Nomadic Rag

On our journey North, there was a Confederate flag at half-staff and I wondered to myself whether or not the Grand Wizard died…

I hadn’t heard anything. Normally I would be in the loop on such breaking sensationalism—Kanye would’ve posted about it. Perhaps there had been a death in the family; a generational gun went kaput someplace? One that Grandpaw kept in his study and lathered up with shoe polish for the kiddos on Thanksgiving.

“When you hold it, make sure it’s pointed at the floor.”

To where they responded in a country drawl, “Doo-what??”

My mind gravitated down these cynical corridors. Suppose that’s where it felt the most accepted. Naturally I quipped with my wife, Ashley, on what impossible circumstance led to the designation—was it because they ran out of country ham at the nearest Waffle House? A patron at a barbecue stand denied sweet tea to-go? Perhaps the flagger had gotten drunk the night before and forgot he was ever the flagger. That seemed the most likely. After all, a broken clock is right twice a day, so maybe the same could be said for half-staff? There was certainly an abundance of death going around.

We were on our way up the coast from North Carolina to get some seafood in Acadia. It was also an opportunistic time to meet with family before we moved further south, as we already put the pen to the lease in South Carolina. Ash was disgruntled to say the least. Not about our impending relocation, for we were both particularly excited about Greenville, SC, but the sheer amount of travel that stood between us in order to get there. I couldn’t blame her one bit. But as I relayed to her, it was important to see the complete other side of things to justify our decision.

Our two pit-bulls also tagged along, not that they gave any pushback on the matter. As it turned out, they were desperately reliant on us in many ways, but the feeling was mutual. Our older, sassy girl was named Ophelia and the younger pup, whom we considered to be on the spectrum, was Benjamin. He was in dire straights this trip. Though not entirely his fault, as allergy season took a stronghold in the south, darkening the sky in an angry yellow cloud—pit-bulls were especially prone to pollen. Yet if they were sensitive, Benjamin was chronically-ill. His knotted ear canals perpetually carried whatever happened to fall in there, and bacteria thrived as a result. So, what kicked off our journey was in fact a visit to the vet’s office.

They put him under for a good clean, and he was kind of dopey in the car. He only awoke once to piss himself all over my backseat—Ash’s face turned sour.

“What-what happened? Did he throw up?” I asked.

“Nope. Pissed.”

I jerked the wheel off the exit and pulled beside a gas pump. We got out of the car to the bombardment of salsa music, blasting from a speaker the size of a nuclear warhead on the opposite side of the pump. The kind so deafening that it shook my nose hairs out of place, and the world smelled different as a result. Once we got a safe distance away, so that I could hear my inner voice again, I scrutinized the old worn out Mazda and its rightful owner. What benefit was there to listen to music that loud, with every window down no less? What purpose would that have served? Maybe his ex worked inside the convenience store and this was a way back to her heart; a latino adaptation of “Say Anything”.

We sojourned at my Mother’s house in Mt. Pocono, PA which worked out to be the halfway point to the harbor. This was where we also picked up Ashley’s sister, Morgan, so that she could visit Maine as well.

When we awoke in the morning, fresh off a restless night’s rest, a layer of frost greeted us. I walked outside and let the cold do away with my heavy eyelids. The sky overheard was a promising blue, one that made another day of extensive travel worth it. However, I was quickly deceived for the Thule and its lock had frosted over as well. Up until this point, it transported much of our things on top of the Subaru and made it all possible, frankly, to pursue this journey with Morgan in tow.

“Should I warm it with my breath?” I suggested to Pops, exhaling forcefully a few times.

He replied, “What do you wanna freeze it more?”

The girls laughed. I ended up moving it into a patch of sun which did the trick. Then we loaded Morgan’s luggage and waived a temporary farewell to my folks.

The New England states were filled with nothing but traffic and unremarkable things to look at. Despite this, there was a feeling on mounting excitement as the state signs got closer together. New Hampshire in particular was a shooting star; one look down at the phone and it would’ve been missed. Yet we all caught a glance, and the only thing we wished for was a bathroom.

A snow squall developed as we passed Maine’s welcome sign, which read: “Maine; The Way Life Should Be.” Perhaps the boldest claim I ever saw on one of those, yet somehow we were receptive to it.

“Maybe they know something we don’t,” Morgan remarked.

“Can’t be, look at Bangor.”

“Don’t lose faith yet, hon. It has to be in reference to how epic the lobstah tastes.”

Though I wouldn’t fully comprehend why until our second day spent in Acadia National Park. From a pure geographical standpoint, the balance between coastal and mountain terrain proved to be a rather illusive ideal. That is, until I hiked the Beehive Trail.

They called it the “Beehive” because that’s how the mountain appeared at sea level; a bulbous cylinder that tapered at the top, abundant with rocky ridges and overlooks. The walkable sandbar, off the peninsula, held an excellent view of this coupled with the soothing, crashing of waves. Subtle wafts of salt breathed effortlessly in over isles of black seaweed. It was incredibly peaceful. I’d imagine the Pacific Northwest held a similar splendor, just with taller mountains.

As we left the trailhead behind, the incline turned nearly vertical. There were metal bars positioned in the rock to assist with our holds. Each of which felt natural, coming at opportune moments for three points of contact—a climber’s cardinal rule.

Ashley was afraid of heights and often experienced vertigo when too close to the edge. Her eyes were blank, anything I knew of her before, the things in which I fell in love lay imprisoned behind them. Yet even in great distress, she remained the course and conquered her fear. If only for a day it was a day to remember.

We took some pictures, mostly candid, as the girls assured me those were better, then went down casual switchbacks to complete the loop.

I got it in my head that I needed to see a lighthouse before we ate some lunch. Perhaps one of the more notable ones was Bass Harbor Head. Out of 65 along 5,000 miles of Maine coastline, Acadia was home to over a third of them. However, much of them are only accessible via ferries and boat cruises—something we hadn’t the necessary time to do. Trust me, had our stay granted over a week’s time I would’ve taken the ferry to Nova Scotia. We had been listening to a lot of “You’re So Vain” throughout, of which we kept repeating:

“Then you flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia, to see the total eclipse of the sun.” — Carly Simon

It was fortunate upon our arrival that the gates were open at Bass Harbor since there had been inclement weather overnight. Enough for a white blanket to swaddle the entire harbor and mainland alike. We quickly took advantage, however, slipping down the wooden stairs with the excitement of school children to grab some more photos. As Morgan stationed her tripod along an uneven surface, the tide was noticeably rising. I sprung over to lock in the legs and she quickly set the timer—it wasn’t candid, but I think it came out alright…

Something absent on any Bar Harbor itinerary, or at least to my one Google search of surrounding seafood spots, was when the season of lobster officially began. Sure it made perfect sense—fishermen refused to risk their lives in arctic conditions and treacherous gales for the sustainment of year-round lobster. But to our southern ignorance, we found out that a majority of restaurants only opened Mid-May and would close sometime in the Fall. Consequently, this also aligned with the nesting period for puffins; who inhabited islands offshore to lay their eggs only when it was warm enough.

“Damn those puffins,” I said. “Hanging out with all the lobster I bet.”

We were down on our luck. Our heads hung in defilement of a fantasy just out of reach—how could we mislead ourselves this far along the primrose path? Those beautiful, brilliantly beaming-red lobsters fresh out the boil were one month away, and there was nothing we could do or say about it.

Our meander of Main Street grew weary. A local gift shop with dirt-cheap prices afforded us with some new life; I picked up an embroidered ‘Bar Harbor’ tee, mauve. Looked rather nice to Ashley as well. Morgan grabbed much more. A detailed new wardrobe to replace whatever was at home. But even then, deep inside, we were barely scraping by.

Like a mirage in the distance, we saw an open sign on a comforting blue row house. Together we filed in and sat at the window booth. It wasn’t long before the scraggily barkeep strutted up to us. There were only a few patrons occupying the stools at the time, and they all appeared quite nestled in so that he could afford to. He handed us some menus and introduced himself as Trevor. I saw at the very top, “Oysters on the half shell,” and I audibly sighed in relief, ordering a dozen.

Trevor took an interest in our desperation and got to know a little more about us. He observed our ID’s were from Colorado.

“Coming all the way from Colorado. Whereabouts?”

“Denver,” I didn’t bother to explain our current living situation.

“Well—, you guys came at the perfect time. This past week we just opened.”

“Really?” Ashley said with some excitement.

“Yeah no you came right before it gets crazy. Like this weekend is my last chill weekend. Usually it’s hard to get around in here.”

“And here I thought we timed it bad since all the lobster shacks are still closed.”

“I mean you can still get lobster around,” he insisted, “but do you like oysters?”

“I love them, but my wife doesn’t so much. And her sister never had one.”

“Well I always say if you don’t like these you’re never going to like oysters. Even the locals, when they come in, they tell me this is the best place to get them in the harbor. How do you usually eat them with hot sauce, lemon or-?

“Yeah with some horseradish and lemon.”

“Our chef does something really special, it’s called a mignonette which starts as a slurry with finely chopped shallots, reduced down with sherry, then she adds vinegar—by the end of a dozen I find myself drinking it by itself because it tastes that good and I don’t want to waste any. Sorry, I’ve just never believed this much in a product before.”

We laughed at how charmingly snobbish he was, “No-no, that’s awesome. I’m excited.”

“Yeah you’re gonna love it. Today is our first day back with the oysters. You know the Frechman’s bay?”

“Yeah, we just passed by that didn’t we?”

“Literally just this morning, our chef, she got them out of there. It doesn’t get any fresher than this.”

When the dozen arrived I knew we were in for something extraordinary. Each shell was filled with some of the bay water, and the meat of the oyster held a perfect bite whilst maintaining its buttery smoothness. The mignonette had not overwhelmed the natural umami flavor one bit, and instead homogenized with it effortlessly. Like true love, where one adhered to the other’s shortcomings, in which devotion answered the individual, and thus the full picture that always was revealed itself. Needless to say I befell to transcendence. It was of the most refreshing, well-balanced oysters I ever consumed. Even the girls found themselves with multiple empty shells.

Some other eateries we enjoyed during our travels…

• The Sidestreet Cafe—which provided the delicious lobster roll I heavily sought along with craft beer.
• Havana—more of an upscale Latin American cuisine. Had a renowned wine-list and seafood paella.
• Everyday Joe’s—even though it neighbored with a Sunoco, the blueberry pancakes set us up for success.

Sadly we then departed from Acadia. But just like all wonderful things, the memories made last longer than it took to make them. Until we return, perhaps in the summer for a summer edition, we will be singing one of our main Maine songs—fittingly called ‘Maine’, by Noah Kahan.

“And did you lose that longing now? For a walk through an ocean town, ‘cause this town’s just an ocean now.”