one who said she'd
gotten a busy signal when she
tried having cyber sex (I didnt know ISP's provided that service; or maybe AOL does?). An interesting book
on display was a how-to on fighting Walmart coming to
your town and killing local businesses. I'd've bought
it but for the ridiculous list-price they were trying to sell it for, exactly the thing
that drives customers to discount stores — online or Walmart — and makes the commercial
where a Fedex truck pulls into a surprised little village reality.
Around Blue Hill, the land abutting the sea was taken up mostly by large summerhouses, now locked up
so you couldnt ask anybody for permission to explore their views for possible photographs, though you were
free to drive straight up, most of them not having any gates to keep trespassers out.
Somewhere along the way, a New York car ahead of me pulled over, and the driver made a
mysterious sign with all the fingers of his left hand brought together in a huddle and moved in a repeated
upward motion. I wasnt quite sure if this was to be interpreted as five times the middle finger
tracing a similar path, or some Celtic distress signal. Giving him the benefit of my doubts, I got
out of my car; it was a totally mapless lost guy in a thick Russian accent.
Stonington is the only American village I've seen that lines up with my Indian idea of a village:
narrow, cramped
streets, houses jostling against each other to conserve precious land, so unlike the posh Westchester
hamlets with million dollar homes set in sprawling acres.
My small hotel room only seemed to reflect the spareness of a
working harbor. On a weeknight, the tourist season as good as over, I took the last room –
the clerk switched on the NO before the VACANCY soon as he'd got me registered.
Next day at Castine harbor I was drawn to
this boat hanging off a boat called Perseverance; she'd been
built some years back in Canada;
three men were lovingly wiping the wood and fiberglass dry; they'd planned
last weekend's trip, the last of the season, for weeks – cold, wet, and miserable was how it
had turned out. The boat was being put away for the winter, being prepared to be towed inland to sit out
the cold months.
Blue Hill turned out to be more interesting for the lunch I had at Captain Isaac Merrill Inn
than any landscape photography. One of the women running the place, on learning I was Indian,
said she'd spent a year in India some time in the seventies. Calcutta streets had been flooded for days
with several feet of water. "Does that kind of a thing still happen?" Interestingly, it was just this
year that my parents' house in a Calcutta suburb had been under five feet of water released from a
couple of Five Year Plan dams up in catchment areas; beds, sofas, the fridge
had merrily floated about the house and settled into novel configurations when the water subsided after a week.
On the way south toward Deer Isle, I stopped to photograph this bright red Christopher Burkett scene.
I might have driven past but for a car parked across the road with the driver admiring the scenery.
As I set up the tripod to take my shot, I noticed that his engine was idling and his eyes were fixed
on a different part of the landscape, which I didnt find particularly exciting myself. The car had a
Massachusetts plate. Was this Mr Burkett himself, waiting for the right light to come out and illuminate
the scene that otherwise looked mundane enough to my untrained eyes?
As I got back into my car, I couldnt resist
snapping a shot of what I thought he was looking at; immediately after, the car pulled out and drove off.
I was just the kind of person that made Mr Burkett sick.
My map showed that Route 15 went around South Deer Isle, so driving along it I should eventually come
to the village of Stonington, where I was banking on finding lodging for the night. It was taking longer
than I expected, and I wondered if I was being a total ass driving around in an infinite loop. Maybe the
village itself was on a little branch road? "Who was the first Bengali to circumnavigate Deer Isle?"
they'd be asking on the Indian version of Millionaire in a few years: "Was it A)Mahatma Gandhi
B)Rabindranath Tagore C)Jawaharlal Nehru D)Shayok Mukhopadhyay".
| 
| 
|
I retraced my path to US-1 and got off it at Ellsworth; the road to Acadia was lined with motels that, in summer, catch
the spillover crowds from Bar Harbor, the national park's gateway town. At this time of the
year, past Columbus Day, few were were open – some
had signs redirecting visitors
to their counterpart establishments in Bar Harbor. Following his amuse-the-tourists script,
the guide on the half-day kayak tour I took from Bar Harbor said that the town was so named for having
the highest number of microbreweries per capita in the US. We were also treated to
Martha Stewart stories (I hadnt known she lived in the area): Martha
being refused the use of the phone in the grocery; Martha driving up the price of sea-weed
by recommending it on her show; Martha being charged with kidnapping for blocking the
way out of her property with her Land Rover after a couple of inebriated guys sneaked in for the kick of driving
around Martha's house. A girl in our group said she'd come to the town at the beginning of
summer with the
mission of clearing her credit-card debts. She was a Spanish and Journalism major.
Waitressing for the three summer months had got her out of the red.
One evening for dinner, I got into a cramped little bar that advertised vegetarian burgers in its window. The twenty feet by six feet establishment was an amazing one-woman show: she took the orders, served the drinks, flipped the burgers, did the dishes, rang up your check. The men's room was marked OFFICE and the ladies' PRIVATE – to deter non-customers from seeking facilities. Was she open all year around? Yes, except February, when she'd be taking her young son to Disneyworld. Again, that heroic image of a single mother that I'd seen in Kennebunkport.
 |
|
 |
 |
| 
|
| 
|
The best that can be said of Acadia is its view of the sea, the Atlantic ocean. Nowhere before have I felt so intuitively that the sea is vast. If you stand on the beach and see water all the way to the horizon, your attention mostly taken up by the waves, it's one thing; but if you stand on cliffs rising hundreds of feet over the shore, and then see all the way to the bend in the earth, seeing much more of the ocean than you ever could from the sea-level, it is then that you begin to feel its bigness in your bones. Small buoys with bells clanging in the dark like in a Hindu temple in a quiet Indian town after sundown only emphasize that feeling. Early one morning, before the sun had risen, the horizon already crimson, I noticed a little elongated shape on the horizon. Must be a small island with a lighthouse, common in these parts. After a while, the lighthouse seemed to be moving, getting a little bigger. It took me some time to realize it was a ship slowly revealing itself over the horizon.
| 
|
| Visit the Rest of my Site | My mailing list: Add Yourself | shayok@shortwork.net |