Recently, I had occasion to drive out to western Maine on business. I hadn’t been out that way in awhile, and had never driven the full distance (about 70 miles) to my destination, the Sunday River ski resort. In the past, my husband, Paul, was at the wheel.
So, I felt a little trepidation as I set off. Even though I would be traveling two-lane roads most of the way, there were really only four routes involved. I wrote the numbers down on a slip, and decided to forgo GPS.
Then, 10 miles into my journey, I pulled into a parking lot and set it up anyway. Since I have been known to daydream, I could easily pass a small route sign at an intersection and go miles out of my way before I realized my mistake. But there was no way I could ignore the disembodied voice coming out of my iPhone ordering me to “take the next left!” Plus, my Apple Watch — which is synced with the phone — would vibrate on my wrist at every instruction. Yes, this was the way to go.
Soon I was out in the countryside. I knew the first 30 miles or so well, so I was able to enjoy the scenery. But then I entered more unfamiliar territory, and the roads were getting narrower. I was alone sometimes for 10 minutes at a stretch, which was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it was a relief not to be dealing with trucks who were too big and fast for these rambling roads, as well as tailgaters. On the other, I worried that if I went off the road, no one would find me for hours.
That was a ridiculous thought. If I had been going up Route 201 to Quebec City, where the only sights for miles on end are solitary logging trucks, then I might have had something to fret about.
I noticed I was driving over rolling hills. It was not the most scenic time of the year to be driving in Maine. The foliage was gone and the snow had yet to arrive. Yet, I saw low mists lying over ponds, a lovely sight. Then I smelled something burning. I glanced in panic at my instrument panel, but no lights were flashing. Oh, of course. Someone was burning brush. I live in a big town, where you have to jump through hoops to get permission to get rid of your garden waste by conflagration. I know the odor of woodsmoke, but hadn’t smelled burning leaves and tree limbs in awhile.
The road curved sharply around a pond, a pond that was right there next to the road. I then drove through a farming area, and could smell manure. As I passed into Oxford County, I saw signs of rural poverty: rundown houses, yards full of junk, shuttered storefronts.
Soon I was headed toward the mountains. I had to admit they were beautiful. I’ve never been much of a forest, mountains and lakes lover. I’ll take the seashore over them any day. One of my earliest memories has me sitting at a little table in the middle of some woods, eating a jelly sandwich. My father was cutting down trees, and my mother had gone out to the work site to see him. She’d brought the child-size folding table and chair that was usually set up in front on the television so I could watch “Romper Room.” Since then, my relationship with forests has gone downhill. I don’t like mosquitoes. And as far as hills go, I’m not crazy about climbing them.
I guess my idea of a good time is sitting somewhere with a view of the ocean, with a book in hand. That is so much more pleasant.
My husband, Paul, though, loves mountains and woods. I would have to tell him once I returned home that maybe, just maybe, I was willing to give his favorite environs another chance.
As I approached Bethel, I thought I smelled balsam, and then there was a tang of, perhaps, paper mill wafting down from Rumford.
In a final fun moment courtesy of the GPS app, The Voice directed me to take a left and then announced I had arrived at my destination — the Sunday River Brew Pub. Really? I suppose when I set up my route the restaurant had shown up as a “suggestion” and I accidentally selected it. But I also knew that GPS can lead me astray. Recently, I set it to guide me to the Topsham Public Library. It led me toward Bath on Route 196, and when I realized I must have gone too far, I had to circle back through the traffic of downtown Brunswick.
I continued back toward Bath with extra vigilance, but could not, for the life of me, see the turn I needed — the road the library is on. I finally parked and called the library for directions, which sent me through a warren of side streets. Unbelievably, I only arrived a few minutes late for my meeting.
The GPS led me straight out of the library parking lot to Route 196 a few hours later, and I realized that The Voice had led me astray on one important point. The road the library is on does not directly connect to Route 196. I had needed to turn onto another road first.
Well, at least it didn’t dump me into the Androscoggin.
Meanwhile, back in Newry, The Voice was exhorting me to turn around and go back to the pub, completely ignoring the fact that it wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet. She apparently turned herself off, which was fine with me, as the road to the resort was clearly marked, and I couldn’t miss the peaks that rose around me.
Finally, I reached my true destination. I got out and smelled the fresh mountain air. Ah, yes, it was definitely worth the trip.
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