A sampling of vanity plates seen during our five days in Maine. All are Maine tags, unless otherwise noted.
Our last stop before leaving Maine was all Casey's doing. I'm not sure if she researched Edward Hopper's "Lighthouse at Two Lights" first or the lobster rolls first, but it was a stop that had something for both of us.
Sticking to our schedule to allow enough time both at Cape Elizabeth and to make the drive to Northampton, Massachusetts, by 5 p.m., we checked out of the Eastland by 10:30 a.m. and found our way to the point. There's little out that way other than the residences and the Lobster Shack, and at 11 a.m., there were just one or two other cars in the two parking areas. With no access to the lighthouse and at least half an hour until we could think about eating, we busied ourselves on the rocks. I did so by looking for fresh angles -- and tidal pool reflections -- of the East Light; Casey did so more by finding a spot to sit and watch me and the ocean.
I was a little disappointed that there was no closer access to the light, but at the same time, I'd give anything to have the means to own a house -- particularly the one with the West tower -- out at the end of Two Lights Road.
When it got closer to noon and we saw more and more cars pulling up to the lot, their passengers climbing the steps to the deck of the Lobster Shack, we decided to head there ourselves to order lunch and beat the rush we saw coming. By the time we sat down after placing our order at the counter, the line was out the door. (That only made it about five people deep, since there's not much room inside to stand if you're not at the counter ordering, but it was still better to get in before that line started forming.)
Casey's lobster roll was worth the trip, and my cheeseburger was passable, but I was happy enough with bagging another lighthouse, and one I've admired for a long time when it was a poster on my bedroom wall.
Our Maine odyssey ended shortly after we abandoned the remainder of our whoopie pies (otherwise known as gobs in western Pennsylvania, but seeing as how these had cream in the middle instead of icing -- and therefore weren't as tasty -- I'm referring to them as whoopie pies) and got back in the car. With enough time to spare, we detoured in Wells, Maine, to visit The Lighthouse Depot, if only to further my beacon nerd-dom, and then enjoyed a sun-splashed cruise through northern Massachusetts to the quaint town of Northampton for the wedding weekend.
If you want to see several lighthouses in one manageable afternoon excursion, South Portland and Cape Elizabeth, Maine, is a good place to start. (Monmouth County, New Jersey, is as well, but I've already done that one.)
After catching a glimpse of Mt. Washington from the seventh-floor elevator lobby at our hotel, we drove down to Portland Head Light, perched along the rocky shore at Fort Williams Park. The location reminded me of Sandy Hook, with the lighthouse nestled in among the crumbling ruins of the former gunneries and batteries of an early-century military installation. 
With so many recreational options within the rather compact park -- vast lawns for frolicking, sunning or kiting; an inlet for mild water play; the lighthouse for nautical interest; the fort remains for military buffs -- there wasn't one part that was overly crowded. We encountered more people at the lighthouse than any other part of the park, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't crowded in any sense, either.
Most intriguing was the hulking frame of Goddard Mansion, an 1858 estate built on a hill overlooking the sea and the lighthouse. Trees now shield the remains from a wide-open view of the horizon, but it's hard to miss the site upon entering the park. 
All that remains is the stone shell of the building, the windows and doors merely open frames (with those at ground level fenced off to prevent entry). It's a stark contrast to what it once was more than a hundred years ago.
History of the mansion (beyond what is written on that plaque at the site) seems scattered and limited, but until 1981, there was more there. On March 11 of that year, the Cape Fire Dept. burned the interior, presumably to remove the dangers inherent in a neglected, crumbling 123-year-old structure. Stripped as it is, it looks smaller, not quite a "mansion," but the potential is certainly there. Or was.
We cruised northward again, back toward Portland (into South Portland) and found the Breakwater Lighthouse, or Bug Light. It sits closer to downtown Portland than the others, a last warning for ships rounding the point on their way into the harbor. Despite the modest park and vast parking lot, it was still a rather quiet, serene spot. No ships came through and the folks who were on hand sat quietly in their cars or along the waterfront. I found that throughout the day -- despite not going anywhere remote or being truly alone, these ventures were generally peaceful, solitary explorations for us. Perhaps a post-Memorial Day Thursday isn't such a hot time for tourists in southern Maine.
The final stop -- and the point at which I realized I was probably getting a bit of a pinkish hue on my arms, neck and the tops of my flip-flopped adorned feet -- was the Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse, propped up at the end of a long jetty resting atop the Spring Point Ledge, which claimed many a ship in the 19th Century. The jetty -- or breakwater -- wasn't always there. It was added in 1951 (so says an online history).
Not knowing when I'd have this chance again, I had to make the trek out to the light itself. Had I known I'd be crossing the rocky equivalent of nearly three football fields -- with large gaps between the hunks of granite and a stiff wind blowing across the water -- when I got dressed in the morning, I would've worn socks and sneakers instead of flip-flops. As a result, I spent the trip out there focused on my footing and refusing to look to either side, or even back to Casey. "You had the car keys," she pointed out later, "so I'm glad you didn't fall in."
At the end, I felt alone, abandoned, marooned. Sure, the hopscotch path of rocks connected me to the mainland, but when I stepped beneath the lighthouse's overhang and behind it, I had nothing but Casco Bay in front of me and the black base of the light behind me. The route I had just traversed was no longer visible and, because of my focus, not too fresh in my mind. By putting blinders on to watch my footing, I didn't take in my surroundings, so in a way it was as if I'd transported myself to the light without making the long, windy walk. My nerves got the best of me, though, when I tried to complete the circuit around the base and I chickened out when I came upon the largest gap I'd encountered on the breakwater. 
With my camera around my neck and the backpack slung over my shoulders, I didn't feel confidence in my balance should I attempt the short leap -- in flip-flops, with the swirling wind. I managed to get far enough around to see the speck of Casey sitting on the shore, so I visually completed the circuit, but I was OK with the fact that I didn't make it those last 10 feet to make the imaginary red line of my route meet in a lasso around the light.
Before returning across the breakwater, I put my camera back in its bag and bounded like Q-bert back across the granite. Casey and I got back in the car and returned to Portland, taking a quick walk around the neighborhood and taking showers before heading off for drinks and dinner (chauffeured, again, by the hotel).
We, of course, made it back to our room in time for the season finale of Lost. Well worth it, too.
We left Whitefield in the morning to make our way down to Portland in a very meticulously planned day. The first stop was 45 minutes down Route 1 in Brunswick, to see the refurbished art museum at Bowdoin College.
(I guess, technically, the first stop was somewhere on Route 218, when a duck crossing the road forced Casey to pause. "It looks like it's carrying something," I said. But Casey noticed first: "No!" she said. "Those are ducklings! I just made way for ducklings!")
After visiting the museum and a few other campus buildings, we had lunch in Brunswick and then departed for Freeport in an effort to boost the economy at the L.L. Bean Factory Outlet and flagship store, plus a quick look at the J. Crew outlet that resulted in my purchase of a linen suit. Bring on the August weddings now, bitches!
We arrived in Portland a little after 4 p.m., checked into the Eastland Park Hotel and soon made our way to Hadlock Field for a minor league ballgame. (I won't bore you with the details, but if you're interested, apparate here.)
With first pitch at 6:05 p.m., we were out of there by 8:30 and on our way down to J's Oyster Bar on the waterfront for a late snack. In what seemed like a bit of New England hospitality, we were chauffeured there by a hotel bellboy. When Casey asked at the front desk if they could call a cab for us, the woman said, "I can take you." At first I took her literally, thinking she was about to finish her shift and would drive us down there herself. What she meant was that she'd check to see if one of the drivers was available, and he was. He took us down there and, after Casey called the desk when we were finished, he came back to pick us up. I tipped him five bucks each time, figuring that was both sufficient enough for him and still a bit of a discount for us had we taken a cab, which would've been fare plus tip. And he deserved it, having chosen to go to school at Vanderbilt instead of following his siblings to Boston College.
Pemaquid is always a planned visit, an outing on its own. On weekends in the height of summer -- and with calmer seas -- the rocks would be teeming with visitors. But none on this day. The sea was so violent (I should've pulled out my video camera, but neglected to) that many rocks I've ventured to or sat on pondering calmer waters were completely submerged.
Pemaquid without people is an eerie place. It was strange to hear nothing but the waves crashing into the earth, unnatural to see the rocks in such an unadorned, natural state. Thinking back to it now, it's my most unique Pemaquid visit, perhaps my most memorable. Yet at the time, I spent as long as I could sitting on the rocks, watching the frothing sea, bearing the cold May wind. I waited as long as I could before I had to get up again and start moving; now I wish I'd stayed five minutes longer to take it in just a little more.
enough room at the top for the four of us, but Casey got her 360-degree view and carefully descended. I remained to get the photos I wanted, then shuffled around to trade places with the two other men and see the view on the other side of the lens. Then I waited them out, letting them get their fill and start the climb down so I could have a minute to myself at the top. If I looked to the southeast, all I could see were the rocks and the small red shack perched atop them -- a view that had to be similar to that seen by the long list of keepers who served at Pemaquid Point.
My last visit there was four or five years ago, when my sister, our cousin Christine and I drove up there and hiked the 3-mile trail around Jordan Pond. We also took the short but steep path up The Bubbles, which took our breath away on the climb -- as I was on all fours, reaching for a handhold on a rock on a particularly vertical part of the path, I wondered if I was really in such terrible physical shape -- and then again at the top. While Casey and I repeated the Jordan Pond hike, I wasn't about to force her up there (and I wasn't so excited about it myself), so we continued around the pond, covering the 3.2 miles in about 90 minutes.
I've seen dozens of pictures of the Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse and always wanted to see it for myself. It didn't disappoint -- a small, sturdy sentinel set in a remote point at the southernmost point of Mt. Desert Island. I only disappointed myself, not noticing the path at the eastern end of the parking lot that would've taken us to the east side of the light to get the view that is seen in many of the photos of the point that have been published. It reminded me of the Cape Meares Lighthouse in Oregon, which Matt, Dave and I visited on a quiet, calm August evening several years ago -- before any of us were married or even knew our current wives (at least that way, since Dave had known Mandy, but hadn't dated her yet). It would've been another quiet seaside visit to a remote outpost were it not for the obnoxious teens who were blatantly ignoring the signs about keeping off the grass and screaming and laughing as if it were their backyard. (And if, by chance, one of them is the spawn of the current inhabitants of the living quarters, then damn, I'm jealous.)
That evening, we walked into town, exploring Bar Harbor beyond the Thirsty Whale. We sampled the Bar Harbor Brewing Co.'s concoctions (not to be confused with the larger Atlantic Brewing Co., also on Mt. Desert Island) and added it to our itinerary for the next morning, when we'd be stopping at a few stores to pick up some things we didn't want to lug around with us the rest of the night. We got ice cream and explored Geddy's kitsch (buying a few license plates and reigniting the collecting bug in me; I'm now scouring eBay for any plates depicting lighthouses) in the basement shop before going upstairs to eat at the bar. Fabulous pizzas -- ricotta, pesto, onion and garlic for me; clam pizza (actually better than Frank Pepe's in New Haven) for Casey -- and a bathroom designation to remember.
and back). From there it would be on to Whitefield for a night with the family, then down to Portland for two more nights before moving on to the Massachusetts countryside for a wedding.The small cemetery along the Turnpike in Maine is two miles before the Kennebunk service area, or just befor emile marker 24. It's much closer to the highway than I remember and, well, cleaner. Not as colonial and rustic as I'd pictured. It sits directly on the other side of the guardrail, its markers a brilliant white and a flag or bouquet or two. In my mind, it sat back from the road, among the trees, its stones grimy and gray, the grass high, no flowers or flags to bring a shot of color to the grays, greens and browns around it.
After the Freeport fill-up, I got back behind the wheel because I simply love driving the hills and curves of Maine and we made it to Bar Harbor before 6 p.m., passing Pirate's Cove miniature golf on the way. After checking in, that's right where we headed to spend an hour not sitting. And we weren't hungry for dinner, yet. On the way, my new Maine playlist for the trip was fortuitously timed right to play Howie Day as we left Bangor, his hometown.
So maybe it was a little rainy out on Friday afternoon. And maybe I didn't need to head into work an hour early so that I could stand in Madison Square Park and eat a double cheeseburger ... then go back for a cone of the custard flavor of the day, red velvet.
