It’s the Journey, Not the Destination

Maine and Washington are continental bookends. Each hugs its coast with perspicacity and neither allows you to be complacent about its landscape. On clear days in Seattle when Mt Rainier looms or on summer nights when the ferries cross the sound their lights speak of magic rather than direction. It is not unusual on a point A to point B trip to suddenly be astounded by unexpected beauty. Point A to point B trips are the lifeblood of our days. We have to pick up the kids, drop off the laundry, take the dog to the groomer. Rushing up Route 1 in midcoast Maine to run the same errands we experience a series of speed zones: 25 through town, 35 on the edge and 55 in between. There's a stretch of road north of Camden that winds through tall pines where you can catch a glimpse of the occasional house, antique stores are prolific and coveys of summer cottages perch on the hills to claim a sea view, if only, when you step on your tiptoes. Clipping along on a two lane road at 55 (65 with the ten mile unwritten leeway) is almost meditative until the Reduced Speed ahead signs begin to appear. The need to slow down is not immediately apparent. The wind of the road and the tall pines continue. Until you reach Lincolnville Beach a town that consists of a post office, B&B, four or five shops, two lobster shacks and two restaurants. One has a sign that says “best pizza in town”. As the only pizza in town it is an indisputable claim. But it isn't the availability of postage or pizza that makes you want to slow down. It is the open water dotted with pristine lobster boats and the backdrop of Islesboro. It is a postcard moment. A scene stopped in time. Sunrise, high tide or light squall lobster boats have anchored and fished from here for two hundred years. Men and boys have risked their lives for centuries hauling traps. It takes little imagination to feel the timelessness of the spot, the continuity wraps around you like a comforter knit by your grandmother.