To Chewonki ... and beyond

Tal and I have looked forward to canoeing the Allagash for several months now -- for the legendary white pines, for the challenage of serious physical activity, for getting to know a new group of people -- well, for lots of reasons. And, I like to travel, pretty much for travelling's sake, truth be known. With Hester's death I added another hope after we wiped our tears and waved goodbye to Bill: that the primitive nature of the Allagash Wilderness Waterway and the Maine North Woods will provide space for quiet and memory and for grief and gratitude.

We left Saturday Cove after breakfast this morning for the one and a half hour drive to Wiscasset and to find Chewonki, sponsor and coordinator of our trip. We did the "duffle shuffle" (getting our things out of our own luggage and into dry packs), met and had lunch with our two guides -- Alana and Colin, both from Maine, and three of the five others in our Road Scholar group -- Alice from Williamsburg VA and Kathleen and Dave from near Ashland VA, loaded up and at 2:00 set out in a 12-passenger van with canoes following along behind. (Pictured here is Tal double-checking the canoe straps.)

At a Dysarts truck stop in Bangor we rendezvoused with our final two group members, a father and son -- Ron and Eric, Ron from Maine and Eric from Idaho. Although at a little after 4:00 we were officially together and on our way, it wasn't until we left I-95 at Medway/East Millinocket and headed into Maine's interior that the remoteness of what we were about to do began to sink in for me.

It was dusk before we pulled into Chewonki's Big Eddy Campground on the Golden Road (which runs from Millinocket to the Canadian border and is the most active logging road in New England) and the West Branch of the Penobscot River, just outside Baxter State Park. It was there that we learned to pitch out tents and had our first meal cooked over a fire -- both activities accomplished in the dark. Now I understand why headlamps, rather than flashlights, were so highly recommended on our equipment lists ...

An end

When the hospice nurse arrived this afternoon to see Hester, all the extraneous people vacated the house. Tal and I sat on the back porch with Bill, Hester's husband. It hadn't been ten minutes when Hester's daughter stepped through the door, leaned over, put her arms around Bill's shoulders and whispered, "She's gone."

As ready as he was, as ready as we all were, those two words put the world into a strange wobbly orbit. There were things to do, but for awhile as the nurse boxed up medications, made calls, all the things she was supposed to do at such a time, we simply sat with Hester, around her bed there in that large, bright room overlooking the Penobscot Bay.

Keeping vigil

I am taking my turn at sitting up with Hester, the 2:00 - 6:00AM shift. She is still breathing. Such a labored struggle. While she lives what will probably be her last night, what remains of hurricane Earl has arrived, torrential rain and gusting wind having begun at about 3:00.

This is so hard. Part of me wants to flee. But, a stronger (and better) part wants to keep vigil with this ebbing life. I am struck by the rains outside this snug house, the elemental force of it all, coming in forceful waves, followed by lulls, each phase dramatic in its turn. I am also aware of how similar the elemental forces are which exist in this room, life and death caught up in, twisted in on themselves, in horrible battle. I know full well which will be the victor. The question is when. And, when the time does come and the labored breathing stops, we'll all agree that, while death took a life, it's Hester who ultimately won, dying at home in her beloved Saturday Cove, the soft lights bathing the room in something akin to a holy glow.

Dawn is breaking. The rain and the breathing continue. The scent of brewing coffee is a deep comfort.

Christmas lights

We arrived in Northport today, a relatively easy drive, although long with a few pockets of heavy traffic and of construction work. Fortunately for me, Tal felt like driving, so I was able to navigate us along our way and through various change of route. (There are lots of options for avoiding Boston!) Given Hester's situation, we did not dally at all. We stopped only twice for fuel, both stops at the convenient travel plazas on the toll road/interstates in this part of the world which offer fuel, food, refreshment and probably entertainment, though we didn't seek that out. In fact, we ate in the car as we headed this way, keeping the meal simple ... crackers, fruit and beverage.

The house and location are as I remembered them from my visit two summers ago -- beautiful and welcoming. Hester is heavily sedated, particularly today having been bathed and her bed changed during the morning, a daunting and painful activity. Her hospital bed is in the living room, looking out over the deck to the Penobscot Bay, a view she has long loved. Bill had the clear Christmas lights put back up along the eaves of the back of the house, which softly illuminate the room through the nights, another thing Hester loved.

Seeing her this way is more than difficult. I would not trade being here for anything, though. Of course we had decided that we would only say hello and visit with Bill for a short time and then go on our way. Staying here would be an inconvenience to the family and we would be in the way. Our room, however, reserved for us by Hester and Hester having been clear about it before she slipped into her deep sleep, was ready for us. Stay here we have.

A place in-between

Our first two nights out on this adventure were with my brother and his family. Any tension with which I might have begun the trip vanished in that locale. We drank really good coffee and ate equally good food. We caught up on news of jobs and school. We told stories, were introduced to BBC's "Top Gear" (oh, my!), attended an end-of-band camp performance and even took in the wonders of the local (and massive) Bass Pro Shops. The Mechanicsville hospitality is always rich, warm and genuine.

There's not much to say about our day's travel from Virginia into Connecticut. It was hazy and hot. For most part the traffic was heavy and at one spot rather harrowing, the details of which I'll skip over rather happily. There wasn't much scenery to enjoy along that congested corridor. The George Washington Bridge, for example, is an architectural gem, as are many of the buildings on I-95 just as we entered the city. Even with Tal driving, however, who could actively do any more than notice? A long gaze at anything today, even for the passenger, was completely impossible.

During the Mechanicsville to almost-NYC leg which I drove and then during the almost-NYC to Meridian CT with Tal driving, it crossed my mind to decide inwardly that I do not want to make this particular drive again. Only in the most extreme circumstances do I want to drive to Maine again. It feels too hard and too dangerous. We were enormously grateful to tuck ourselves safely into our room at the Holiday Inn Express in Meridian on the Berlin Turnpike.

Then, I made a telephone call to our friends in Maine with whom we were to stay for three nights before joining the canoeing group, a telephone call that took my breath away. Hester's sister-in-law answered the phone; Hester, who has been battling newly diagnosed cancer, is getting ready to leave this world, the sister-in-law told me. The daughter and grandchildren had arrived. When I talked to Hester only two weeks ago, she was getting ready to welcome the garden club to tour her backyard and she implored us to consider returning for a longer visit after we canoed on the Allagash. Dying? I couldn't and still can't get my mind to cooperate with that thought. I'm trapped in an in-between place, stuck with Hester's invitation still fresh in my mind and Kay's very terrible news trampling all over my heart. Melodramatic, I know, but it's true in this moment.

Is it Eden?

Tal and I left home on Monday morning, September 30th. The first twenty miles of a 1200+-mile drive to Maine was in the wrong direction -- in order to drop Whitby and Belle at All God's Creatures where they will board while we are away. We have been preparing to make this trip for weeks and weeks, even months -- reading about the Allagash River, consulting maps of the Allagash River, collecting the requisite gear to spend eight days in a canoe and a tent on the Allagash River. I still can't quite believe what we have set out to do.

Over the years Tal and I have been married we have enjoyed travelling together, so the getting ready aspect is not unknown to us. We actually have a rudimentary checklist to ensure that the mail gets stopped and the hot water heater turned off. The process this time, though, was distinctly and pleasantly different in one primary way: I did not experience the usual intense panic leading up to our departure. There was no newsletter to finish; there were no last minute meetings to attend; I didn't have with me as we pulled out of the drive a list of notes to write and calls to make on the first day. I've not been gainfully employed for over two years and it's taken that long for me to clear the schedule and conclude a backlog of expectation.

Now, I didn't leave our home precisely the way I'd envisioned -- all the towels washed and freshly hung, Tal's truck clean (that'll be the day ...), the grass edged, the depleted pantry in order ... It's excessive expectation, I know, but I always want to leave home in perfect order. That's partly so I can walk back in and find it perfect, I realize. But, I also think, at least in part, there is some dim but persistent memory of Eden in all of us. From how I want to leave home as Tal and I depart on a trip to humanity's sense of fairness (and how we think things ought to be along with our restlessness and anger when they are not) -- maybe all that springs from the imprint of Eden on the collective conscience.

Well, I said maybe ...

A sunny day

We are in camp after a not-to-long paddle from Round Pond to Five Finger Brook. The campsite is another beautiful spot, sitting on a bluff overlooking a pretty and fast stretch of water where a number of streams run into the Allagash.

Here Tal and Alice enjoy the bench overlooking the river and some conversation prior to the beginning of supper preparations.

It has been a storybook day. The rains ended after the camp went to bed last night. That campsite on Round Pond was a quiet as all the rest, save the occasional sound of an occasional high-flying jet. And, since I was sleepless initially, I heard an eerie and beguiling chorus of loons. At one point, an owl, way in the distance, joined in. What a privilege to be here.

Tal and I got up at 2:00 to walk to the outhouse and saw the heavens aglitter with stars from horizon to horizon and reflected on the surface of the water. Utterly magnificent. I suppose that sight puts a person as close to pure worship as is possible -- that sudden intake of breath, the whispered, "oh, look!"

By 6:00, when the camp began waking, the place was completely socked in with fog. Only the edge of the water proved that Round Pond was out there. We had breakfast, broke camp and were on our way shortly after 9:00 into a clear, sunny day -- our first since setting off on this journey along the Allagash.

I took this photograph while everyone was breaking camp and the last of the fog rolled away.

Our route took us through the Round Pond Rips and the Musquacook Deadwater. Much of it was tranquil, even serene -- and, again, all river with one emerging view after another around every turn. In addition to memorable vistas, we saw two moose -- a cow and a bull; several eagles, two of which kept their tree-top positions as we paddled by, another escorting us for quite a distance along the river's route; many geese and mergansers. The bull moose gave a memorable performance. His rack was so wide that when he decided he didn't like the looks of five approaching canoes he had to trot a rather long distance in the shallow water at river's edge until he found an opening in the thick growth to get the antlers through. We all watched his every move until he melted into the woods.

The wind -- a headwind -- picked up well into the paddle, turning our transport into work. I am very sore, but am holding my own. The wind caught us once in a tight maneuver and we ended up hung on a rock, a position from which Alana had to free us by physically pulling us backward, lining us up with the water's flow and turning us loose. We ended up riding that rapid very well. The sunshine did help.

I've been in the water since arriving in camp. Cold and moving water. I resisted, trying to talk myself out of the frigid plunge and a freshly wet swim suit, but in the end concluded today likely to be my only chance in this lifetime to swim in the shadow of Musquacook Mountain. I had to decide quickly. Before the glorious sun fell below the ridge. Burrrr and whoo ha!