Rested, we left the bed and breakfast in E. Machias for the Maritimes. Across the remainder of Maine and into New Brunswick Arthur’s footsteps could be felt in the trees down and lack of electricity in many stores. But from what we could tell from the radio reports no one was seriously hurt in either Maine or Canada and it felt good to be starting the next phase of our trip.
Colder, much more wild, and considerably less crowded, New Brunswick offers a glimpse of what maybe Maine was like fifty years ago. In-between small cities like St. John exists large tracts of woods, family owned farms, and stunning views of the Bay of Fundy. Bay of Fundy National Park, which offers not only the largest tides in the world but also wild, clean rivers and trails reaching deep into the heart of old growth forests, has exactly one tourist town on the perimeter. It is walking distance from our campground and offers less than a half dozen places to eat, three motels, and a bed and breakfast. The main road leading through is almost completely deserted after dark.
After hiking to a waterfall and then along one of those wild rivers, we took a dip in the salt pool. Replenished nightly from the bay, the water is filtered but not chlorinated. Despite a cold wind and only mid-60 degree weather the pool attracted more than a few families. Pressed close to the bay itself and with a glass wall surrounding the pool, it is easy for one to imagine that you are swimming in the ocean yourself. And that is what Henna and I did until we left to go get some ice cream. Noel
I am writing to you now from a warm “Down East” bed and breakfast (Down East here is the way locals refer to the north east coast Maine coast line). I have a good bottle of wine and a patient wife waiting for me while the coolest daughter in the world settles down to bed. Had fireworks today too which was pretty special since Arthur’s delightful antics shut down the pyrotechnics last night.
When I hear Arthur, I can’t help but think of the loveable drunk that Dudley Moore played a few decades past. That might be part of the reason why I, along with seemingly everyone else in the Acadia National Park world we inhabited not so long ago, underestimated that tropical depression that used to be a hurricane. No one knew exactly when the big fellow was going to show up, but all agreed it would be little more than a rain. Truth be told it was more than a rain and although it never quite terrified us like maybe it should have, it walloped Maine like a welter weight. Less than ten yards from our tent a tree splintered. Another tree plopped down right in the middle of Maine Street at Southwest Harbor and seriously inconvenienced folks (like us) trying to get off the island. At “Maine’s first winery” the power was out and the place ran on candle light and rain water collected to rinse out glasses if needed. On Route 1 we saw power lines ripped from their poles and trees littering lawns. And the thing to consider with all of this is that Arthur never made it to land; this was just the ripples making their way from the eye. What if the dumb drunk had connected? Noel