Parking in Vacationland

Summer is finally here in “Vacationland,” right on the heels of mud season and blackfly season. That’s a clue to the vacationers who may have stumbled upon our magazine to where this column is headed. The sum total of Maine is more than the stunning beauty found from June through August and I’ll throw in October for the leaf peepers. It’s not all sunny days, and quaint fishing villages and lobster boats and lighthouses and vivid foliage. We residents have eight other months to contend with up heuh.

I was like many of you vacationers “from away” at one time. My family rented a cottage on Mount Desert Island in the town of Hall Quarry. If you are ever on scenic Sargent Drive in Acadia National Park, look across Somes Sound for a small cottage perched on a point all by itself—that’s the one. My family rented it for two weeks every summer for over 20 years starting when I was 10 years old. That stretch ended abruptly when the owners entered retirement and made it their permanent summer residence. We were all stunned since we had assumed a sense of ownership after so many years. The best times of my life were spent during those two weeks every summer: digging clams with my brothers and sister at low tide; casting off the sloping granite and reeling in mackerel at high tide; snorkeling the coves looking for starfish and crabs and the occasional lobster; daily scavenger hunts to comb through the flotsam and jetsam that had washed up onshore; climbing Acadia Mountain that loomed behind the cottage to a cave we discovered three-quarters of the way to the top. So, in essence, I fell in love with Maine at a young age as have many of you.

I was spellbound by those Maine summers, so when it came time to start my own family, along with my need for fishing and hunting opportunities (and a house we could afford), Maine was the obvious choice. I arrived 21 years ago to a dilapidated farmhouse in a rented U-Haul filled with furniture, a flock of laying hens, a golden retriever puppy, a 2-year-old daughter, and my long-suffering wife. I found out soon enough that Maine isn’t exactly as depicted in the pages of Yankee magazine. As charming and delightful as it can be from late spring through fall, it’s equally as dismal during the winter, especially what I call the “death zone” of January through March. Forget any illusions that Maine residents get used to the cold and snow. It’s just not true. Those that can afford it go on vacation during the winter to Florida, and those who don’t can’t afford to.

Before the Maine slogan “The way life should be” triggers you to pack your bags and head north (I’m talking well north of Portland), let me dole out a little advice from a transplant, a flatlander. First of all, inhaling your first breath within the confines of the Maine border will not make you a “Mainer.” In the small town where I live, you need at least three generations of family before you, and that will be made clear to you often. It won’t matter how long you’ve lived here or that you start saying “wicked” or that you sell stuff in Uncle Henry’s or that you aren’t afraid to eat tamale; you are not and never will be a “Mainer.” Sorry.

Don’t expect the Welcome Wagon to arrive at your door with casseroles and good cheer, but you can expect the inimitable wave from strangers from the anonymity of their vehicles. Mainers are taciturn and frankly suspicious by nature, but when the going gets rough they will be there for you. Anticipate making less money than you have been but enjoying more freedom and less job stress. Try to assimilate to your town and that means not acting like a dog peeing on its boundaries by putting up No Trespassing signs before the ink on your mortgage is dry. Be civic-minded but don’t join town councils just to try to change things to what you just left. If you own a camp on a pond or lake don’t resist the state installing a boat ramp; those trout jumping out front were likely stocked using sportsmen’s dollars and they deserve access. Maine is a hunter-friendly state still, so don’t call the cops when you see a bird hunter walking with a shotgun or get hysterical about the hyped-up dangers of deer hunting season. You have more of a chance to be killed driving to the corner store than being shot by a deer hunter.

Of course, a lot of the above was written with tongue planted firmly in cheek, but not all. You gain a certain level of respect by living in Maine and rightfully so. It is a rough-and-tumble place not for the faint-of-heart. For the outdoors person it can be a sportsman’s paradise, as it has been for me. So, before you consider a move to Maine, just remember those other eight months.

Brad Eden is an artist, writer, Registered Maine Master Guide, and owner/editor of the online magazine www.uplandjournal.com.