Away to Quebec City.
Heading in the general direction of Quebec, they drove northwest to Robbinson and the St. Croix Island visitors center. The island is in the heart of the traditional lands of the Passamaquoddy, who according to oral tradition, used it to store food away from the dangers of mainland animals. Cartographer Samuel de Champlain established the first European settlement on this small river island in 1604. In 1608 he returned to North America to establish a permanent settlement, founding the city of Quebec Ontario. Here in St. Croix, visitors are prohibited from the island to protect historical remains.
Saint Croix Island, Maine – Wikipedia Saint Croix Island International Historic Site (U.S. National Park Service)
After touring the visitor center, they secured a cottage in town for the night in nearby Robbinson. Quaint described the accommodation, log cut ceilings, plank floors and sturdy square furniture. At that point something came over them. They shed their athletic clothes in favor of hiking pants and layers of outerwear, their hair grew unwieldy, stubble appeared in places never known to be. They stayed clean but less polished, and with time it suited them. Out in the heart of nature the daily chatter of news and social media was no longer important – let it go. There are ways to become more independent. Hiking and running for a start. Learning to cook local recipes, history and nature books of all forms and fashion, rising early with the sun, simple foods, alone together. It takes less resources to live like this, not poor, and yet simple.
The afternoon sun was suddenly lower now; dark clouds covered the sky just above the far hills. An early winter storm approached, and like a light switch the warmth of September disappeared. A hard frost followed by another round of rough weather kept them inside for two more days, amplifying the solitude. There is a way to break up responsibilities, avoid disagreement, and row together. They learned from and appreciated these subtle navigations. As the weather finally broke fair, they headed north up through Brookton and on to Danforth, anticipating some time on the water there, before the St. Croix becomes unnavigable, for reasons of water level and coarsening weather. Rideout’s Lodge and Cottages were their next stop. Far from civilization, fishing and family retreat, the cabins were small and rustic in that identical Maine décor; a simple place to stay – if you like to spend your time outdoors. This is the shoulder season – post summer and pre-ice-fishing, and they had the run of the place, quiet and deserted. The weather warmed once more with a sense of Indian Summer, and they managed to put the kayaks in for a day on East Grand Lake. Bright sun, no wind and a warm afternoon fed adventure, moose and deer and a black bear sighting, they exhausted each other, ate like wolves and exhausted each other again, followed by deep long sleep. The next morning, they hiked along the lakeside and then captured some provisions for the road ahead.
From there it was a six-hour drive westward and north to Quebec City, with a border crossing at Sandy Bay township. A rural two-lane road, it dipped south towards Bangor westward, and then back northwest again. Small towns all along the way, upon crossing I-95 at Howland, they stopped for lunch and picked up a dog! Carmelo had recently arrived on a transport from New Mexico, a two-year-old foxhound, as advertised in the weekly paper. Was this a good idea? They thought yes, shopped for food and a leash and a doggy bed. Lunch was had on the Penobscot river. There is nowhere to eat in Howland; necessitating a stop at the Handy Stop Neighborhood Market & Takeout | Howland, Maine for a hot pizza and some take out sandwiches for the cooler. Driving again west, Carmelo was confused by the whole travel scene, bundling him up in blankets on the back seat, he shook nervously for a long while and then eventually settled down.
The Appalachian trail was not on the radar at the start of this trip, until they noticed the trail crossing at Greenville Road; and of course, it was the perfect excuse to stop and walk a few hundred yards along the main trail. This is quite near the norther terminus of the route, and late starting northbound through hikers who had spent most of the summer on the trail were closing as fast as practical toward Mt. Katahdin, 50 miles northeast. It is a remote area aside from the road crossing, a primitive parking area for day hikers, and a few mounted directional signs. Just beyond the crossing are the Spectacle Ponds. They had read about local ‘trail angels,’ and a pickup truck in the parking lot was stocked with provisions for those passing through. Near to the ponds a few groups of very scruffy hikers pass by. They would wave and shout hi, then respond as well and pretend that they were also part of this long journey, though clearly not looking the part, too pale and well fed. Hiking the Appalachian trail seems like it might be an exciting adventure, before you look closer behind the stories that are told. Months on the trail, cold rain, muddy slopes, sleeping in a shelter with a dozen other dirty, hungry hikers, hot days of summer, bugs, more rain and dirt, unexpected expenses. What part of that looks like fun? Perhaps it is type II fun, only fun after you look back. Or maybe not even then. The thirty-minute taste of the trail was more than enough for them. Safely back in the car they headed north and west again, it was suddenly later than planned, and Moose Mountain Lodge offered respite for the night. They checked in and then headed down the road to the Stress-Free Moose Pub. There is a bit of lost freedom to travel unmoored like this, the off season makes it possible, and the weather cooperated.
They never ate so good or slept so soundly, free to stop and start as each day desired. Early morning, still dark, lead the dog out for a walk, and then a shared run, the skies so dark that the stars above would blind you with their brightness. Out early in rural Maine on a sharp fall morning, scanning for constellations as they moved across the slowly brightening sky. Love, a leisurely breakfast, packing up as the wind came up and skies began to darken.
It rained all the way to the Canadian border. Cold and hard, sideways rain that soaked you through if you gave it half a chance. They pushed on through Rockwood and Long Pond (a wide spot in the road), to a gas stop in Jackman. The Switzerland of Maine? Really? Wood Pond to the west was obscured by low heavy clouds, it might be glorious in the summer, but not today. Then turning due north through forested countryside, the land flattening now, and a straight curved shot direct to the Canadian Border. Passports in hand and rabies card for Carmello, they cautiously approached the crossing station. Fortune to approach a friendly and efficient border agent, who asked about their point of origin and destination. A bit of a long story and hard to describe, still holding on to Texas Issued drivers licenses and U.S. passports, though claiming a recent residence change to Bar Harbor Maine. They walked him through it and technically were in the clear, with a reminder to pursue change of address as soon as practical. Their ages and Terry’s past Canadian connections saved the day. Terry was like that, she had a way with strangers to make them feel respected and appreciated; she could make friends in ten minutes, and most did. He wished that he had that wonderful way with strangers and friends as well, that personal intelligence that helps make new connections. How he grew to love her of course.
Now it is just 90 miles and two hours to Quebec City. Further north at Armstrong, the scenes change from heavy woods to open farm country, paralleling the Chaudière River. Suddenly they are French. And that suits Terry just fine. Crossing the St. Lawrence River, as memories of Quebec City returned to them from prior lives. Easing into the city, grey skies, somber granite homes, still a cold rain and darkening into evening. A hotel booked quite near to the old walled city, they settled in, grabbed some rain gear and headed out for a hot meal. The city receives a steady stream of international tourists in the summer and fall, most by air or cruise ship; the restaurant employees seem to enjoy trying out their English as they explain entrees written in French. The fall weather and the dark evenings suited them well, good food and great company and still further away from home, again alone together. After a “restful” night, the weather tried to improve by morning. Heavy clouds skipped across the western sky, a cold wind and light rain greeted as they ventured out. Day one in Quebec City would not be sunny….
