
I have traveled the contiguous 48 States many, many times, but a few had evaded me. Maine was the last on my list (other than Alaska and Hawaii of course) and I got to check her off my list on a crisp October morning, in perhaps the most perfect of scenarios.


I had driven from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts to stay a few days, visit some old friends and experience the heart of New England in Autumn. My old friend Paula and her man Matt were lovely enough to put me up for a night, and Paula showed me around the next day and graciously tolerated my camera in her face as we explored her neighboring beach towns. The coast was exactly as I had expected it, except better in every way. Sunny with a stiff breeze, wet sand and a blueish hue that seemed to saturate everything with a cold, sad flavor of a deserted New England beach in the Fall. After a day at the edge of the Atlantic I headed to "Boston proper" - as Kaleena had put it - to meet her for food and drinks. Then I made the late night drive up 95 into Vacationland and nestled into a rented room a few miles off the highway.

In the morning I found my way down to the coast to brave the thirty-some-odd degree weather plus wind for a glance at the North Atlantic. I can understand why so many have been drawn to a life out there past the horizon, on the cold and rolling waves of a seafaring vocation. I then turned abruptly and drove off into the woods of Maine to be surrounded by the gloriousness of a New England forest in Autumn. More on that next time.

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