After a year of smaller adventures, with Sean, around the Maritimes, I had grand plans this summer to hit the road. Originally these included a spring reprisal of last year's tour of the Southwest, but this was not to be. So instead, I picked up my four wheels and headed for the Western mountains of Maine.
Camp on Flagstaff Lake, night one. Flagstaff in its current form is the massive result of the damming of the Dead River on its way north to join the Kennebec. It is not therefore nice for swimming, but it's resident loons are very majestic, late partiers.
An unbeatable view from the top of Mt Bigelow's West Peak
The fire warden's trail up Mt Bigelow is described as a strenuous, steep ascent. It was in fact just that, but I preferred it to the way down, which, in addition to being hard on the knees, was lousy with slugs sprouted fresh from the rain. There is an undiscussed law in the world of slugs which states
One should prefer to creep
Where hikers must
Place hands or feet.
Suffice it to say that all parties suffered much from this state of affairs.
The view from Stratton Pond of the Bigelows
I like to hike alone so that no one hears me talk to the mushrooms
