John Edwards at a New Hampshire town meeting

Dateline Conway, New Hampshire.

Turtle is now famous!

The presidential primary season is in full swing here in the North Country. As sure as the leaves turn in the White Mountains, the presidential hopefuls flit and flutter around the state like the last butterflies of summer. Only one of them will leave the state before the first killing frost.

Young idealistic men and women rush to and fro, Blackberries and laptops busy gathering crowd reactions, updating schedules, spinning the press, then it’s on to the next town meeting. Locals come out of passion or curiosity, or maybe for just an excuse to get together with town folk of the same general persuasion.

We were working in the lovely Conway library (they know how to keep historic buildings alive around here) when Claire noticed a poster announcing that John Edwards was due to greet the voters in a couple of hours. We arrived in time to squeeze Turtle into a small spot, stern hanging over the grass, in the nether regions of the lot of a church converted to arts center and community meeting hall. We were about the last to be let in, due to fire codes, and just in time to enjoy a half hour of rousing bluegrass before the arrival of the former vice presidential candidate.

The arrival was a modest kind of thing, but everybody stood up, John Edwards shook hands and gave a few hugs on his way to the stage, He wasted little time getting into the stump speech he gives several times a day. His delivery was impassioned and natural if by necessity canned. Then he took questions, some of which were a challenge to his positions, and he seemed to handle them well.

He would certainly be an improvement on our current President in his ability to use the English language, but then almost anyone would win that contest. He touched on all the hot button issues, and made comparisons with the two opinion poll leaders, Obama and Clinton. I found common ground with him on the healthcare, the Iraq war and most environmental issues, but disagreed with him on strong support for unions and being opposed to a revival of nuclear power.

Not that it matters. I don’t vote in New Hampshire, and if I were voting here, I would be voting in the Republican primary. but, probably not, I don't vote with people who have been calling themselves Conservatives the last couple of decades. I like Ike, and Goldwater. Things have gone downhill since Reagan; just the opinion of an old Johnson hating Goldwater Republican, turned independent in recent years.

Nice haircut.

The crowd ranged from working people, a few loggers, a lot of older people and not enough young people. The media, particularly the electronic media, were beginning to get that bored look of people too long on the same story. God help them. They’s a long road ahead.

Outside, he paused to give the poor working stiffs of the print media a chance to ask a few questions. Goodness, what have we here: intelligent, carefully worded questions of import, unlike the, no-surprise-here sound bite questions asked by the electronic guys. I worked ever so briefly, ever so many years ago, in both media, and I don’t remember there being such a difference between talking heads and reporters. But I digress.

The big news is that Turtle, our little home on wheels, served as the backdrop for this final press conference of the evening. Now he can say he was present in politically historic New Hampshire the night the tide changed for, What’s-his-name; or not.

Waiting for the color to change in northern Maine

Filling water jugs for boondocking at a community spring in Lee, Maine.

Mount Katahdin with just a touch of color.

Rapids on the Penobscot River with Mount Katahdin.

Last days at the Camp. Last cruise on South Twin Lake.

Japan?

Down East Maine, Ya caaan't geet theah from heah."

Down East (east of Bar Harbor by my reckoning) gets quiet after Labor day. The locals come out of hiding and enjoy their coast and towns as they were meant to be. They fish off the town breakwater, paint a picture of a local historic building, eat fish and chips, hoist sails and race, play the part of pirates, drink beer of course, and jaw. It's a site to see, it is, and worth the long haul Down East.

This S. Carolina couple have ridden their Harleys to the four corners of the U.S., the Quoddy Head light their final one. (The four corners farthest west, south, east, and north, are in Washington, Florida, Maine, and Minnesota) Bettcha didn't know Minnesota?

Corea harbor.

Eastport doins'

She wasn't painting Turtle.

Eastport, eastern most city in the U.S. Don't tell that to South Lubec, a bit to the east, but it's hardly a city, but then most places Eastport wouldn't be either. It is however, loaded with nice people, and fun loving too.

Pirate battle at Eastport. The good guys won.

This is a locals only spot a few miles out of W. Pembroke. Don't look for it on a map, the roads don't show. You might see it on a tourist brochure, but they don't tell outlanders how to get there. "Ya caaaan't geet theah from heah."

The 22 foot tides (this is near the mouth of the Bay of Fundy) pour over a shoal between an island and shore and make standing waves and whitewater. They call it the reversing falls, and you can see it every 12 hours, give or take, going the opposite way.

It was so loud from our boondock spot a hundred yards from shore, that it woke me at 4am. I managed to crawl out by 5am and make this picture.

We had the place to ourselves. Some things you can't buy: the discovery of something special, and the ability to make it your own for one evening and night, one morning, and a life-long memory. Winter's coming, but not yet.

A Great Mystery

I stood between two men on the Eastport breakwater and watched others pull in mackerel. One of the men was outgoing, talkative, the other silent. The gregarious one was covered with Vietnam War memorial patches, badges and slogans; his participation in the war was obviously the main component of his identity. He was proud, and seemingly undamaged; nice guy.

I could tell nothing about the other man; he looked at the sea and the fish and the gulls, and didn't talk much. Then something happened that told me who he was. The partying "Pirates" shot off their cannon down a ways, as they had been doing at intervals all day. The second man nearly jumped out of his clothes. You'd think he'd been shot. I said, "Man, that thing is too loud!", mostly to make him feel not alone.

He looked at the sea again. "It's okay," he said, "just something about forty years ago." He was a Vietnam Veteran too. But he, who was not wearing his service for all to see, had been the one facing the booby traps, the mines.

Acadia National Park, Maine

Twilight

Joining the crowds after road biking to the top of Cadillac Mountain, about a 1,000 ft climb. When we told curious tourists that we regularly cycle a mountain seven plus times that big in Tucson, their eyes said they thought we were full of it.

The parking lot from the top of the aptly named Precipice trail.

Claire on the Precipice trail; short but brutal.

After the Precipice, we mountain biked the carriage trails built by and for the wealthy. You can still ride a horse or carriage on the well maintained trails with numerous beautiful bridges.

Bar Harbor from the summit of Cadillac Mountain.

Bar Harbor

Huge wild roses grow from sea to summit of Cadillac Mountain.

Thunder Hole. Not much compared to Oregon and Washington blow holes, but obviously very popular hereabouts.

Those darn artists. They make a nice quiet place look so inviting that they end up attracting so many people that the landscape is too full of people to paint anymore! The Hudson River School of painters discovered Mount Desert Island (a dry forsaken place, or a luscious sweet, nobody knows for sure) and took their paintings back to Boston and New York to sell. The rich bought the paintings, and decided it would be a lovely place to take their summer holiday. Soon the quiet farming and fishing villages played host to the “cottages” of the fabulously wealthy of the golden era of capitalism. Then the merely wealthy came to huge “rustic” hotels, and the place has never been the same. Changing antitrust laws, (that Teddy Roosevelt!) and a handful of preservationists, led to large donations to land, and eventually the Federal Government created the first National Park east of the Mississippi in 1919. It is a very heavily visited park, but you only have to walk a few hundred feet into the forest to get your little bit of silence, and it is even possible to have an unshared stretch of rugged shore to yourself as sea birds and lobstermen make for shore in the gathering night. From tidepool to sub alpine it is well worth the visit, if you’re ever Down East.

I'm playing with another blog with limited success. However, with Edwina Dale's help I'll get it, when I have time from all this playing and working with Claire.

http://newbohemiansnet.spaces.live.com/

It's a bit sloppy now. I like some of the features, but it's a bit obtuse. I will persevere.

bob