Goodbye, Loon Call

Heading home this morning. It’s beautiful out which makes the leaving harder. Took the kayaks out for one last sunset cruise last night.

We will miss this place. It was an adventure.

A Blind Dog

Last days are the worst. For the first time since you got here you are no longer living in the moment. You’re trying to but you know that this day has an agenda all its own. Soon, the packing up will begin. First, Pam will drive Patrick and Sarah to the airport. She will hug them tight then cry as she pulls away from the curb. It has been wonderful having them here. They have thoroughly enjoyed themselves. When Pam gets back from the airport, we will try to enjoy some dock and lake time on what promises to be another gorgeous sunny day in the low 80’s, before surrendering to the task of gathering up all our belongings, including all the new stuff we have accumulated since we arrived, and stuffing it all back into our car...hoping that all the doors shut.

But, we will leave our mark. The owner of this house has suffered a terrible loss, we discovered, the kind of loss that is unfathomable. We collected rocks from the yard and painted them. Last night we placed them around the property, hoping that maybe she will see them and take heart.

This morning our neighbor is swimming in the middle of our cove with her sweet little blind dog. They look to be around a hundred yards out, she dog paddling as the dog swims in circles around her. He loves the water because its the only place he can move around without fear of bumping into anything or falling off an edge. His silver eyes gloss over with joy as he follows her voice calling his name. The lake is the one place where he feels safe

I know how that blind dog feels.

“What do you DO up there for an entire month??”

I get asked this question a lot when people find out that I go to Maine for an entire month. “But Doug, but Doug...what on earth do you do for a whole month?” A reasonable question. A month is a long time, and Maine isn’t exactly what you would call a beehive of activity, no thriving metropolis to be found anywhere once you cross the Piscataqua River. What follows is my attempt at an answer.

This morning I was out on the kayak, minding my own business, when suddenly my wife appeared off the port side momentarily startling me. As fate would have it, about the time she appeared on the scene, I hooked in to an impressive bass and began reeling it in...

One could say that I was showing off except for the fact that it was completely random happenstance, just one of many magical things that seem to occur up here. Once she was on her way, she took my good luck with her. I only caught two more the rest of the morning, both small and uneventful.

So, yes, I fish. A lot. Fishing allows me time to think and ponder, interrupted occasionally by fish. Most of the best fishing happens in the early morning, but every now and then I’ll catch something late afternoon. 

Ok, so that accounts for maybe four hours of my day, when it’s not raining, of course. In past years, at least twice, sometimes three times, I play a round of golf at Rockland Golf Club. Unfortunately this year due to the increasingly annoying COVID-19, golf was out because the course wouldn’t rent me clubs. That was a disappointment, but allowed me even more time for another of my major pastimes up here...reading.

These are the seven novels that I have had the time to read while I’ve been at Loon Call. All but two of these were already in the house library. They were all enjoyable reads except for Hunter S. Thompson who, I have discovered, I’ve outgrown since the days when he wowed me as an undergraduate. The Sunday Philosophy Club was an annoying little thing that disappointed, but everything else was amazingly good.

Then, there’s eating. There’s lots of eating. There’s the actual eating of the food, but there’s also the thinking about eating the food. There’s the plotting and scheming involved in the preparation of the food to be eaten. Then there’s the sitting around afterwards savoring the food that has been eaten, complete with lots of ooohing and aaahing and the rubbing of tummies. All of this takes up a surprising amount of time. But it’s something that cannot be rushed. Meals are central events of each day around which every other endeavor must subject itself. “Shall we go for a swim? Wait...what about lunch??”

Last night there was a rousing game of Monikers which featured an embarrassing attempt by me (during the charades portion of the proceedings) to illustrate necrophilia to a couple of my grown children. Needless to say, much hilarity ensued. 

On days when the weather isn’t good we are reduced to driving to the coast to have breakfast (again with the eating) in Camden, followed by shopping and visits to lighthouses and whatnot, all the while keeping a sharp eye peeled for any change in the weather which might result in a hasty retreat back to the lake for some bonus dock time.

That’s pretty much the itinerary...fishing, eating, reading, eating, shopping, sightseeing, and eating. It’s not for everybody. Some of you would get bored, I imagine. That’s why God created Myrtle Beach and New York City...for the rest of you.

Gratitude

Every time we come up here I am confronted with a different emotion. Some years it’s the beauty of it all that strikes me, other years it’s the peacefulness. Some years it’s an overwhelming sense of relaxation. But this year it’s been...gratitude.

Maybe it’s 2020 that’s responsible for this emotion. COVID, racism, and politics have produced a toxic quality to this year, and being here has felt like stumbling into an oasis in the middle of the desert. Whatever the reason, I have felt an overpowering sense of gratefulness that I am here. I never want to lose that. Gratitude has fallen out of favor as a sentiment of late, I think. Nobody seems grateful anymore. If something good happens, we assume it’s because we deserved it. When bad things happen to others, we sometimes secretly think to ourselves, “serves them right, the way they live” or “well you could see that coming the way they...” Then when some huge windfall or blessing falls in our laps we secretly credit our own skill, work ethic, and righteousness for our good fortune. This is the very definition of pride, the great sin of the scriptures.

You can go mad trying to figure out why bad things happen to good people. You can drive yourself crazy contemplating why fortuitous things happen to horrible people. I have no answer for the vicissitudes of life. Here’s what I do know. I have been extraordinarily blessed in this life with mostly good health, a functioning brain, great parents and siblings who taught me the value of honesty and hard work. Those gifts have led to a degree of success in this world that has allowed me the great privilege of being able to come here every year. Why me? Others are smarter, other people I’ve known work harder than me, are better looking than me and yet, have struggled. I don’t know. I don’t think I will ever know, this side of eternity. But I do know this...I am grateful for the blessings of life. I might not know the why. I will resist the prideful attitude that says, “I deserve this.” This year especially it has been overwhelming, this sense of gratefulness. Maybe its why we love bringing friends here. Maybe it explains why I post so many pictures. Part of me wants everyone I know to come here, while the selfish part of me wants it all to myself.

So, Kaitlin and Jon are back in Columbia, SC in the unrelenting heat. Pam and I get Patrick and Sarah all to ourselves for the next three days, then we pack up and head home Saturday morning. I miss Lucy. I miss my friends at the office. But I will mourn this place on the two day drive home...

A Fabulous Day

This afternoon Pam will drive Kaitlin and Jon to the airport in Bangor. On Thursday we will do the same for Patrick and Sarah. The following morning, we will pack up and leave this place after a wonderful month. All good things, they say, must come to an end. But yesterday, we rocked it!

The day started with an excursion to the Rockland Breakwater Lighthouse, one of our favorite spots and one that Patrick and Sarah had never visited.

It’s a mile long rock wall that took 18 years to build back in the late 1800’s at a cost of a mere $750,000. It contains nearly 800,000 tons of granite. The walk ends at the stately old lighthouse.

Sarah took a great selfie!!

Then we headed into Camden for a birthday lunch at Waterfront’s.

Then it was back to the lake so these two bums could do what they do best...

After an amazing dinner prepared by the kids, it was time for the flotilla to form for another sunset cruise.

Of course, there had to be a birthday cake for the birthday girl...a whoopie pie.

And, what fabulous day in Maine would be complete without a rock painting marathon??

Maybe the best day of our entire month.

...And now I get a text that the power is out at home because a tree fell over the lines at the corner of Pump and Three Chopt. Our dog sitter can’t get the garage door open to go to work and the power won’t be back on until after lunch. Apparently we are the only people holding Short Pump together. We leave town and the whole place goes straight to hell.

The Lady of the Lake’s Birthday

Today is Pam’s birthday. It’s no coincidence that we are in Maine on this day. This place is the magic elixir that keeps her looking and feeling so young, the anti venom to the aging process brought on by 40 years of living with me. She is the Lady of the Lake up here, and everybody knows it, especially the unfortunate jet skiers from a couple weeks ago who made the mistake of trying to run over a couple of loons. Pam didn’t hesitate to track down the closest grown up in charge of these two morons and let them know in no uncertain terms about our shared responsibility to protect the wildlife at this beautiful lake, and that their jet ski behavior was totally unacceptable. She got a mumbled apology from the miscreants and that was that from those two! It was a beautiful moment and just one of the many reasons why I love this woman. 

As a tribute to her on this her...29th birthday...I have compiled my favorite pictures of her taken over the years in Maine. Because of the slow internet up here, this post might take a while to download, so by the time you read this, she might be 30.

We head out this morning to the Rockland Breakwater lighthouse, then to the Deli for lunch, back to the lake for some dock time and paddle boarding, then back to town for dinner and ice cream. At least that was the plan last night. She will have a wonderful birthday. I will see to it.

The Mystery of Crawford Pond

The fog is lifting, the lake is calm. The only sound you hear at six in the morning is the chirping of birds. Soon, I will head out to fish around the exterior of Russell Island, which we have renamed Grandad Island, in honor of my esteemed father in law. There are several patches of grass that have yielded some impressive bass this month.

On one trip I stumbled across a curious thing. At the northern tip of the island, there are two metal chairs that have been placed on the edge of the water, I suppose for sunset viewing, but it’s something of a mystery since the island is uninhabited. Upon closer inspection of these chairs, I discovered what looked like a wooden walkway, much like the walkway of a dock, only it was laying flat across the rocks at the edge of the water...

It’s old and weathered with the names of 13 people carved into the planks. This is the sort of thing that could inspire the imagination of a certain writer. What is the story here? Who are these people? Who were they? Are they dead now? Why are their names carved into this 15 foot long plank, and why is it laying at the edge of the water of an uninhabited island on an obscure lake in Maine? I parked the kayak for a closer look. I ran my fingers over the letters trying to picture their faces. 

But this curiosity isn’t unique on Crawford Pond. On the big island called, unimaginatively, 100 Acre Island, on the eastern side there is a huge rock that protrudes out into the water, large enough to park the kayak and explore. The rock juts out of the water about ten feet high and sixty feet wide. But what intrigued me the most were the three bronze plaques  that had been embedded in the front surface of the giant rock, each declaring the deaths of people who had some emotional connection to the lake, one a teenager, judging by the birth and death dates. The plaques stated the name, birth and death dates and one sentence to summarize the life lived. Lover of the Lake, Founder of Lake Association and champion of its care...

These discoveries have done nothing to discourage my conviction that every lake we have ever stayed on here is shrouded in mystery. First of all, these lakes are ancient, created by receding glaciers. Secondly, they freeze over every winter, solid and impenetrable for months. For a southerner like me, this is unfathomable and makes me wonder what the place is up to all winter. Whenever there is  a “cold snap” in Short Pump during our winter with the high temperature in the 20’s for a week or so, I glance at my weather app and notice that Searsmont, Maine can look forward to a week of single digit highs and subzero lows, making me wonder what Quantabacook looks like, and what on Earth is going on in its frozen depths. The imagination stirs, crowding out the mundane cares of the real world. Who are the 13 people carved into the weather-beaten planks? How did such a large and heavy thing find its way onto an uninhabited island? 

Inquiring minds want to know.