Some days I think to myself, “I really need to see the ocean right now.” So I hop in my car and drive to the closest place on the coast: Wiscasset. I avoid the traffic from the famous lobster roll place and park myself next to the boat launch. Having traveled across almost all of Maine’s coastline, Wiscasset is nowhere near my favorite, but it’s relatively quiet, even during the summer. I get out of my car if it’s nice out and stand by the sea. I try not to take for granted my proximity to the ocean. The sound of seagulls, the smell of seaweed, the spray of saltwater that lands on my skin. The give and take of the tide smooths the sharp edges of my spirit, and it’s not hard to know why so many people come to Maine.
Another coastal town I keep driving back to is Rockland. I’ve visited there and the neighboring town of Camden several times over my lifetime. It helps that the drive is so beautiful. Without fail, I get excited to pass by the shimmering lakes and backdrop mountains. I’ve wandered the streets and even had some of my official author pictures taken in front of the street art. Unlike some of the other places in this post, Rockland sees many tourists and can be a bit overwhelming during the summer months. On those days, I find my parking space down by the water walk and lean over the railing, searching for any sign of life beyond the barnacles that cling to the dock pilings.
Over the past few years, I participated in the development of an educational mobile game. The aim was to increase place-based learning. We wanted kids to go out and learn new things about the places they visited. One such place was Whaleback Shell Midden State Historic Site in Damariscotta. The pure white in the picture isn’t sand or rock—it’s shells. Just like at the coastal site I dug at, these shells are the remnants of Indigenous people thousands of years ago. Unlike the site I dug at, continuous erosion has made these shells more obvious. However, active archaeological digs still occur in the area, uncovering old artifacts and new stories.
Not far from Damariscotta is Fort Edgecomb. The day I visited, it was a spontaneous stop as I was driving by. The fort was closed as it was still peak COVID lockdown, but the fences remained open for wandering. I was alone at the fort, walking the winding paths and pausing to take pictures of the area. I later learned that the fort was built at the start of the 1800s to defend the major port of Wiscasset from the British during the Napoleonic Wars. Like most of Maine’s forts, it never saw much action and, apparently, the only time the cannons were ever fired was to celebrate President James Madison taking office.
Blue Hill is an artsy town south of Bar Harbor and famous for its annual fair. I studied the region in college, trying to understand the tensions between aquaculturists and the locals. For fun though, I hiked the hill late one winter. I remember hiking it once when I was younger, seeing blueberries ripe for the picking with my dad. When I hiked it again, the snow was melting, causing small streams to flow rapidly down the hillside.
I distinctly remember the hike being one of the first times I used my tripod for taking pictures. I set out for the best spots to snap my pictures and just as I was about to reach the summit, I came across a giant sheet of still solid ice. I was skeptical, but I wanted to try to cross it anyway. Within one step, I was on my back staring up at the soft white clouds. I promised myself to give it one more try and didn’t get a chance to fully stand up before falling again. I remember laughing so hard at that. Something in the universe was telling me that I clearly was not supposed to cross this sheet of ice. I rolled myself back onto firm ground and set out for a less slippery vantage point.
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