Northern Maine - Day 6

Maynards in Maine, in Rockwood, lived completely up to the advertising: a hunting/fishing camp run by the same family since 1919; funky cabins, not updated for many a decade, but comfortable; a main lodge with camp furniture, bare light bulbs, and animal trophies on the walls; three meals including an old-fashioned packed lunch in an Igloo. Ham and cheese on white bread hasn't tasted that good since childhood. Of course we were eating the sandwiches on top of Mt. Kineo.

Not quite on the top. The summit is wooded and getting a view required climbing the fire tower, which one of us did - only partway. Well, the wind was blowing pretty hard, and legs have been known to turn to jelly, and the tower could have collapsed. Right?

Mt. Kineo rises more than 700 feet directly out of Moosehead Lake. The man piloting the golf-course shuttle over to the island said there's also a deep hole in the lake right below it. So about a thousand feet of pure vertical rock, made of a rare flint called hornstone, making a rare sight that has drawn tourists for centuries. Native Americans used the rock for arrow heads, rusticators used the mountain for recreation (one of the country's biggest hotels used to be at the foot), Thoreau thought it one of the most beautiful places he had visited, and modern rusticators play golf and sit on their big porches in its shadow.

Just below the summit there's a ledge made for lunching, with an open view of the lake. No wonder Thoreau was so entranced.

We ended the afternoon with a walk around Greenville, and a stop in a lively bar where we had decaf coffee, not quite depressed enough (at leaving the next day) to start drinking at 4:00, even on a Friday. Others had no such inhibitions.

Dinner made up for that brief denial of pleasure. Four courses at Maynards satisfies the hungriest of abstainers. My prime rib was 2 inches thick and covered all of a large plate that the garlic mashed potatoes (with gravy!) didn't. Visions of salads danced in our future.

Northern Maine - Day 5

After another heart-stopping breakfast (Eggs Benedict) from Fred Young, we set out on the Golden Road, the logging road that runs from Millinocket all the way across the state to Quebec. It was reported to be passable by a Baxter ranger, and he was mostly right. The road deteriorated somewhat from paved to rough-paved to decent gravel before we turned off on the Greenville Road.

Before the Greenville Road there was a lovely stretch of the West Branch called Nesowadnehunk Falls, where the Nesowadnehunk River (the same one we had hiked along yesterday in Baxter) joins the Penobscot. The mountain is Katahdin.


A famous section of the West Branch is Ripogenus Gorge, which we hiked along for a short way. I can't imagine how the lumbermen did it, but they used to drive logs down this canyon from the big lakes of Chesuncook and Chamberlain to the north. The water is very fast, and this is low-water time in the autumn.

The Baxter ranger was mostly wrong about the Greenville Road. It was not in good shape and our little Civic found itself once again put to the test. Trucks stacked with logs roared by, not worried about their suspensions, I guess, and on at least one occasion a truck came at us around a corner, tilted enough, I swear, to spill a quarter million pounds of wood on top of us with just a degree more of lean. Another time a truck blasted out of a side road just in front of us without stopping. Perhaps he saw us, correctly judged the angles, and wanted to give us a thrill.

There weren't a lot of log piles along the road, but enough to make it clear that logging is a messy business, not to mention dangerous. The Pelletier family runs most of the trucks in this area (and also opened a restaurant in Millinocket on the basis of their fame in the TV series American Loggers, where we ate manly food amidst logging paraphrenalia the night before); I now want to see the series not only for the information on logging but also for what might be the last of a breed. What does a real logger think of bacon-wrapped scallops called Retreds, or Blown Tires (onion rings)?

In any case the ten miles of the Greenville Road consumed nearly an hour, presented no moose (are you sensing a theme yet?), and certainly was a slice of the North Woods without pretense or comfort.

In the late afternoon we arrived in Maynard's in Maine in Rockwood, ready for the monstrous meals any logger would be proud of.

Northern Maine - Day 4

It was the best of mornings, it was the worst of mornings. The best was breakfast at Young's House B&B in Millinocket, where Fred Young made luscious blueberry pancakes, three of them each the size of a dinner plate, for Cindy, and bananas Foster French toast for me, without a doubt the best French toast I've ever had.

The worst was the continued rain. But we drove up into Baxter anyway, this time on the Park Tote Road on the west side of the park, hoping for the best to return.

And it did. At first, we sat in the car for a while, looking at Kidney Pond. It was tranquil, and beautiful in its cloudy, foggy, primal state.


The rain left up for a bit and we decided to go for it, sneakers and all, into the woods and the short, wet trail to Rocky Pond. By the time we got back, our faith in light jackets and no hiking boots was justified. The sun started to break through for minutes at a time, and Kidney Pond was transformed.

The day continued like that, alternating deep, dark clouds that fortunately held their rain, and brilliant patches of blue sky that provoked extravagant forecasts of perfect weather to come. Mt. Katahdin, however, remained unseen, and we drove to Daicey Pond to collect the prize.

The Appalachian Trail passes near Daicey Pond and others on its way to the last exhausting climb up Katahdin. For those nearing the end of a months-long trek, these gorgeous bits of water must be an inspiration and a blessing, a calm place to camp and refresh. We took a bit of the Trail along the Nesowadnehunk River to see Big and Little Niagara Falls, and some wildlife of the stationary variety.

I hope with all my heart that not the slightest atom of what happened to the "real" Niagara Falls happens in Baxter, and it won't. Percival Baxter, the former Governor of Maine who personally bought and protected almost all of the 200,000+ acres of the park in an innovative trust, saw to that.

Then, at last, the Greatest Mountain.

Northern Maine - Day 3

Another lovely breakfast from Clif this morning, and a conversation with his other (longer-term) guest, Peter Goth, celebrating that day's promotion to head of the ER at Gould Memorial in Presque Isle. Peter's other jobs? helping his wife Wendy Pieh raise the cashmere goats at Springtide Farm in Bremen; training physicians and vets; judging cashmeres around the country; past Outward Bound leader, etc. I have no idea how he does it (Bremen is five hours away!). Typical Mainer....

The drive to Millinocket was relatively short, just a couple of hours, and more than relatively rainy. We could see nothing of the great mountains to the west. We went to Baxter anyway, and also there saw nothing of great Mt. Katahdin. The rain reduced to some spit and drizzle for a while and allowed us the short hike from Roaring Brook Campground to Sandy Stream Pond. A steadier downpour would have stopped us, for in our blithe poor planning, we had neglected to take hiking boots and rain gear.

The pond was nicely set up for "wildlife viewing" (which means, basically, moose) with boardwalks ending on flat rocks. Alas, the only wildlife seen were three duck/goose-like birds (crested heads, orangish beaks, gray and white bodies, relatively long orange legs and feet) that have so far escaped identification (Stokes, Sibley, Google). Who needs moose when something obviously and incalculably rare preened for the binoculars! Birders, we're available for exclusive interviews.

Did I mention that we hadn't seen Katahdin yet?

Reluctantly and damply, we drove the 8 dirt miles (at 15 mph) back to the Togue Pond Gate and hoped for better luck (moose, Katahdin) the next day. Reluctantly and heroically, I resisted the Penobscot fries at dinner, saving myself for breakfast.