Somewhere in New England

Standing on the edge of the Atlantic, I found myself peering down at a paper map, trying to figure out where the nearest gas station was. In rural Maine, they were few and far between.

I had just made it from Rhode Island. It took about five hours to get from Newport to here—at least when you’re flooring it like I was, which was more than necessary after getting a call from Sunny. She rang me up to urgently request my presence at 44.66444° N, -67.23944° W, coordinates that would take me to “the most rugged stretch of the Gulf yet documented.” I told her that I’d try to get there as soon as possible. “Okay,” she replied. “By the time you get here I’ll probably be sitting underneath one of the cedar or fir trees. I’m in my red poncho, the one I got in Portsmouth.”

By the time I made it, however, Sunny was gone, although that didn’t really surprise me. I knew Terry was trying to get a hold of her, and I figured it was only a matter of time before he did. Terry’s a fisherman who Sunny and I met a few weeks back. “I like saltwater fish the best,” he told us. “Striped bass, cod, flounder—you name it.” I remember asking him how long he’d been fishing for. Instead of answering, he started telling me about the things that mattered most to him. “Truth be told, I don't ask for much. I reckon a pack of Busch Light, a day on the water, and a little dancing at Silver Spur every now and then is all an old fella like me really needs.” 

“Aren’t you 23?” Sunny asked. 

They hit it off almost immediately.

The good news about standing alone on the edge of some shoreline was that I’d grown accustomed to it. My weekend in Newport more or less consisted of me camping out on the Cliff Walk, despite the rain. There was something about the juxtaposition of the Atlantic's relentless coast with the Gilded Age mansions that lined it. Beyond the crashing surf and jagged cliffs stretched immaculate lawns and butterfly gardens—the epitome of East Coast aristocracy, or, simply put: a living shrine to old money. 

But that section of New England’s seashore couldn’t have been more different from the one before me now. I’ve been here for a couple of hours, and have spent most of my time contemplating the view. Sunny was right—this was by far the most rugged corner of the Gulf of Maine that I’d seen. There was something different about the way the rocks settled beneath the ocean’s surface, and how the sea salt lingered in the air. 

I could have stayed longer, but decided to pack up camp and kick it. I was still trying to make sense of the map I’d snagged at Maine’s visitor center. This was the first time I’d actually had to read a paper map since I began traveling. My GPS had rarely failed me, and although I hadn’t exactly chosen to be in this situation, I found myself enjoying the challenge. Here I was, 20 or 30 miles from the nearest town, trying to make sense of a topographic map that showed every road and trail in the county, hoping it would point me in the direction of a gas station.

I decided to head into Cutler, the closest town from where I was. I figured it was my best bet. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to it—just a handful of rural neighborhoods, a library, and a post office. I spotted some guy lounging in a lawn chair in the middle of the street—well, maybe “spotted” isn’t the right word, given that I barely noticed him when I turned the corner and nearly ran him over. I decided to stop and see if he knew where I could get some gas.

“Hi,” I said awkwardly. “Sorry to bother you and all, but do you happen to know where the closest place for me to fill up would be?”

He took off the baseball cap that had been covering his entire face, looked me up and down, and sighed. For about a minute, neither of us said a word. I wasn’t sure what to do other than put my hands in my pockets. Then he asked, “Where you comin’ from, chica?”

“Everywhere and nowhere,” I said with a chuckle, only to be met with more silence. I cleared my throat. “I was checking out the Bold Coast. A friend of mine said this was the place to be.”

“Is that right?” He glanced around at the empty street, and then at himself—sitting in a lawn chair, a can of beer in hand, in the middle of the road. “Guess you found it. C’est la vie, chica.”

We shot the bull for a few minutes before he told me I’d have a hard time finding a gas station around here. “Closest place is gonna be Machias,” he said. “15 miles west, give or take.”

I thanked him and went on my way. The yellow fuel light had come on, which meant time was of the essence. The drive more or less consisted of highways and coastline, with the occasional detour down a country road. One of the biggest differences I noticed while driving through New England was the lack of billboards. Instead of being bombarded with advertisements, you’re confronted by rolling hills, birch trees, and all things green and untamed. Somehow, I made it to Machias with a couple of miles to spare. The gas station was right on Main Street, and across the road sat Machias River General. After filling up, I decided to check it out.

It was essentially a general store with a gift shop attached to it. I browsed for a little while, eventually coming across the travel-information section—a huge wall covered in pamphlets, brochures, and maps. I found one for the Bold Coast, the same stretch of Maine I had just spent the afternoon exploring. Even though I already had a map of Washington County, I took one anyway to add it to my collection. I think the little pamphlets and brochures you get at different destinations serve a purpose beyond simply guiding you through a place. They’re more like keepsakes—tangible reminders of where you’ve been.

I left the store and stopped at a café nearby to charge my phone. When it finally had enough battery to turn back on, I found a handful of missed calls and messages from Sunny. I gave her a quick buzz to see where she’d ended up.

“Jordan,” she said immediately upon answering. “I’ve been so worried about you! I’m sorry for leaving you in the dust. Terry actually showed up not long after I called you. He managed to hitchhike all the way here from Bangor, which is a story in itself. The man showed up with no water, no food… Jordan, he didn’t even have any shoes on. Apparently he walked the last two hours barefoot after leaving them near some swimming hole. I told him we had to wait for you, but I didn’t expect him to show up with literally nothing, so we ended up driving back into town to get some supplies. Long story short, the guy who sold Terry his new hiking boots—his name’s Sal—got to talking about this indie music festival happening in the White Mountains, and, well, we decided to book it. Listen, I know I kind of ditched you, and I’m sorry, but would you want to come meet us? Could you get here by tomorrow morning?” 

I looked out at the streets of Machias. They were busier now, and the town had taken on a different energy than it had when I first arrived. It’s always so bittersweet—leaving a place just as it begins to feel familiar. You spend a few hours somewhere, sometimes a few days, and then you’re already thinking about the road ahead.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I mean, really, it’s no problem. And yeah, I think so. Yeah. I’m on my way.”