Cutler Coastal Preserve
Tourists usually stop at Acadia National Park about halfway northeast (well, "downeast" is the actual term) along the Maine coastline, eat well in Bar Harbor, drive the heavily trafficked park roads. They might hike some of the trails, bike some carriage roads, picnic on Sand Beach. But, if one continues on even more east, a little bit north, the traffic slows. Yes, there are other Maine attractions along highway 1. The coastline, however, gets more wild. More primal. The small towns are working towns for the most part—lobster cages stacked on front lawns. Working boats in harbors.
Tourists usually stop at Acadia National Park about halfway northeast (well, "downeast" is the actual term) along the Maine coastline, eat well in Bar Harbor, drive the heavily trafficked park roads. They might hike some of the trails, bike some carriage roads, picnic on Sand Beach. But, if one continues on even more east, a little bit north, the traffic slows. Yes, there are other Maine attractions along highway 1. The coastline, however, gets more wild. More primal. The small towns are working towns for the most part—lobster cages stacked on front lawns. Working boats in harbors.
Even farther downeast, out of East Machias, along Rt 191, is the small village of Cutler, and its public preserve with five backcountry campsite areas.
It was the summer of 2016. A short backpack through the Cutler Coastal Preserve public lands out to Fairy Head along the craggy and wild Maine coastline. My post about it remains in the archives of my travels here on the blog site.
As I hug the coastline this summer, I return to the preserve and haul my backpack about two and and half miles along the inland trail, air humid and still. No breeze. Mosquitoes, yes. I think all of the New Hampshire mountain-biters have gone coastal, too. Certainly motivation for continued hiking, even in this heat and humidity, when I really, really, want to take a break, hydrate, let my heart rate slow, and my body cool a bit. I should have bathed in DEET before heading onto the trail. My eco-friendly version of bug spray lacks the bite-back needed.
Once I reach the Black Point cut off trail, I am pretty much home free. Only .6 mile to go to the cove, where I plan to camp for two nights.
It was the summer of 2016. A short backpack through the Cutler Coastal Preserve public lands out to Fairy Head along the craggy and wild Maine coastline. My post about it remains in the archives of my travels here on the blog site.
As I hug the coastline this summer, I return to the preserve and haul my backpack about two and and half miles along the inland trail, air humid and still. No breeze. Mosquitoes, yes. I think all of the New Hampshire mountain-biters have gone coastal, too. Certainly motivation for continued hiking, even in this heat and humidity, when I really, really, want to take a break, hydrate, let my heart rate slow, and my body cool a bit. I should have bathed in DEET before heading onto the trail. My eco-friendly version of bug spray lacks the bite-back needed.
Once I reach the Black Point cut off trail, I am pretty much home free. Only .6 mile to go to the cove, where I plan to camp for two nights.
In 2016, I took the inland trail all the way to Fairy Head at the southernmost part of the preserve, then day hiked back along the coast’s edge to Long Point Cove, about half way between Fairy Head and Black Point Cove. This section at Black Point is new to me, and I stumble upon a secluded camp spot among the several legal sites to set up a tent. A make shift board on two rocks as a viewing bench through a couple of pine trees towards the ocean. A fire pit, although, I have no intention to use it. And just enough of a flat area for my solo tent. From my bench, a small path winds down through the pines, through coastal roses and low juniper, onto the craggy rocks. The wild ocean breaks its waves at the cliffs below the piled spires of rocky shore. The wind is up and blowing, all the better—mosquito respite.
The ocean breathes its waves in and out, in and out, against the beach of Black Point Cove. It breathes its gentle lapping onto polished stones, but, at the cliffs, outside the protected cove, angrier waves thrash themselves at the rocks, taking back any aggregate loosed. The salty breath folds in onto itself, gaining momentum, preparing for the assault. Thunderholes funnel the ocean thrashes up through any orifice available. Salty spray spits up and over the cliffs and into protected tidal pools nested in the nooks and crannies of the rocky jags.
Seagulls circle above the lobster trap buoys scattering the shoreline waters. In the early morning, a sole lobster boat motors through the maze of buoys, attending to its own traps.
Not much civilization here. Nothing tamed but the lobsterman. The Atlantic ocean pours itself into the mouth of the Bay of Fundy, finishes lapping at the borders of Maine in the United States, and the flow north into maritime Canada.
When on Fairy Head in 2016, I wrote, in a poem, a line that says: I lay down my spine against igneous stone, to bond rock to bone.
This is what is offered here—the fusing of what has been too tamed, and that which needs to stay wild. I come here to remember, to course-correct, to find myself eroded by the water, the wind, the mosquitoes. And because of it all, I sleep well, protected from blood-sucking insects by netting. Okay, a wee bit of the tamed is welcome.
Seagulls circle above the lobster trap buoys scattering the shoreline waters. In the early morning, a sole lobster boat motors through the maze of buoys, attending to its own traps.
Not much civilization here. Nothing tamed but the lobsterman. The Atlantic ocean pours itself into the mouth of the Bay of Fundy, finishes lapping at the borders of Maine in the United States, and the flow north into maritime Canada.
When on Fairy Head in 2016, I wrote, in a poem, a line that says: I lay down my spine against igneous stone, to bond rock to bone.
This is what is offered here—the fusing of what has been too tamed, and that which needs to stay wild. I come here to remember, to course-correct, to find myself eroded by the water, the wind, the mosquitoes. And because of it all, I sleep well, protected from blood-sucking insects by netting. Okay, a wee bit of the tamed is welcome.