A Special Guest

Before a walk in Cathedral Woods. Before I head out to the rocker on the front porch to drink a cup of morning coffee and munch on a blueberry muffin, Mike calls out to me. “Come look at this.”

A pheasant has come to call—very exotic looking, with a head the colors of Christmas. But his beautiful tail feathers are gone, and it is definitely a HE not a SHE. If this bird could talk I feel a tale of woe would be told.  I expect him to fly away with Michael and me both standing here. He stays, cautiously exploring the terrain.

Dressing for Success

Donning my walking shoes, I am ready for any weather this morning.  Mud spattered jeans for walking muddier trails.  Tank top. Lightweight knit jacket. Heavyweight sweatshirt—purchased at Wal Mart in Rockland. It sports a picture of a lobster with the words MAINE EST. 1820.  I have owned it for five-and-a-half days and worn it every one of those days. I expected Maine to be cool—not cold.

Walking toward trail #11—Cathedral Woods—walking sticks in hand, camera phone in my pocket, better camera slung around Michael’s neck and backpack secured, we almost look like we know what we are doing.  But alas, there is no one around to appreciate how prepared we are.  Also, I think I am the only one who walks these trails that reads the instructions.

 As elsewhere in New England forests, there are mosquitos and poison ivy along trails.  Avoid such nuisances by wearing long pants and socks, and use insect repellents. Wear sturdy shoes fit for walking on rocky surfaces, over ledges, through wooded areas and into mud.

Many of the individuals we meet on the trails are tank-topped, khaki-shorted, and barely-sandled. We even saw one woman in a short chiffony looking skirt hiking into the woods with her Bermuda short clad significant other. These individuals, among other things, are young, sure-footed and lithe. Well, none of those things are me. I have been breaking bones and spraining muscles since I was four years old. But, I am prepared.

Manana

Passing through the tiny village center, walking toward the trail that leads to Cathedral Woods, all is quiet. Wispy tendrils of fog still cling to the island of Manana casting it in a cloak of mystery. And mystery does shroud its rocky terrain. A house unfinished. Stories of a long dead hermit. The hermit—a man who was university educated, a veteran of WWI—had a job in the Big Apple, and one day decided to chuck it all. He arrived by sailboat in 1930 and stayed till his death 45 years later. With only a herd of sheep and a gander to keep him company and a small wooden rowboat for transportation. Living in a shack made out of materials that washed up onto the shore. You just have to wonder—what was the straw that broke the camel’s back?

Imagine life unplugged; no television, no cell phone, no e-mail, no radio waves or microwaves…

Just.  Waves.

Cathedral Woods

This is just one of the many things I think about as we trek up the hill and down the road to Cathedral Woods, till finally, we are here.  And I am not disappointed. Stillness. Silence. Solitude. The path is wide and more importantly, DRY, and even though the way is littered with exposed roots and the occasional boulder, my walking stick is hardly necessary. The ground is a spongy carpet of century upon century of dried, decayed pine needles.  I feel I could walk barefoot.

 

Suddenly Michael stops and says, “I think, leprechauns might live here.”

I can’t help but worry he has gone just a wee bit daft, till he points with his walking stick.

I am charmed, “Michael it’s not leprechauns—it’s fairies!” A tiny, miniature dwelling sits tucked away at the base of a tree in the middle of Cathedral Woods.

We walk on and see another.  And another.  And another.  I must take pictures of all of them. Or at least try.  I fail.  We come to a wide clearing and it appears there is an entire village of fairy dwellings.  Michael stands by indulgently, albeit impatiently, while I click away.  Accusingly I tell him, “You have no sense of magic!”

“After a while, magic grows thin.”

“As I said, you have no sense of magic.”

Once More – To the Sea!

After the second clearing and the second fairy village, the darkness of the forest gives way to sunlight, low lying fog clinging to the cold gray cliffs, and the sound of thunderous waves crashing against the rocky coast.  We continue down the trail in search of the blue beating heart of the pounding sea till I am confronted with a long wooden log—a long wooden log that I must walk on to reach the other side.

OK—I can do this.

Safely across, I sit down Indian style and urge Michael to do the same, inhaling the moment as I watch the waves wash in and out of Squeaker Cove.  Ignoring my invitation he tells me, “I’m going over there for a bit.” He walks down a muddy slope, only to walk up another muddy slope so he can reach the broad flat rocks beyond.  I hold my breath and have faith.

All has gone well, I even surmounted portions marked difficult, not realizing that the going was hard. The big problem comes when Michael gives me a choice of which trail to take on our return trip to the village.  The dreaded “1” stands between me and trail #10—Black Head (for the cliff it leads to).  He also points out, as I have mentioned, that we already passed part of the trail marked “difficult” without a problem.

“I can do it,” I say, and off we trudge.

Straight up the “1”

When we have gone too far to turn back Michael points to a towering cliff above us, saying, “Now the problem is we have to get to the top of that.”  In for a penny, in for a pound.  I hold my breath and have faith.

Climbing. Clawing.  Holding.  Praying. I ask, “Are you sure we are on the trail?”

Finally, our toes point inland and I feel better.  However, my hair is damp, my glasses are trying very hard to slide off my nose from intense perspiration, and my stretched out muddy jeans threaten to fall down to my ankles.  I am burning calories from perspiration, exercise and FEAR.

“Michael, I think we are getting too old for this.”

I am down to my tank top—both jacket and sweatshirt tied around my waist. We meet another retired couple on the trail trying to decide what to do.  My single sentence uttered is, “Don’t go on the “1!”

The View from the Sea

A thirty-minute cruise at 2 p.m. takes us around Monhegan. When I see where I perched on the White Head Cliffs on Tuesday and how close the trail was to the edge yesterday, with only a whisper of air between me and the sea, my knees grow weak.  Fear perhaps should not have been the word of the day, but rather — terror.

But the views were heart stopping.

And my heart still beats.