Trails – The 1 vs The 3

On the East Coast and on the West Coast of the US, the highway with the most scenic views and heart-stopping beauty are both labeled the “1.” It is no different here on the island. Even if you can’t drive it, our highway (trail) around the island is the “1.”  I want the heart-stopping views, I just don’t want my heart to stop while getting there. So this morning at 7:30 a.m. I choose trail #3—Under Hill Trail. The trail map describes it as “a fairly level trail through the woods, gentle incline to Burnt Head. Take Lobster Cove road beyond Trailing Yew and turn left into woods just beyond red house with picket fence.  The trail often has some wet areas.”

Today I am ready for anything. I have my walking stick, putting it to good use as we pick our way around giant boulders. Gnarly tree roots. Standing water.  Quicksand sucking mud.  I cringe the first time I sink into the black slime, placing my foot in just the wrong place.  Based on the fact that we had torrential rains yesterday, there are wet areas indeed!

The day trippers not yet arrived, we have the entire path to ourselves. However, I feel like we walk the trail less traveled. At times it is so narrow and so overgrown it is hard to see the way, if not for the snaking dip between the trees.

The “3” finally brings us to the “1,” the moderate “1,” but just for a few feet.  I look ahead and tell Michael, “I think we reached the hard part.”

Burnt Head

I check the map and there is a long series of miniature triangles–meaning difficult–jeering at me. Daring me to get to the sea.  I eschew the dare, searching for the 1A.  The 1A may not be difficult—as in dangerous—but it has its own hazards.  Muddier, rockier, rootier than the “3.” We stumble along until the world of the crashing surf of Burnt Head opens before us. And we embrace this world. Who wouldn’t? After a while, the lone artist from South Carolina that has been painting the southwest view of gull cove packs up his easel and leaves. The couple who came and sat for five minutes follow suit.  Our embraceable world is all ours.

To the Lighthouse

After a long, long time we decide to turn our toes toward town, and just in time. The hordes have arrived and they are all marching uphill.  After a while, the path we take is wide and flat and DRY. Almost a highway in comparison to our earlier trek.  It leads past the lighthouse where one of the local artists has set up a plein air class for his students. We snag a bench and look at the city view before us. I search for our house, letting the church steeple be my guide, and find it tucked in the trees way off to our left.

A Farmer’s Market

At 10:40 a.m. we arrive at said church where the weekly farmers market will open at 11:00.  People are gathering, but we feel we have time to run home, shed our muddy shoes and get back to make our purchases.

Once again at the market, I am clean and refreshed and the gong still hasn’t rung.  We have time. However, people make a solid sixteen-foot line, four deep, waiting to be first to grab their coveted prize.  I hear the head farmer(?) say in the softest of voices to the crowd, “Now before I ring the bell I want to tell you that next week there will be much more of everything. So don’t be greedy. Leave some for others.”

Michael figures we are being greedy just being there, so even though the produce is pristine and perfect we make our way down to Brackett’s General Store to purchase some of their good, but less than perfect, produce. I have found there really is nothing better than a carrot or an onion just pulled from the ground, or lettuces just cut, or a lobster fresh from the sea.  But all that is for another day another time.

Lunch at the Fish Shack

It is a little after eleven and we are starved.  Dodging all of those rocks and ascending and descending those trails have taken their toll.  Michael asks, “What do you think of a lobster roll for lunch?” Silly silly question.  At 11:30 when the Fish Shack opens their doors he is first in line, and I have secured the best table; a little shade, a little sun, the rocks and water at our feet.

Lupine Gallery

We part ways.  I head for the Lupine Gallery to buy some canvases and Michael heads home with his fresh scallops and vegetables for tonight’s dinner.

Art supplies are a sideline for the gallery, the main reason for its existence is the art, so I have to check it all out. I am taken with a painting titled Flight—a study in serenity and freedom. I look at all of the other paintings and circle back around to Flight.  I pick up three canvases and head for the register.  Walking out the door, I stop, turn around, go back and look at Flight one more time.  My heart speaks for me, “I’d like this painting.”

I walk out the door a little richer.

Back at the Ink Spot

Climbing the worn wooden steps that lead to Grandma’s house, a.k.a. Ink Spot, I crawl up the narrow green stairs to our warm attic bedroom and read and nap the afternoon away.

This evening we sit on the north side of our wraparound porch looking toward the harbor, mellow with Spanish wine and Mike’s seared scallop dinner. I listen to the crashing surf and the cry of gulls behind me.  Clouds drift overhead. Gosh, it’s beautiful. Monhegan thy name is tranquility. I count myself fortunate to know you.