A Guesty, Moosey Maine Summer

 

This is the inspiring and unforgettable story of two people who had a dream.

That dream was to host good friends at their Maine townhouse for 47 nights over the summer and then to somehow muster enough energy to drive to Moosehead Lake and pay someone to show them where a moose was.

Granted, it was a very specific dream.

What follows are the details of those 47 guest-nights and the harrowing quest to see a Maine moose in the wild. 

Some of what follows is true.

TLOTH and I are blessed with many fabulous friends and relatives. Each of us managed to garner a gaggle of wonderful friends during our prior lives. We added numerous friends to our collection during our seven years together. Once we knew we'd be spending our summers in Maine, we decided that our vacationland was too good not to share with all those friends.

"But what if they actually show up?" I warned.

"Some will; most won't," blithely offered Nan. 

Most did. To the tune of 47 nights between June and September. And as great as it was to host all these fine friends and relatives, we ran out of things to say sometime around July 20.

The photo above is a prime example of my desperate search for something new to add to the conversation. We took guests to the same oceanside cliff 27 times. Here it is:

Every trip to a dramatic rocky coastline became routine to us, a trip to the grocery store. In our eyes, the dramatic coast simply lacked drama after so many visits, like watching the same movie 10 times. Our meals also bore the brunt of so many repetitious guest dinners.  We boiled over 375 lobsters and steamed 1,342 clams.

 At some point in mid-August our lobster pot simply refused to be put on the boil again and, with the help of a pair of lobster shell crackers, headed out the front door and was last seen hitching a ride north on Rt. 1. The repetition continued as we treated each guest to what we called The Stockton Springs Trifecta: a nearby eagle, a busy hummingbird, both of whom we had trained to show up on demand, and a camera-shy obese groundhog who lives under our deck. After a while, we would skip the narration and just point to them.

And who can forget the many trips to view and even cross our favorite Penobscot-Narrows Bridge.

Pitiful, really.

Now don't get me wrong. Our guests couldn't have been more generous or helpful. Every one of them happily pitched in to make our jobs easier. We were treated to numerous dinners and bottles of wine. All the guests "left no trace" when they headed home. They were perfect, believe me.

Still, 47 nights of trying to be charming was a lot to ask.

Of course, as you undoubtedly realize by now, the main problem with having so many guests was underwear.

Common decency demanded that I wear underwear. At all times. Without exception.

You see there are times, especially in the summer, especially in Maine, when I like to give the boys a chance to breathe. Without going into too much detail, I find that the cool, crisp Maine air works wonders with the boys. They just thrive on that Maine air. 

(DM me for more helpful genital tips.)

However, with guests underfoot one must always wear underwear. Everyone knows that. 

When the last guests had left in early September, Nan and I set out to do some of the things we had planned to do on our own. We attended the annual Blue Hill Fair, held across the bay from us on the beautiful Blue Hill peninsula. The sheep dog trials at the fair are an annual delight. We watched from the bleachers as magnificent border collies attempted to herd four sheep through and around several obstacles, eventually landing the skittish and usually uncooperative sheep in a holding pen. It was beautiful to watch these very intelligent, wonderfully trained dogs attempting these difficult maneuvers.

Here's one in action:

Another adventure we were able to achieve was to view our place in Stockton Springs from Penobscot Bay. Our terrific neighbor, Gregg, made that happen when he invited us out on his boat one morning for a delightful, if occasionally foggy, cruise.We were skeptical about being able to see much but were thrilled for the chance. The morning started like this:

But, as it so often does, the fog lifted as the sun grew stronger and we were treated to this wonderful view of our townhouse, the next-to-last dormer on the left:

As you can see, our guests will never have to be concerned about storm surge.

So with all guests safely returned home, we eagerly set out to fulfill our final Maine dream. We grabbed Buddy and headed northwest for the three hour drive to beautiful Moosehead Lake in Greenville, Maine. Surprisingly, there are no interstate highways connecting Greenville to Stockton Springs so the drive is a hilly, twisty, curvy affair. Poor Buddy succumbed to car sickness numerous times. We apologized and trudged onward. Nothing was going to prevent us from paying someone to show us where a moose was.

When we arrived in Greenville we discovered that we were one day late for the annual Moosehead Lake International Fly-In, featuring hundreds of sea planes landing and taking off. Here is a photo of the last of them getting ready to head home:

With Buddy's stomach back to normal, we settled him into our modest VRBO rental and headed over to Northwoods Outfitters to meet up with Steve, our moose whisperer. As Steve drove out of town, he educated us on the various interesting facts about our elusive prey. Did you know that the bulls lose and then regrow their prodigious rack of antlers each year? Steve knew. Did you know that an adult moose needs to eat about 50 pounds of vegetation a day in order to survive starvation during the winter? Steve knew. There were many other moose-related factoids that Steve knew, but the main thing that Steve knew was where to find them.

We headed off the paved road and down a gravel track owned and operated by the Weyerhauser Corporation. Did you know that there are thousands of miles of unpaved roads operated by the big lumber companies throughout the great north woods of Maine? Steve knew. He also knew that the companies have agreed to let anyone use their roads as long as they don't interfere with logging operations.

For over an hour Steve drove us down those bumpy, unpaved roads, searching for a moose, any moose. At one point I yelled "There's one! In that field on the left!" 

"That's just a stump," Steve said. "People often confuse dark stumps with what they hope is a moose."

I didn't know that. Steve did.

And then, just as we were about to lose hope, our dream came true. A female moose, pictured above, was standing about 30 yards away. We didn't know if we'd see a moose. 

Steve knew.

Eventually we'd see five more in different locations. By then it was too dark for pictures. I didn't know it would be too dark for pictures. Steve knew.

But here is what I know: a summer in Maine, even a rainy one such as the summer of 2023, is meant to be shared. And as sure as the lupines will be returning next spring, Nan and I and puking Buddy will be driving up here once again to welcome and entertain our awesome guests.

Ain't life grand!