Penobscot Narrows Bridge

 

August 4, 2014 — With two boys in tow, we have planned activities to keep them busy. Today’s adventure is a combination of the Penobscot Narrows Bridge and close by Fort Knox. That should wear them out and entertain — I think. But standing here at the base of the tower of Penobscot Narrows Bridge I’m not sure just which of us is going to be worn out first. The tower is tall.  Very tall.

I am only slightly on the bad side of acrophobia, and I am the only one not excited about walking to the top of the 420′ gray cement structure before us. The remaining two adults and two grand-kids are ready to ascend.  Not me. And I am married to an individual that rises to any towers challenge. Bell tower. Viewing tower. Monument tower. Church tower. Clock tower. Light house tower. A tower just because it is a tower tower. Heather tells me it is great exercise. Michael talks about the time we tried climbing the Bunker Hill Monument, but had to turn back because it was too hot and too claustrophobic.  We are in Maine—it is not hot.  But the tower — the tower appears totally claustrophobic.  One can only hope.

An Elevator to the Rescue

Walking around the tower base and through the door I am more than excited when I see an elevator—the fastest elevator in Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont the guide tells us.  My legs and lungs give thanks.  The elevator stops and we have three more stories to climb. Not really a big deal — I did this daily in Montreal.  The five of us reach the top and I am surrounded by glass.

The tower is still tall.  Too tall.  My knees turn to jelly.  My insides clench.

I am not unhappy when it is time to leave.

Fort Knox

When the waitress last night kept telling us we must visit Fort Knox, I thought perhaps we were in Kentucky by mistake, or perhaps she forgot she had moved to Maine, or she got the name of the fort wrong.  Located on the west bank of the Penobscot River in Prospect, Maine it stands before us in all of its granite-gray stone-clad glory.

Fort Knox is one of the best-preserved military fortifications on the New England seacoast, has many unique architectural features and a rich history behind its walls. During the United States infancy, Maine was repeatedly involved in border disputes with British Canada. In fact, the area between Castine and the city of Bangor was invaded and occupied by the British during the American Revolution and the War of 1812. Fort Knox was established in 1844 to protect the Penobscot River Valley against a possible future British naval incursion.

This place is solid; perhaps Roman Coliseum solid. It is a warren of dark passageways. Stairs go forever down leading to wide open air batteries, or to more dark stairs that reach forever upward and lead to extremely long dark hallways — and only sometimes to the occasional open-air space.  But these, the open air spaces, do not attract—at least they do not attract the group of young, old and older individuals that travel with me.

A Long Dark Passage

It is in the first of the shortest long dark hallways that Kevin and Owen (urged on by their mother) think it would be hilarious to scare me.  There is nothing like traversing a truly dark tunnel with seemingly solid walls on both sides, and then to suddenly have little goblins make LOUD frightening sounds from an opening you don’t know is there as you pass by. Much to their glee, they receive the appropriate reaction from me.  They cannot keep from laughing. And laughing. And laughing. I myself am not necessarily laughing.

Somewhere along the way we lose Michael; in one of the open spaces or long dark tunnels. We are not sure which.

I slowly follow one tall female and two short male adventurers, lighting the way with the flashlight app on my cell phone.  Of course I continue to lag behind, picking my way carefully along the uneven floor. We meet up with a young couple searching for the center of this labyrinth.  The young woman was here many years before, and she talks about tapping on barrels, only to hear ghostly tapping in return. They want to find this ghostly inhabited portion of the fort.  My three intrepid companions are all too willing to join the hunt.

Michael is still missing.

We pass by dank dark dungeons, when, not surprisingly, Owen leans back thinking a solid wall is behind him and falls on his small unpadded butt. There are more theatrical moans and groans.  Kevin laughs.  Finally, we break out into the open, finding the center, lying not in the dark damp recesses of the fort but rather in the shimmering sun.

A Ghostly Encounter

Michael appears from nowhere, and I watch from afar as he and Heather are deep in conversation.  Suddenly Heather leads the boys in one direction, Michael walks the opposite way, descending some stairs along the perimeter; into the depths once again.

Now I see Heather herding the boys back into the center, urging them to knock on the tops of the underground ghostly barrels.  They knock.  The barrel knocks back.  They knock in a non rhythmic tune—the ghostly barrel replies. They stomp loudly.  The ghost below knocks louder. And on it goes till they tire of the ghost, walking away, heading to the stairs where the food storage barrels are located. Kevin remains behind, just for a bit, and stares at the ground.

I, the perpetual observer suddenly hear a low grumbling, rumbling, growling howl coming from the direction of the stairs. A louder fiercer cry of surprise follows.  Suddenly from a voice I recognize all too well comes a mumbled apology.

“Sorry — wrong person.”

Chuckling to himself, Michael emerges from the stairs. Retelling the story, he and Heather cannot stop laughing. I am surrounded by warped minds.