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We entered Maine with a sigh of relief. The difference was tangible: we could see and feel the wide open space, the road widened and straightened. The hills covered in pine trees rolled along with us. After the past couple months in the more crowded states of New England it was a welcome relief to reach Maine, the least densely populated one.

That said it might seem funny that our first stop was in Portland, the largest city in the state. How could we resist a city that was first settled by the British in 1632, destroyed twice by the local Wampanoag tribe and once by the British during the Revolutionary War? The town was originally called Falmouth but was known as Portland in 1820 when it became the capital of the new state. It wasn’t until 1832 that the capital moved to Augusta.

We timed our visit well; it was early on a Sunday morning and most of the town was still asleep that clear, sunny day. Other than stopping by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s birthplace and childhood home we had no real motivations for checking out the town that Portland, Oregon was named after. Last summer in Oregon, we learned that the city’s name was decided by a coin toss by the two founders. One was from Boston, Massachusetts and the other from up here in Maine; obviously we know who won that toss.

Sometimes just wandering without an agenda is the best way to explore. Our wandering led us past a statue of John Martin Feeney who grew up in Portland. The son of Irish immigrants, his ventures into show business led him to change his name to John Ford. You might have heard of him, he is the only person to have won four Academy Awards for Best Director. Most famously he directed Stagecoach, The Grapes of Wrath and How Green was My Valley. Stagecoach, which came out in 1939, proved to be a big break for the young man who would continue to work with Ford in at least twenty more films.

Of course, we are talking about the Duke, John Wayne. Both monikers were preferable to the man who was born Marion Robert Morrison. The nickname Duke came early in life, as a boy he never went anywhere without his dog, Duke, so neighbors began calling him Little Duke; since he preferred that over Marion, the name stuck.

Duke’s entry into Hollywood was assisted by none other than Western star, Tom Mix ^[1]. Credit for his stage name goes to a couple producers at Fox in the early 1930s; as the story goes Duke didn’t even have a say in the matter. Wayne’s roles in Westerns and military related films made him an American icon. So much so that some items of military issue are called John Waynes, including the P-38 can opener, which like the Duke, can do anything.

Now I will confess that I haven’t seen many of Ford’s films but I have seen his screen adaptation of John Steinbeck’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel. (What is it with all these Johns?) The Grapes of Wrath script differs from the book primarily in an attempt to make the movie seem less “Red.” At the time Steinbeck’s book, based on a series of investigative newspaper articles he wrote, was harshly criticized as pro-Communist. As you may know, Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors, probably because of his ability to tell the truth as he sees it, even when nobody else wants to hear it.

After deciding that Portland was a most pleasant city (in the summer) we continued north to Freeport. There is only one reason that we stopped in Freeport and we are not ashamed to admit it, the flagship L.L. Bean store. It all began in 1912 when Leon Leonwood Bean began making hunting boots. The Freeport native soon produced a mail-order catalog and one thing led to another.

What I found most interesting is that the store is open 24 hours a day and has only been closed for a handful of days since 1951. The store closed for a day to honor JFK after his assassination, and also after Bean’s death. The store is so large that hunting gear has its own store and biking and water sports also have a separate location across the plaza. Of course, our favorite location was the L.L. Bean outlet just outside of town. Freeport has many other outlet stores, which explains why the parking lot was full when we left.

Early evening found us all settled in at Boothbay, our new home for the next five days. The town of Boothbay Harbor had been unsuccessfully settled in 1623. The now scenic, small, fishing village wasn’t resettled until 1730. Although the two communities are physically connected, at some point they became separate towns. This part of the Maine coast reaches out into the Atlantic Ocean like jagged fingers. Since our campground was on its own little peninsula we had water right behind our RV. Well, most of the day we did, at low tide the water receded to reveal a sandy, silty, mud bank.

Boothbay Harbor is a mix of hard-working harbor and tourist destination, lobster buoys cover almost every inch of the bay and curio shops line the narrow streets. As Lance and I wandered around one afternoon we came upon a candlepin bowling alley. I had heard of candlepin but never seen it so we went inside. Each of the three players we watched had a different technique for rolling their wooden ball down the lane. Since the ball is so much smaller than a regular bowling ball and the pins not as fat, it is a difficult game. While our players were good, none of them were able to clean up or take a spare.

From the harbor we rode the ferry out to Monhegan Island. Monhegan is a special place. Though small, less than a mile wide and two miles long, it occupies a prominent place in American art. It was out here that Edward Hopper, Rockwell Kent and Andrew Wyeth found inspiration.

Artists still flock to the tiny community (fewer than 70 year-round residents) to practice their crafts. We witnessed a few painters working on their easels as we hiked around the island. We didn’t hike the entire island, just up past the old lighthouse and over to Whitehead on the opposite side. We were able to keep to the coast by looping around through Lobster Cove where the wreck of the D.T. Sheridan, an old tugboat, lies on its side.

The community started as a fishing camp for the once plentiful cod. The residents continue to harvest the sea but they also reap money from visiting tourists. Several places offer overnight accommodations but thankfully, the town has retained its essence. The island that was once slated to become a huge resort was saved from that fate by Ted Edison, the son of Thomas Edison.

Ted had vacationed out there as a young boy and when he heard of the proposed development he began buying up land. In 1954 he donated his 480 acres to the Monhegan Association which preserves the land and maintains the island’s many miles of trails. Thanks to his foresight the island has retained its natural beauty. From our perch high atop Whitehead we could see busy Black Guillemots diving and serene Common Eiders with their young. Did you know that the Common Eider is the largest duck in North America?

It was a wonderful way to spend the day, even the boat trip was agreeable. We watched Harbor Porpoises, Harbor Seals, and Minke Whales on our ten mile trip. Once back on the mainland we realized how hungry we were—fresh air will do that to ya. So we popped in for a refresher and tried a marvelous Blueberry Ale. A great way to end a picture-perfect day.

After leaving Boothbay we drove out to Pemaquid Point to see the lighthouse. While we are not major lighthouse enthusiasts we can’t pass up one so famous that it made it onto the state quarter! Yes, the Pemaquid Point Lighthouse is on the back of the Maine state quarter. Commissioned in 1827, it was completely rebuilt in 1832 because of shoddy workmanship. Unfortunately for us, this striking lighthouse was under renovation and completely surrounded by scaffolding during our visit. While clearly not the best pictures, our foggy day shots do show why this light was a vital navigational aid: the rocky coastline and rough weather.

We continued north along the Downeast coast towards the jewel of Maine, Acadia National Park.

Photos: View our photographs from Downeast Maine.

Dates: We stayed in the Boothbay area from 07/22/07 to 07/28/07.

Notes:

1. We are most familiar with Tom Mix because he perished in a car accident on US Hwy. 79 north of Tucson, Arizona, (on the way to Florence) a stretch of road we know well. (Back to text)