Tourism Maine

At first there were only a few cars on the pier across the bay waters to Canada's Campobello Island. Eventually, half a dozen more parked in the evening dusk. An outsider might have figured they were waiting in line for the last ferry of the day across Passamaquoddy Bay. But an outsider would have been wrong. In this tiny Maine town of Eastport--actually, in most towns on the bay--visiting the pier appears to be an evening ritual, sort of like stopping for ice cream.

The first mate and I waded into the sea with a basket, scooping up salt-fragrant green handfuls of clean, knobby seaweed for the lobster bake. When the wood fire in the beach pit was white-hot and crumbling, we placed the seaweed on top and fanned out ears of sweet corn still in their silky husks, heaps of slick black mussels bristling with limpets and a mass of dappled, dark green lobsters. A quart of melted butter bubbled in a pot; a cooler held soft drinks and beer.

In the eerie-still woods, the deep whisper makes for a chilling noise--as unsettling as a dying breath. At once there is motion, and Tim Diehl's team of dogs leaps forward to propel a sled that looks like it lumbered out of Adm. Robert E. Perry's mission to the North Pole. Across the snow they romp, a throwback to the days before combustion engines, a monument to the land where snow rules the seasons.

On some days, you can catch them on the grassy slope. They fold their bodies into gentle curves, yearning toward a weathered farmhouse. Visitors to the Olson House have been known to stake out positions as they create simulations of Andrew Wyeth's signature painting, "Christina's World." One woman even brought her own costume.

People have told me that one has to live in a place to really know it. I never understood what they meant--until I spent an entire summer in Bar Harbor, Maine. For two months last year, I scooped ice cream for tourists visiting Acadia National Park. I put in 40 hours a week behind the counter, but I still had time to experience the island.

On some days, you can catch them on the grassy slope. They fold their bodies into gentle curves, yearning toward a weathered farmhouse. Visitors to the Olson House have been known to stake out positions as they create simulations of Andrew Wyeth's signature painting, "Christina's World." One woman even brought her own costume.

There was a time three years ago when this seaside village was the center of world attention. True, the guns were far away, trained on the Iraqi army occupying Kuwait. But on a rocky promontory known as Walkers Point, the President of the United States--pulled here as if by some ancient migratory instinct--was putting together an international diplomatic and military response, unprecedented since World War II, to oust Saddam Hussein's forces.

There is something decidedly unnerving about settling into a sea kayak and paddling off blindly into a wall of fog. My kayaking buddy, Philip Kibler, checked the chart and set the compass mounted in front of him to 180 degrees. "We're off," he sang with a cheerful faith I did not share.

Last year about this time, I asked my 20-year-old son, Alex, what he was doing for the summer. I suggested (harangued, he would say) a job at a national park. Sometimes my suggestions are received less than enthusiastically. But this time Alex saw the possibilities: a summer job away from home, on his own, with other adventurous kids in an exciting, new place. It all sounded--well, I believe the term was "awesome."

The first mate and I waded into the sea with a basket, scooping up salt-fragrant green handfuls of clean, knobby seaweed for the lobster bake. When the wood fire in the beach pit was white-hot and crumbling, we placed the seaweed on top and fanned out ears of sweet corn still in their silky husks, heaps of slick black mussels bristling with limpets and a mass of dappled, dark green lobsters. A quart of melted butter bubbled in a pot; a cooler held soft drinks and beer.

People have told me that one has to live in a place to really know it. I never understood what they meant--until I spent an entire summer in Bar Harbor, Maine. For two months last year, I scooped ice cream for tourists visiting Acadia National Park. I put in 40 hours a week behind the counter, but I still had time to experience the island.

Last year about this time, I asked my 20-year-old son, Alex, what he was doing for the summer. I suggested (harangued, he would say) a job at a national park. Sometimes my suggestions are received less than enthusiastically. But this time Alex saw the possibilities: a summer job away from home, on his own, with other adventurous kids in an exciting, new place. It all sounded--well, I believe the term was "awesome."

Exactly where the new millennium dawned in America may be a minor point to most people, but it felt like a matter of life and death Saturday in this remote fishing village on the ragged edge of the world. As the easternmost town in the continental U.S., tiny Lubec has been boasting for months now that it would be the perfect place to spend the millennium's first morning.

There is a painting by Jamie Wyeth that moves me with its tranquillity: a pensive woman in a room that looks out at the sea. He calls it "If Once You Have Slept on an Island." I have slept on Monhegan Island, 10 miles off the coast of Maine. During the night, fog horns sound, wind tosses the tall spruces, rain pelts the window. I snuggle under the covers, keeping the Maine chill at bay. I have also awakened on Monhegan. Dawn arrives crystalline, sky blue, sunrise orange.

There is something decidedly unnerving about settling into a sea kayak and paddling off blindly into a wall of fog. My kayaking buddy, Philip Kibler, checked the chart and set the compass mounted in front of him to 180 degrees. "We're off," he sang with a cheerful faith I did not share.

At first there were only a few cars on the pier across the bay waters to Canada's Campobello Island. Eventually, half a dozen more parked in the evening dusk. An outsider might have figured they were waiting in line for the last ferry of the day across Passamaquoddy Bay. But an outsider would have been wrong. In this tiny Maine town of Eastport--actually, in most towns on the bay--visiting the pier appears to be an evening ritual, sort of like stopping for ice cream.

Exactly where the new millennium dawned in America may be a minor point to most people, but it felt like a matter of life and death Saturday in this remote fishing village on the ragged edge of the world. As the easternmost town in the continental U.S., tiny Lubec has been boasting for months now that it would be the perfect place to spend the millennium's first morning.

There is a painting by Jamie Wyeth that moves me with its tranquillity: a pensive woman in a room that looks out at the sea. He calls it "If Once You Have Slept on an Island." I have slept on Monhegan Island, 10 miles off the coast of Maine. During the night, fog horns sound, wind tosses the tall spruces, rain pelts the window. I snuggle under the covers, keeping the Maine chill at bay. I have also awakened on Monhegan. Dawn arrives crystalline, sky blue, sunrise orange.

In the eerie-still woods, the deep whisper makes for a chilling noise--as unsettling as a dying breath. At once there is motion, and Tim Diehl's team of dogs leaps forward to propel a sled that looks like it lumbered out of Adm. Robert E. Perry's mission to the North Pole. Across the snow they romp, a throwback to the days before combustion engines, a monument to the land where snow rules the seasons.

A group of 75 Taiwanese tourists obediently standing in line and wearing orange identification discs on their lapels gasped with simultaneous pleasure as a huge rainbow trout gracefully rose to the food being powdered onto the crystal-clear water below. "New Zealand is so clean, so beautiful," said Judy Chen, a banker from Taipei. "In Taiwan we have so much pollution. Here the air is clear. People are not crowded. It is so different from our home. I love it here."