Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (55 page)

That night, we camped at radio station WERU. It’s a non-commercial community station that was started by Paul Stookie of the folk group Peter, Paul and Mary. Their studios were along Highway 1 halfway between Bucksport and Ellsworth, and as we walked out of Belfast we met two of the volunteer announcers who asked us to stop in for an interview. Freezing rain mixed with snow was coming down when we got there. So when they invited us to camp in their basement for the night, we were quick to take them up on their offer.

The next morning it was overcast and cold, but at least there was no precipitation – until a little after noon. First it rained, then it turned into a heavy wet snow that began to accumulate on the ground. That night on the edge of Ellsworth was the second time that we rented a motel room. It was at the Twilite, and there was a sheltered place behind the motel to tie Della. After we checked in, the owners, Linda and Marv Snow, invited us to have dinner with them. (Yes, their last name really was Snow.)

“It doesn’t feel like we’re traveling anymore,” Patricia said, as she sat on the bed drying her hair with a bath towel.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not exploring, just putting on miles.”

“Seems to me we need to get settled before winter
really
clobbers us.”

“I know.” Patricia sighed. “It’s just that I miss ambling along like we usually do.”

The weather the next day was the same–intermittent rain and snow. Other than stopping for lunch, a TV interview and two newspaper reporters, we just breezed through Ellsworth. I liked the feel of the town, but the Mermaid’s Purse Farm was only twenty-five miles away. We could come back and explore on a nicer day.

Eight miles east of Ellsworth a short man with a round belly, white scraggily beard and hair marched out to the edge of Highway 1 and yelled across the road “What in the world is going on here?”

His hair stuck out from under an orange stocking cap that made him look like he had a pointed head. The belly portion of his red sweat shirt was
stained with grease, and with the jolly grin on his beaming face he looked like an unkempt Santa Claus.

I yelled across the highway. “We walked here from Arkansas.”

“Really? Well come on over and visit.”

“We need to find a place to camp for the night.”

“You can camp here. I’ve got plenty of room.”

Raye, also known as the “Wild Mountain Man,” was a chainsaw artist. He had life sized wooden statues of bears, an eagle and an angel lined up across the front of the property. A show room of his work was in a two story wooden building, on front of which was a sign that listed Raye’s accomplishments. He claimed to be the world’s first chainsaw artist. His first piece was done in 1953 at age eleven. Since then he had sawn over 50,000 pieces and was listed in
Ripley’s Believe I It or Not
seven times. In 2000 they filmed him sawing ten numbers on a toothpick. When I shook his hand I couldn’t help but notice that Raye was missing half of two fingers.

We spent that night in his wood shed. When he opened the door to show it to us Raye said, “An artist lived in here for two years a while back. He was from Arkansas too. Think I’ll start calling this ‘The Arkansas Suite’”

Around midnight Patricia shook me awake and said, “I think Della got loose. I heard something stomping around outside the door.”

My wife got up with the flashlight and threw open the door. Della was right there in the doorway with her ears turning back and forth. “What are you doing, girly pie?”

While I scrambled for my boots and jeans, Patricia stepped out and grabbed hold of Della’s halter. “It looks like the rope came untied from the snap on her foot strap.”

She stroked Della’s nose. “What a good girl. You came to find mom and dad, didn’t you?”

I had staked Della out in a grassy area not far from the woodshed, and she watched us tote our bedding into it. So she knew where we were.

The night before, at the motel, I had cut off the end of her rope that was tied to the snap because it was beginning to rot. I was afraid it might break in the middle of the night and she’d get loose. Obviously, I did a lousy job when I tied the new knot. With her lead rope, I tied Della short to a nearby post and hung a hay bag for her.

When we crawled back into bed Patricia said, “That’s scary. What if she’d gone out onto the highway? The way traffic flies past here, if she was out there in the dark–”

My wife paused and shuddered. “Thank God she came to us instead.”

I turned to Patricia and said, “I think I know who this is.”

We were walking alongside Highway 1 in the town of Hancock when a Ford pickup stopped across the highway from us. After the driver got out and slammed the door, an Old English sheep dog stuck its head out the window. The driver limped as he made his way across the pavement. There was no doubt in my mind that this had to be Michael from Mermaid’s Purse Farm. I extended my hand to him. “Hey, Michael. How’s it going?”

His gray bearded face beamed. “You figured that out pretty quick. You guys are making good time.”

“We should be there tomorrow afternoon.”

Along the Atlantic seaboard, when you say you’re going up the coast, it’s natural to think north. But in Maine it means east. From Ellsworth on up, the coast is known as “Down East.”

When you look at a map of the state, the coast line looks like it has fringe dangling down into the ocean. Going up the coast Highway 1 in Maine is 278 miles long. But if Highway 1 followed the actual shore line
it would be 3,478 miles. All of those peninsulas, reaches and spits of land created hundreds of bays and harbors. While we continued up the coast a few of those inlets came right up to the pavement. But we couldn’t see open ocean because of the mountains and ridges on the land masses that made up the fringe of Down East Maine.

From Highway 1 we took Route 195 out onto the Schoodic Peninsula to Prospect Harbor. It was five miles of ups and downs and when we got to the village, all we found were a few homes, a deli, a post office and a tiny library.

Mermaid’s Purse Farm was on Light House Point Road. And when we got to the junction of it and Highway 195, Michael and the sheep dog, Pye, were waiting for us. “I hope you don’t mind if we walk with you to the house.”

It was a narrow lane with homes and trees on both sides. But when we got to the farm all of that disappeared. Ahead of us was the open Atlantic. It was a brilliant blue with frothy white waves breaking over ledges out at the mouth of the harbor. On the left side of the road was the house. A white two story wooden structure with several dormers and bay windows. It almost looked like a castle. Attached to the back of it were three barns. On the right, across the road, was a large open field that bordered the harbor. Moored out in the harbor were several brightly colored lobster boats. On the opposite shore was a sardine cannery. We truly would be living in a New England fishing village.

The farm had no paddocks, fenced in pastures or even a stall for Della. I would have to build all that. For now I’d have to stake Della out like we did on the road. After I did that, Michael gave us a tour of the place. Two of the barns had been made into workshops and storage. The largest of the three barns was empty, except for some stacks of lumber.

We talked it over and decided I could build a stall in that barn for Della. I had told Michael on the phone that I wanted to build a new wagon. One we could sleep in. He said. “You can build it in this barn.”

On the house tour, Michael showed us our room, which was upstairs with a king-size bed and two windows that faced the Atlantic. After lugging some clothes up to the room, we joined Michael in the kitchen where he fixed cocktails. Lifting his glass he said, “Welcome home.”

CHAPTER 23

I
S
T
HIS
R
EALLY
T
HE
E
nd
?

I
KNEW THIS WAS HOW
Maine would be. Sweet sand beaches lapped with gentle surf under perfect blue sky. Romping barefoot through the soft sand around Prospect Harbor, I stumbled over a rock. Scurrying for traction on slimy seaweed, my feet slid out from under me and I tumbled down toward ocean boulders.

Suddenly, something shook me. “Wake up Bud! Wake up!”