A Ride on the Wild Quiet Side: Exploring Acadia’s Schoodic Peninsula

Posted on September 21, 2015 by Dianne Fallon

Schoodic Peninsula is one of those out-of-the way Maine destinations that provokes conflicting emotions: I want to share its beauty, but also hope it remains off the well-beaten path.

On the warm September day that we visited the Schoodic Peninsula, the ocean was calm. But often Schoodic is a quiet wild place — quiet, in that it receives far fewer visitors than the rest of Acadia National Park — but wild with surf that pounds and crashes on its rocky shores.

The one-way road that hugs the peninsula for about six miles, with its promise of continuous and dramatic ocean vistas, had been calling out to me for several years on my map of Acadia National Park. The lightly-traveled road is known for great biking.

Although Schoodic Peninsula is easily accessed by road, we took the ferry out of Bar Harbor to enjoy the beautiful ride across Frenchman’s Bay. Here, leaving Bar Harbor, with Champlain and Cadillac Mountains in the background

In a small way, the ferry offered an opportunity to time travel, to arrive at Schoodic the way people did for a large chunk of its human history — by canoe and then European-style shallop sloops, in the case of the Abenaki, or by schooners and other vessels, in the case of the small population of 18th and 19th century pioneers who came to this remote peninsula to work the land and the sea.

Before heading out on the Loop Road, we rode into the village of Winter Harbor to fuel up on breakfast goodies and coffee at the Raven’s Nest.

After the hour-long ferry ride, we bicycled the mile or so into Winter Harbor to get the lay of the land, then headed out on Route 186 to Moore Road, where the ride to Schoodic Head begins. The road begins as a two-way route but changes to one-way about three miles in, at the Frazer Point picnic area.

Moore Road is named for John G. Moore, a Mainer from nearby Steuben who made a fortune on Wall Street financier and bought up much of Schoodic Point in the 1890s. In 1929, his heirs donated the land that eventually would become part of Acadia National Park.

A new campground, Schoodic Woods, recently opened here and the Park Service has just completed a network bicycle trails that begin on Moore Road and lace through the Schoodic Woods. The trails piqued our interest, but today we were here for the vistas, and continued on towards the Point.

The ride did not disappoint. Although Moore Road begins with a gentle uphill climb, the riding is mostly smooth sailing, especially once the road becomes one-way — easily do-able for recreational bikers, including kids. About three miles in on the one-way stretch, we turned off onto the two-way road to Schoodic Point.

At Schoodic Point, with Mount Desert Island’s Cadillac Mountain in the background. I was so busy absorbing the deep blues of the ocean and the striations of the rocks that I forgot to take lots of pictures. Suffice to say that this photo is one of many scenic vistas along the ride

Legend suggests that more than a few people have lost their lives at Schoodic Point to rogue waves. However, I haven’t found any specifics about such fatalities, so they may be more myth than reality. (In 2007, a Michigan woman drowned while swimming off Schoodic Point — an activity I would not recommend – but she was not swept from the rocky headland by a rogue wave).

Interestingly, according to historian Allen K. Workman, the first known “English” inhabitant was a black man (identified as “mulatto” in the 1790 census) named Thomas Frazer, who came to Schoodic with his wife and seven children and built a homestead before the Revolutionary War at Frazer Point. I wonder what pulled Frazer to this remote region — the opportunity of the sea, or the desire to get some distance from the racism and bigotry common in more populated regions?

Later settlers followed, and then a small population of wealthy summer rusticators, but for 60-plus years in the 20th century, the main inhabitants of Schoodic Point were a transient group — the officers and enlisted men and women of the U.S. Navy (and their families), who lived at a small but strategically important radio signal station base that was decommissioned in 2002. For 67 years (since 1935), up to 774 Navy personnel (at its WW II peak) were stationed here, doing specialized work in signals intelligence and cryptology. Its closing dealt quite a blow to the fragile economy of Downeast Maine.

Today, the former signal station is home to the Schoodic Institute, a non-profit research, education, and arts center supported (at least initially) through various grant programs from the Navy, other government agencies, and Acadia National Park.

Rockefeller's architect built this hall which became quarters for Navy officers. Today, the main floor hosts exhibits and visiting researchers and artists stay in the upper floor apartments.

Grosvenor Atterbury, John D. Rockefeller Jr. ‘s architect who designed the carriage road buildings on Mount Desert Island, also designed this hall at the Navy signal station. The so-called Rockefeller Building became quarters for Navy officers. Today, the main floor hosts exhibits and visiting researchers and artists stay in the upper floor apartments.

We biked through the grounds of the Institute — about 180 acres, including a new auditorium, a dining hall, dorms, town houses, and recreational facilities. The grounds were very quiet. And probably expensive to maintain. One wonders what will become of this facility.

Continuing on past numerous breath-taking vistas, we eventually landed in Birch Harbor, where we took a lunch break at the Pickled Wrinkle, drawn by its quirky name and a hand-posted recommendation inside the ferry cabin. The view here is of the parking lot and a gas station across the street, but after our miles of ocean views, we were okay with that, especially because the food, much of it locally-sourced, was great.

After lunch, we finished up our 12-mile loop with a turn back on to Route 186 into Winter Harbor, where we explored the small collection of shops and galleries, and picked up iced coffee at the Raven’s Nest. The restaurant is named for a dramatic crevice on the peninsula that we didn’t see on our ride, but will find another day.

As we motored back to Bar Harbor on the ferry, we enjoyed close-up views of the islands surrounding Winter Harbor and the peaks of Champlain and Cadillac Mountains. I tried to live in that moment. But I had discovered the Schoodic Peninsula and already was planning my next visit.

Sources and resources

Acadia National Park’s official page offers a good starting point for additional information on Schoodic Point, including a map. Note that as of fall 2015, the map has not yet been updated to show the new campground and network of bicycle trails.

The Bar Harbor-Winter Harbor ferry — a converted larger-sized lobster boat — makes the crossing several times a day from mid-June until mid-September. The free Island Explorer shuttle bus meets the boat and takes visitors around the peninsula, stopping at Schoodic Point and other spots. (The bus includes bike storage racks if cyclists want to take the bus for part of the trip).

Allen K. Workman’s Schoodic Point: History on the Edge of Acadia National Park (History Press, 2014) offers a short well-written account of Schoodic’s history.

Three Hills for Mother’s Day

Posted on May 11, 2015 by Dianne Fallon

I have long wanted to hike to Third Hill, the far outpost of York, Maine’s rangy Mount Agamenticus. Third Hill has a reputation for being challenging to find. I’ve known more than one person who has ended up in South Berwick or other places but not at Third Hill.

But over the past few years, new trail signage, improved trails, and the development of a better guide-type map to Aggie’s trail system have made it much easier to negotiate the region’s many trails.

The 10,000 acres of the Mount Agamenticus Conservation Region, once a mix of sheep pasture, woodlots and farmland, is now the largest tract of coastal forest between Acadia National Park and the Jersey Pine Barrens. I’ve never heard of anyone getting fatally lost in these woods, but for many years, it was (and still is, in places) fairly easy to get annoyingly lost, and end up on an unfamiliar road miles from your car (I’ve been there).

So now, Mother’s Day was here, and I wanted to hike. Husband and son both had extensive work/homework commitments that meant we had to stay local. Thanks to the long cold winter, the leaves hadn’t yet fluffed out. The forest would be light and airy, with plenty of views and open terrain.

A perfect day for hiking to Third Hill.

The Mount Agamenticus map shows a variety of trails leading to Third Hill. The Great Marsh Trail, for example, follows an old logging road from Lower County Road in South Berwick (or to the south, from Old Mountain Road in York), until reaching the junction where a trail climbs to the Hill. We opted to hike from the summit of Mount Agamenticus to Second Hill, and from there to Third, and then backtrack with a slight modification to avoid climbing to the summit of Second Hill twice.

I kept the map handy, because I knew we needed to pay close attention to the many turns and trail junctions (Witch Hazel to Ring to Chestnut Oak to Porcupine to Second Hill to Notch to Wheel to Great Marsh to Third Hill). We misread the sign at one junction and hiked for about a third of a mile in the wrong direction on the Porcupine Trail, but, thanks to the map, recognized the mistake when we saw the Rocky Road trail sign.

The climb up to Second Hill, after turning off the Porcupine Trail. The Butterfly Loop is another trail that climbs along the ridge of Second Hill and through forest, abandoned fields, and along a talus slope. A good option for a future Mother's Day.

The climb up to Second Hill. The Dragonfly Loop is another trail that climbs along the ridge of Second Hill and through forest, abandoned fields, and along a talus slope. A good option for a future Mother’s Day.

After retracing our steps, we followed the Porcupine Trail to the turn for Second Hill, where we had lunch on the ledges and could see the green hump of Third Hill to the northeast.

We then walked along the Second Hill ridge to a short trail connecting to the Notch Trail, which we then followed to the well-marked Wheel Trail, which landed us on the Great Marsh Trail. It wasn’t immediately clear where the trail to Third Hill picked up, but I noticed two hemlocks, one on each side of the trail, marked with little wooden painted owls, almost as if the owls were welcoming us into the woods. Sure enough, a left (northerly) turn through the owls lead to a sign for Third Hill.

A few paces up the trail, a sign warned that trails were not marked further on, as the map also suggests. But to the right, another owl pointed to a path, along with white blazes.

: Don’t be intimidated by this sign!

: Look for the owl, to the right of the scary sign.

Following the owls (and white blazes) uphill, we climbed on granite slabs that felt more White Mountain-ish than back yard.

The final push up to Third Hill.

And we made it, collapsing on a carpet of pine needles on a rock slab below the white pine tree hosting the sign marking Third Hill. We rested in the shade, enjoying complete solitude. Here in our own backyard, home to multitudes, we had the Third Hill summit to ourselves on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

We didn’t have fabulous views at the summit – the 692-foot main summit of Mt. A definitely offers the best views, especially of the ocean – but we also didn’t do extensive explorations of the ledges and little side trails that might lead to views. (We hadn’t planned well, didn’t have enough water, and were conserving our energy).

As we hiked, the day grew increasingly warm, to almost 90 degrees. We finished up our water on top of Third Hill and had to hike back to the Mount A summit (about 2.5 miles) with just a few sips. Our warm-up spring hike became a summer slog, minus the air conditioning created by the oak and beech forest that dominates Mount Agamenticus.

Everyone, including me, wanted to complain, but no one did. It was Mother’s Day, after all, and this was my Mother’s Day hike.

On the way back, I told my son that even though it felt like we might die of thirst, it actually took quite a while for that happen, and we’d definitely make it back to the car, where we had some water, before any of us passed out. (I wasn’t quite sure about the not passing out part, but we did make it back without incident).

All in all, a great Mother’s Day. I reached Third Hill, didn’t pass out from heat exhaustion, and know that the next hike, by comparison, will feel like a breeze. Dragonfly Loop, here we come!

The open forest of white pines on top of Third Hill.

Notes and resources

Update: I’m happy to report that trail signage at Mt. A has improved even more. On a hike in fall 2017, I found the trail to Third Hill much easier to navigate. The gray owls remain a friendly trail marker. I’ve also updated the link to the map (above) and here.

The hike to Third Hill is not a killer hike, but it’s not an easy stroll either, with lots of ups and downs. I estimate that the hike we did is about five miles RT (but maybe it’s a little shorter and it seemed longer because of the heat). It’s a good family hike for elementary age kids and older, but not the youngest set unless they are already hard-core.

The five-mile-ish (one way) Sea to Summit hike, which I’ve written about before, is another great hike in the Agamenticus region.

The staff and volunteers of the Mount Agamenticus Conservation Region have been doing a fabulous job of improving trails, facilities and the other aspects of Mount A and the surrounding conservation land.

A different kind of Groundhog Day: The Candlemas Massacre

Posted on January 30, 2015 by Dianne Fallon

At the Old Burying Ground in York, this undated memorial for the Candlemas Massacre says that the victims were buried “near this spot.” The main attack took place on snowy winter morning on the north side of the York River, about a half-mile downhill.

On January 24, on the morning after Candlemas Day, 1692, the town of York, Maine was burned to the ground by a band of 150 Abenaki Indians. Between 40 and 48 people were killed in the massacre, with an estimated 100 others taken captive and forced to march with their captors to Quebec.

The number of victims killed in the terror attack was nowhere near the nearly 3,000 people who lost their lives on 9-11. But the attacks shared many elements. Both had religious as well as political dimensions. Distant orchestrators stoked the attackers with rhetoric and propaganda. Deaths were gruesome. Fire and smoke enhanced fear and panic. Finally, the emotional impact of the massacre was equal to if not greater than 9-11. If the enemy could mount an attack that destroyed an entire town so close to the center, what else might they do?

View of the York River towards the ocean, in falling snow. A snowstorm on January 25, 1692 helped to conceal the approach of the attackers.

View of the York River looking east. A snowstorm on January 25, 1692 helped to conceal the approach of the attackers as they approached homes strung out along the river. No bridges crossed the river then, and the Abenaki did not attempt to attack homes on the southern side. Other villages of York, such as Scotland and Cape Neddick, also were attacked, but most documentary evidence about the attack concerns the main village (which was the ] focus of the massacre).

According to Christian tradition, Candlemas Day celebrates the day that Jesus, 40 days after his birth, was delivered to the temple by his thankful parents. Like many Christian celebrations, Candlemas Day was built upon the pre-Christian traditions; in this case, the Feast of Light, which celebrated the increased strength of the light and occurred mid-way between the winter solstice and spring equinox. Candlemas Day was the forerunner today’s secular Groundhog Day, which this proverb (and many others) suggests:

If Candlemas Day be fair and bright,

Winter will take another flight;

If Candlemas Day be foul and rain,

Winter is gone and won’t come again.

On Candlemas Day, 1692, a portion of York’s 500 residents (counting outlying villages) likely spent part of the day in the village’s Congregational Church, where the town’s first minister, Reverend Shubael Dummer, might have offered a sermon noting parallels between the presentation of the baby Jesus and the survival of village babies born that winter. We do not know exactly what the minister preached on that Candlemas Day, but according to one source, (cited in Banks) his sermon on the “Sabbath next” before the attack included a prophetic warning to “beware of the enemy,” warningr the Congregation of the consequences if their vigilance abated, as did that of the “careless inhabitants of Laish, preceding the invasion of their land by the Danites, their foes.” Reverend Dummer was probably speaking allegorically — church attendance had declined by the 1690s and people had to be reminded that Satan was still lurking out there — but I wonder if the survivors, after the attack, remembered his words.

Although built in 1707, 15 years after the Candlemas Massacre, the surviving McIntire Garrison, sitting above the York River on Route 91 in York, is similar to the garrisons where some residents took shelter (Library of Congress photo, taken in 1936). The Garrison, now restored, is easy to spot on Route 91 heading towards South Berwick.

York had prospered in the 15 or so years since the conclusion of King Philips War. Since then relations between the Indians and the English had been fairly settled, but up north, goaded by the Catholic-Protestant religious divide and by distant European political events, the French began pouring gas on the fire.

In June of 1691, the Abenaki had attacked the village of Wells, about 11 miles away, but the residents had successfully taken shelter and fought off the attackers in a garrison house. In York, several residents had built garrison houses to which residents could retreat in the event of an Indian attack, but nobody believed that an attack was imminent. No guard was posted.

Samuel Drake’s account of the massacre notes that snow was falling heavily at dawn. Even so, people were out visiting. York was a small town, but not isolated. Thanks to the Piscataqua River highway, travel between York, Kittery and Portsmouth was not difficult (at least by 17^th century standards). Mrs. and Mrs. Theodore Atkinson, with Francis Tucker of Portsmouth, were at Moulton’s Tavern when gunshots pierced the quiet morning and the Abenakis descended upon the village spread out along the river.

The warriors began to systematically break into every home, kill the inhabitants inside, and then set fire to the house. At some point, the killing stopped, and, as Drake observes, “it would seem as if the savages themselves grew weary of the bloodshed.” With the exception of four garrison houses where some managed to take shelter, all of the 18 or 19 houses on the north side of the York River were burned.

Reverend Dummer was shot as he attempted to escape on his horse; he fell onto his doorstep, was stripped naked, and mutilated. His wife Lydia was taken captive along with their young son.

The Candlemas Massacre is remembered today with a mixture of legend and documentation. At the time, the Massacre was the biggest terror attack ever in early New England. Everyone was talking and writing about it, so many accounts exist of what happened

Although the colonial government would not negotiate for the release of hostages, it didn’t stop individuals from ransoming captives. Funds were raised, hostages redeemed. Some, like Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Atkinson, returned to their comfortable home in Portsmouth. Many became refugees, taking shelter in Salem, Massachusetts and other larger towns. Others never returned, either because they died on the winter march, or, in the case of children, were adopted by Indian families.

Another raid on Wells followed that June. The frontier was abandoned and people took refuge in what felt like safer places. But they must have been afraid — if York could burn, was any town truly safe?

Was the Candlemas Massacre terrorism, or a battle in a territorial war? Describing the massacre as terrorism doesn’t negate the reality that the Abenaki had legitimate grievances. English settlements had multiplied along the Maine coast and into the interior of northern New England, threatening their homeland and survival. The colonials, in turn, carried out equally brutal counter-attacks on the Abenaki.

From the Abenaki perspective, I’m sure the Candlemas Massacre was a territorial war, a need to strike hard and dramatically to scare their enemies straight. For the victims, the massacre was pure terror.

After several years, people began to rebuild, on higher ground above the river. A new minister, Reverend Samuel Moody, arrived in 1698, his coming a symbol of the town’s rebirth. Once again, the villagers began to look for the light.

Notes and resources:

A note on dates: The date of the Massacre is sometimes presented as January 24 and sometimes as January 25, (1691-92), on the morning after Candlemas Day, using the old Julian Style calendar. The Gregorian Calendar, adopted in 1751 by an Act of Parliament, pushed the calendar ahead by 11 days (those days being pulled from time in September 1752), so many historians suggest that the Massacre happened on February 5, by today’s calendar. Adding to the confusion is that the same Calendar Act changed the legal start of the New Year from March 25 to January 1. Today, Candlemas Day is celebrated on February 2, 40 days after Christmas.

For more details and sources related to the massacre, see Charles Edward Banks’s History of York, Maine, successively known as Bristol (1632), Agamentious (1641), Gorgeana (1642), and York (1652). With contributions on topography and land titles by Angevine W. Gowen. Sketches by the author. Baltimore, Regional Publishing Company, 1967 reprint of first edition: Charles E Banks, Boston, 1931 [Vol.1], Chapter XXV (287-299). Banks’s account on the massacre synthesizes multiple English and French sources such as letters and diaries.

19th century historian Samuel Drake provides an account of the Massacre in his 1897 book, “The Border Wars of New England, Commonly Called King William’s and Queen Anne’s Wars.”

Emerson W. Baker and James Kences explore the connections between the Candlemas Massacre and the Salem Witchcraft outbreak in their article, Maine, Indian Land Speculation, and the Essex County Witchcraft Outbreak of 1692 Maine History, volume 40, number 3, Fall 2001 (pp. 159-189).

The article serves as the basis for one of the chapter’s in Baker 2014 book, A Storm of Witchcraft: The Salem Trials and the American Experience, which goes into greater detail about connections between the Salem witchcraft outbreak and survivors from the Candlemas Massacre and other Indian raids during King William’s War. Great book – not a fast read, but interesting and very detailed.

Inventing Nature at Acadia National Park

Posted on June 1, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

I love the barren open summits of Acadia National Park on Mount Desert Island, Maine. On Memorial Day, we set out from the Jordan Pond House and completed the 6-mile-ish out-and-back hike to Penobscot and Sargent Mountains.

We started hiking beneath gray skies, just after a shower, but by the time we climbed out of the trees onto the ridge of Penobscot Mountain, the clouds were clearing and the view expanding with each upward step. When we reached the 1,373-foot summit of Sargent Mountain, we breathed in 360-views of a vast panorama: Frenchman’s Bay, the Cranberry Islands, Cadillac Mountain, Eagle Lake, Somes Sound. Black files buzzed around our heads, but couldn’t detract from the awesome experience of these natural vistas. (Below, the view of Jordan Pond on our ascent down Penobscot).

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Samuel de Champlain made this map of the northeastern coast of American on his 1604 voyage.

Mount Desert Island, in this cropped version of Samuel de Champlain’s 1604 map of the northeastern coast of America. (See link at bottom of post to access view of entire map).

However, when explorer Samuel de Champlain “discovered” Mount Desert Island in 1604, he both saw and didn’t see what we see today.

The mountains he described still dominate the view from the bay, but de Champlain was exploring a dark wilderness, full of hidden rock ledges, unknown beasts, and potentially dangerous people. His ship ran aground on a rock that ripped a hole in the keel. Where we see beautiful open summits, de Champlain saw lots of rock, a barren inhospitable desert.

In his description of the island, he wrote, “It is very high, and notched in places, so that there is the appearance to one at sea, as of seven or eight mountains extending along near each other. The summit of the most of them is destitute of trees, as there are only rocks on them. The woods consist of pines, firs, and birches only. I named it Isle des Monts Déserts.”

For the first 18th century European settlers, Mount Desert Island was a desert, an isolated place where hardy families eked out a living from fishing and small farms. But at some point, perspectives changed. The rocky desert became an Arcadia, a version of the ancient Greek district whose name contains layers of meaning, including “idyllic place” and “refuge.”

Mount Desert Island did not change. But our ideas about nature did, largely due to the work of artists who transformed the island from a rocky outpost to a place of inspiration and wonder in which mind, body, and soul could be rejuvenated.

The first to arrive was artist Thomas Cole, the founder of the Hudson River School of landscape painting, who came to Mount Desert Island in 1844, and created several paintings that were widely exhibited in the years to follow. Cole’s pupil Frederic Church followed in his footsteps, making his first trip to the island in 1850, where he sketched and made notes for future paintings. Other artists followed.

Thomas Cole’s “View Across Frenchman’s Bay after a Squall” (1845). Cincinnati Art Museum.

Collectively, at Mount Desert and in other places in the northeastern United States, the Hudson River School of artists invented a new and more romantic concept of nature as a place of beauty, a source of mental sustenance and renewal in the industrial age.

The skies might darken with clouds or twilight, but no longer was the dark a source of uncertainty and fear Instead, the interplay of darkness and light offered another way to view the world’s grandeur. Dangerous surf and forbidding rocks became a source of “the sublime” — that combination of beauty and terror generated by the sight, sound, and feel of a massive wall of water crashing against a cliff.

“Sunset, Bar Harbor,” by Frederic Church (1854). Possibly influenced by writer Henry Thoreau’s essays about travels in the Maine woods, Church returned to Maine to visit the North Woods. He eventually bought property in the Millinocket area, where he painted Mount Katahdin and other landscapes. But that’s a blog post for another day.

Although marketing was not their intention, in reinventing “Nature,” the Hudson River painters who visited Mount Desert created a place that many wanted to visit. In the mid-19th century, newly middle-class “rusticators” began to come to the island. They boarded in locals’ homes, took long walks and hikes, and breathed in the smell of the Atlantic.

Then, during the Gilded Age, the super-wealthy discovered the island, built massive summer homes, and transformed the rocky desert to a high society destination. Eventually, some of those people, led by George Dorr and John D. Rockefeller, Jr., donated large chunks of land so that this natural wonderland could be enjoyed by all Americans and not just a wealthy few. The Park was established in 1919, thanks in large part to Dorr, Rockefeller, and others. But the idea of nature as being worthy of preservation was the creation of 19th century artistic visionaries–the painters, but also writers like Henry Thoreau and John Muir, and photographers like Yellowstone’s William Henry Jackson—who transformed the way we think about nature.

Noted maritime artist Fitz Henry Lane, of Gloucester, Massachusetts, travelled to Mount Desert and to paint this scene, titled “Off Mount Desert,” in 1856. (Brooklyn Museum).

Today students who study the arts (in all of its forms) often have to endure questions about the value of what they are doing. How they will support themselves? When will they stop dreaming and get a real job? After all, the arts are “decoration,” nice if you have the time to dabble, but not essential.

These questions about the value of art are not a new phenomenon. And of course, it is difficult to make a living an artist. But artists and writers, as much or more so than scientists and engineers, are inventing the future as they shape and create ideas.

What ideas are artists, writers, and musicians transforming today?

Note: Take a peek below for examples of how artists continue to follow in the footsteps of Cole, Church, Lane and others today. For more information on another great hike in Acadia, see my paragraph about Mount Dorr via the Homans Path in Five Great Family Hikes in Maine.

Mount Desert III, 1996, by Richard Estes. The Portland Museum of Art is exhibiting a major retrospective collection of Estes' work this summer (2014).

Mount Desert III, 1996, by photorealist painter Richard Estes. The Portland Museum of Art, in partnership with the Smithsonian Museum of American Art, is exhibiting a major retrospective collection of Estes’ work this summer (2014).

For more on the Estes exhibit, see the Portland Museum of Art website.

Artist Philip Koch pays tribute to Thomas Cole and other 19th century landscape painters in his painting, “Frenchman’s Bay.”

To learn more about Philip Koch, see his blog.

Head of Somes Sound, by Ernest McMullen.

For more on artist Ernest McMullen, see The Gallery at Somes Sound.

Additional sources and resources:

Entire de Champlain map of northeastern coast of America, from his 1604 voyage. Champlain quote from Memoir of Samuel de Champlain, Volume II, 1604-1610, Chapter 5.

For more on Frederic Turner’s paintings in Maine (including many in the Millinocket region), see John Wilmerding’s Maine Sublime: Frederic Edwin Church’s Landscapes of Mount Desert and Mount Katahdin. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012.

“Mount Desert Island and Isle au Haut (Modern Acadia National Park, ME)”. National Park Service Archeology Programs.

Mount Desert Island: Shaped by Nature. Maine Memory Network.

Snow babies, seals, and maniacal Arctic travelers: A visit to Eagle Island

Posted on May 23, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

Adventurer Josephine D Peary lived on Eagle Island for more than 50 summers.

Adventurer-author-mother-wife Josephine D. Peary lived on Casco Bay’s Eagle Island for more than 50 summers. (Photo from Josephine Diebitsch Peary Collection, Maine Women Writers Collection, University of New England, Portland, Maine).

Even maniacal travelers need a respite once in a while, if only to plan their next adventures. Eagle Island, in Maine’s Casco Bay, was such a haven for big adventurers Admiral Robert and Josephine Peary.

Admiral Peary, as many know, was credited with being the first person, along with Matthew Henson and other expedition members, to reach the North Pole on April 6, 1909.

Long before reaching the Pole, however, Peary set sail for Eagle Island, which he bought for $100 in 1877, just a few years after graduating from Bowdoin College. There, in the early 1900s, the Pearys built a two-room cottage that eventually evolved into a larger home (but not a mansion). The family spent many summers on the island, which is now a State Historic Site.

In the 1890s, Admiral Peary often was in the news, celebrated (and sometimes maligned) as the great explorer. I do like his motto, “Find a way, or make one” (Inveniam viam aut faciam). But Josephine is my hero, living proof that female maniacal travelers are not a recent phenomenon but have always existed.

Josephine's 19ss memoir described her first year in Greenland, from June of 1891 to August of 1892, when she explored northern Greenland with her husband and his expedition.

Josephine’s 1893 memoir described her first year in Greenland (June, 1891 to August, 1892).

Three years into her marriage, Josephine bucked popular criticism to travel with her husband on his first trip to Greenland. There, living in a cobbled-together house with Peary and five other men, Josephine threw herself into Arctic living: She explored, trapped, hunted, cooked, tanned skins, and created outfits from fur and feature. She also nursed her husband, who had shattered his leg en route to Greenland. Later, Josephine chronicled her adventures in her first book, An Arctic Journal.

On her next stay in Greenland, in 1893, Josephine gave birth to her daughter Marie, soon-dubbed the “Snow Baby” by the Inuit locals and the international press. I have yet to find an account of Marie’s birth, but I imagine that Josephine labored in that cobbled-together shack, probably with with no midwife nearby (although it’s likely that the expedition included a doctor with some basic obstetrical training).

Snow Baby Marie Peary (Library of Congress photo).

Of course, Inuit women had been having babies in the Arctic for centuries. However, childbirth remained a dangerous affair in 1893, and even more terrifying when you didn’t know what to expect because you were living in an isolated foreign land. For Josephine, however, it almost seems as if Marie’s birth was a blessed non-event, just something she did between prepping furs and cooking ptarmigan stew. She later wrote a book about Marie’s first years, The Snow Baby (1901).

All told, Josephine made a half-dozen trips to the Arctic, including one miserable winter spent, with young Marie, on board the Windward, a ship that had become bound in the ice (although not far from shore), in 1901. There, Josephine met llakasingwah, Peary’s pregnant Inuit mistress. Some sources report that Ilakasingwah also was living on board the ship (although that’s not certain). Peary himself was 300 miles away, at a winter camp in Fort Conger. It must have been an especially chilly winter for Josephine.

Back on Eagle Island, Josephine presided over what her son later called the island’s most “momentous event,” the September day in 1909 when the South Harpswell postmaster arrived with a telegram from Peary announcing that he had reached the Pole. Soon a small group of reporters gathered on the island. One reportedly said, “What do you have to say now, Mrs. Peary?”

In what I think of as true Josephine fashion, Mrs. Peary said to the group, “”I say come on boys, let’s have a drink.”

Admiral Peary, on his porch, looking out towards Harpswell Neck, a short boat ride away.

Eagle Island is located about 6 miles from Portland and about 1.5 miles from the end of Harpswell Neck. I visited with my Seal (my son), on Atlantic Seal Cruises, out of South Freeport harbor. The island is a wonderful destination for a summer afternoon. For travelers like me who don’t own a boat, getting there requires some advance planning (see info below), but it’s a trip worth making. The seals en route are a bonus.

First, the island offers incredible views, peaceful walking paths, and that sense of freedom I always feel when visiting a Maine island.

And then there is the Peary home, full of quirky Arctic artifacts and family memorabilia. Narwhal tusks. Various stuffed birds. Photos of angora rabbits from the era when one family member tried to make a go of an island rabbit farm.

Peary designed his home to reflect the lines of a ship, with the library and front porch creating the illusion of a ship's prow/

Peary designed his home to reflect the lines of a ship, with the front porch creating an illusion of a ship’s pilot house. On the second floor of the house, from certain windows, the ocean seems so close that visitors almost feel as if they are on board a ship.

But what I like most about Eagle Island is that Josephine lived there, spending more than 50 summers on the island, from 1904 until her death in 1955. (Admiral Peary died much earlier, in 1920, of pernicious anemia). Ultimately, Eagle Island became more Josephine’s place than her husband’s.

On the island, Josephine read and wrote and rowed and entertained. She picked berries with her grandchildren and taught them how to tie their shoes. During the winters, she lived quietly in a home on Baxter Boulevard in Portland. By the end of her life, she was known more as Grandma than as the intrepid young woman who dared to travel to the far North.

Visitors are encouraged to play Peary family's player piano, which is operated via a set of foot pedals.

Visitors to Eagle Island are encouraged to play Peary family’s player piano, operated via a set of foot pedals.

In 1955, just a few months before Josephine’s death at age 92, the National Geographic Society awarded her its highest honor, the Medal of Achievement.

I imagine it was gratifying, to finally be recognized. On the other hand, I also imagine Josephine shrugging off the honor as “just a little medal.” Nice to have, but not nearly so great as hiking across Greenland’s tundra, or sitting on the porch at Eagle Island, looking out at the blue expanse of Casco Bay.

Sources and Resources

The Friends of Eagle Island have established a website, Peary’s Eagle Island, that provides information about the Pearys and the Island, as well as details on how to get there. Marie L Cruises out of the Dolphin Marina in South Harpswell also offers regularly scheduled excursions to the island.

Josephine’s books are available online (see links above) but also have been reissued in print.

Josephine’s papers and photographs can be found at the University of New England in The Maine Women Writer’s Collection.

For additional information about Josephine, see Patricia Erikson’s articles, with several links gathered together in one place at her blog, Heritage in Maine.

African-American Matthew Henson wrote a memoir about his dash to the Pole with Peary, A Negro Explorer at the North Pole (1912). Many books have been written about Henson, but a revised version of his memoir recently published is Matthew A. Henson’s Historic Arctic Journey: The Classic Account of One of the World’s Greatest Black Explorers (2009).

Finally, I’m well aware that Peary’s claim to have reach the North Pole is disputed by many, although I didn’t get into the details above as my focus here is Josephine. For more on the controversy, see John Tierney’s New York Times column, “Who was first at the North Pole?”

If Eagle Island intrigues you, you might also check out the Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum on the campus of Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. See the Josephine D. Peary biography page for more info on Josephine.

Globalization, circa 1807, curses the Lady Pepperrell House

Posted on May 12, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

The Lady Pepperrell House, apparently released from its curse, on a recent spring afternoon.

Lady Mary Hirst Pepperrell had impeccable taste. So say many sources, but the best indicator is the home she built in 1760 on Route 103 in Kittery Point.

The Lady Pepperrell House is one of Maine’s outstanding examples of 18th century Georgian-era architecture. Its simple clean lines, graceful ionic pilasters, and large windows that flood the home with light invite house envy today. But by the mid-19th century, many said the luxurious house was cursed.

It certainly looked cursed. Writing in the 1870s, historian Samuel Adams Drake described the house as “a somber old mansion, having, in despite of some relics of a former splendor, an unmistakable air of neglect and decay. The massive entrance door hung by a single fastening, the fluted pilasters on either side were rotting away, window panes were shattered, chimney tops in ruins, the fences prostrate. It was nothing but a wreck ashore. This was the house built by Lady Pepperell, after the death of Sir William. Report said it was haunted; indeed I found it so, and by a living phantom.”

Lady Pepperrell’s house, built for her after the death of her husband Sir William, had almost become a metaphor for downfall of the Pepperrell family, except that the home’s decline began many years after the Pepperrell family’s Revolutionary War misfortune.

Besides, Loyalist William (Sparhawk) Pepperrell (who I’ve written about in another post) might have lost his property and most of what he held dear, but he lived a purposeful life in England after the war and ushered his four children successfully into adulthood. The Lady, his grandmother, lived peacefully in her house, with no curse ever in evidence, until her death in 1789.

Such was not the case for the branch of the Cutts family that purchased Lady Pepperrell’s home in 1800 from Catherine and Daniel Humphreys, who had acquired it from Elizabeth Sparhawk (who was Catherine’s grandmother and Lady Pepperrell’s daughter).

In the 18th century, the Cutts clan, whose ancestors were among the first settlers of Kittery, established itself as one of the leading families of Kittery and Portsmouth. By 1800, Joseph Cutts was a captain and merchant wealthy enough to buy the elegant home, keeping it in the family, more or less. (Cutts was a descendent, via his mother, of the original William Pepperrell family).

But on the other side of the ocean, troubles stirred by the rise of Napoleon set in a motion a chain of events that led to the chaining of Charles Cutts, the Captain’s son, in an upstairs chamber. He suffered from mental illness and reportedly was often chained to the floor to prevent injury to himself or others.

Drawing of Joseph Cutts (the Captain, I think, and not his son), attributed to Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Athenaeum collection).

The Captain himself lost his sanity, although he lived a long life, dying at age 97 in 1861. In 1839, another son, naval officer Joseph Cutts, killed himself in what once had been Lady Pepperrell’s bedchamber. His death might have been the culminating blow for his sister, Sarah “Sally” Chauncey Cutts, caretaker to her father and brothers. She too developed mental illness.

The key event in the demise of the Cutts family was Thomas Jefferson’s Embargo Act, passed in 1807 in a misguided attempt to stop British and French ships from seizing American vessels and to stop the British from impressing American merchant sailors into military service. The Act banned all trade with Britain and France, both of which were the new nation’s biggest trading partners.

With the bill’s passage, Captain Cutts lost his livelihood. He could neither buy nor sell. His ships rotted in an anchorage behind Gerrish Island. By 1813, he was bankrupt and indebted to the government for unpaid duties. (Some sources say the house was seized by the government for non-payment of taxes, and later redeemed by either Sally or another relative in the extended Cutts family). Although it’s likely that a genetics played a large role in the family’s mental illness, the strain of losing his fortune probably contributed to Captain Cutts’s breakdown.

Drawing of Sally Cutts attributed to artist Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Atheneum Collection)

Drawing of Sally Cutts attributed to artist Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Athenaeum Collection)

On his undated mid-19th century visit, historian Drake described Sally as “a harmless maniac,” who was “the sole inhabitant of the old house; she and it were fallen into hopeless ruin together.” Her appearance, he wrote, “was weird and witch-like, and betokened squalid poverty. An old calash almost concealed her features from observation, except when she raised her head and glanced at us in a scared, furtive sort of way.”

She invited Drake and his companion into the house. “Fragment of the original paper, representing ancient ruins, had peeled off the walls,” he wrote, “and vandal hands had wrenched away the the pictured tiles from the fire-places. The upper rooms were but a repetition of the disorder and misery below stairs.”

Sally led Drake and his companion to an upstairs “apartment,” where she “relapsed into imbecility, and seemed little conscious of our presence.” In her room, “some antiquated furniture, doubtless family heirlooms, a small stove, and a bed, constituted all her worldly goods,” wrote Drake. “As she crooned over a scanty fire of two or three wet sticks, muttering to herself, and striving to warm her weathered hands, I thought I beheld in her the impersonation of Want and Despair.”

I am a little skeptical as to whether or not Drake visited Sally Cutts in the Pepperrell House. She died in 1874, (a year before Drake’s book was published) and spent time prior to her death living with friends who had taken her in. Another writer, James H. Head, wrote of a similar visit to Sally Cutts in November of 1864, with his account published in the Boston Journal. Sarah Orne Jewett presented a barely fictionalized account of a visit with “Miss Sally Chauncey” in Deephaven: Selected Stories and Sketches (1877), so presumably she visited her as well.

Captain Cutts and his family are buried in the Old Burying Ground across the street from his one-time home and the Congregational Church. A table-like memorial stone tells his story. (Entering via the cemetery’s maine gate, the Cutts memorial is readily visible, to the left).

Did poor Sally regularly open her door to touring writers who wanted to invade her privacy? Or did Drake build upon and embellish the accounts of Head and Jewett? And am I the latest in a series of writers fascinated by the Cutts family history, even if it is a history that they would have preferred to keep private?

The story of the Cutts family, however, is worth remembering, because their family history is a microcosm for the economic devastation that Jefferson’s Embargo wreaked in the Seacoast region. Their pain helps us to better understand how the region suffered during this period of economic collapse. Ships rotted in harbors. Many merchants declared bankruptcy. A ripple effect reverberated throughout the local economy. Portsmouth, once a thriving port, became a backwater instead of a rival to Boston or New York.

The Embargo Act inadvertently paved the way for the Seacoast region to become what it is today: historically rich, but economically underdeveloped compared to what it might have become. The Seacoast region is not Boston, with its packed roadways and paved landscapes.

The losses suffered by the Cutts family and many others during the Embargo era have become our gain, in that we live in what is now an economically vibrant but beautiful and sustainable community. The story of the Cuttses connects with our story today.

A fire ravaged the Lady Pepperrell House on December 27, 1945 and caused extensive damage. The home was restored by X and Y. Portsmouth Herald photo from Historic New England digital collections.

Another sign of the curse? A fire ravaged the Lady Pepperrell House on December 27, 1945 and caused interior damage. John Fellows of Kittery oversaw the restoration. Historic New England (formerly the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities) owned the home from the 1940s until the 1980s, when the organization sold the home to a private owner. Portsmouth Herald photo from Historic New England digital collections.

The Lady Pepperrell House is protected by a preservation easement administered by Historic New England. Other Kittery landmarks, however, such as the Pepperrell Mansion and the Bray House, are not protected. Although both homes are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and currently are owned by good stewards, they could be torn down tomorrow if a property owner wanted to take that path.

These architectural artifacts of history remind us that we are not historical islands, despite our high tech gadgets and way of life. We live in both a global economy and an historical ecosystem where the past reverberates into the present.

Embargoes and lost fortunes lead to economic decline, paving the way for resurrection and reclamation. Trolleys connect the city to the country, and bridges and automobiles (as I’ve written about here) swiftly change a way of life. A grange hall becomes The Dance Hall, and a building where the Masons gathered transforms to a collection of gathering places for locals and visitors discovering the pleasures of walking across bridges.

Beware of curses– but only when we forget them. In remembering Sally Cuts and her family, perhaps we’ll take more care as we construct our own story.

Lady Pepperrell House, undated photo (Historic New England Collection).

Resources and sources

For a great example of connecting the past to the present, read about Stories from The Grange and Kittery’s Foreside, a project organized by Drika Overton of The Dance Hall.

For more information the architectural details of the Lady Pepperrell House, see “Palladian Perfection, New England Style, Part 2: The Lady Pepperell House at Kittery Point Maine” at The Down East Dilettante.

To read more about Drake’s visit, see Chapter 10, “At Kittery Point, Maine,” in Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast, by Samuel Adams Drake (1875).

James Head’s Boston Journal account of his 1864 visit to Sally Cutts can be found in the Pepperrell House vertical file at the Portsmouth Athenaeum.

For some detailed photos of the exterior and interior of Lady Pepperrell’s house, see Donna Seger’s “Lady Pepperrell and Her House” at Streets of Salem.

For more on the oldest homes in Kittery Point, see Colonial Village, by John Eldridge Frost (1947, publisher unknown)

Round up: Five great family hikes in Maine

Posted on May 7, 2014 by Dianne Fallon

The temperature has risen to a magical 60 degrees, the daffodils are blooming, and the forsythia are primed for an explosion of yellow. The tulips won’t be far behind, and I’m ready to think about hiking adventures to come this spring, summer, and fall.

Hence, this round-up post on five of my favorite family hikes in Maine. (I’ll do a separate one on New Hampshire, since there are so many great hikes to cover in both states).

We’ve been hiking as a family since my son was born, with him propelling himself on his own legs from about age three onward. Unless you have a kid who is obsessed with hiking (not mine), I find it best to limit family hikes to five miles or less. I also look for hikes with a good hook — boulders to conquer, fire towers to ascend, mysterious caves, and, of course, great views.

Please note that I call these “five of my favorite hikes”, and not “my five favorite hikes.” This small distinction in syntax is necessary because there are countless wonderful hikes out there, and I can’t possibly narrow it down to just five “favorites.” You can access links to directions (and sometimes maps) by clicking the title of the hike.

1. Tumbledown Mountain in Weld, Maine

A view of Tumbledown Pond, and the mountain’s summit, from the Parker Ridge Trail, which departs from the Brook Trail not far from the road, and offers a slightly longer route to the pond, including some great rock scrambles. Parker Ridge gets fewer hikers than other trails, but in the summer, expect lots of company at the pond, no matter what day of the week.

I’ve been hiking Tumbledown Mountain since my college days. I love this mountain and the beautiful pond nestled below the summit cone. Bring your bathing suit, or not, but this IS New England, so everyone else will be wearing suits.

The 1.9-mile Brook Trail (and 1,600 feet of elevation gain) is the most direct to the pond, from which hikers can scramble over granite and boulders on a well-marked route to the 3,090-foot summit. The Brook Trail follows an old logging road along a brook before evolving into a fairly steep climb over rocks and roots. We followed this trail as an out-and-back hike with a group of seven-year-olds a few years ago.

A couple of years later, we returned with a large pack of kids for the more challenging Loop Trail. At the trailhead, someone had posted a tiny scrap of paper with a penciled note reading, “This trail is not for children.” The note was about two square inches big, torn from a notebook, and not an official warning. I decided that the note must be aimed at parents of very young children. Our group of 10 or so started climbing up a typical New England trail of roots and rocks, but nothing too hard.

Then, about one mile in, we arrived at The Mountain: a nearly vertical climb up a rocky mountain face. (The climb wasn’t technical, just very very steep and rocky). At one point, we lost the trail (which is easy to do) and ended up climbing around some rocks hanging over a steep slope. For this reason, the hike is recalled as “The Death Hike.”

After finding the main trail again, we had to squeeze through a cave-like rock formation known as “Fat Man’s Misery,” a feat that involved shoving day packs through a hole and then squeezing through the narrow opening. Then more steep climbing. I could feel steam rising from the adults and floating towards me.

We eventually emerged onto a plateau, where an official warning sign greeted us with a warning about the Loop Trail for anyone considering hiking down. The kids exulted in their achievement. The clouds of steam dissipated. We finished with a scamper up to the summit, a swim in the pond, and a much easier hike down the Brook Trail to the cars.

Every kid needs a legendary death-defying hike in their repertoire. They still talk about it.

2. Mount Agamenticus in York, Maine

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

View of the cliff and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

With its 692-feet of altitude, Mount Agamenticus is a little mountain with a big personality, with trails and slopes that sprawl out across thousands of acres of conserved forest.

During World War II, a radar tower–the first of its kind in the United States–was installed on the summit. The forest was cut to make room for barracks to house 25 soldiers of the 551st Signal Battalion. For ten years in the 1960s and 1970s, a ski area drew locals to the mountain each winter.

Today, the former ski slopes shrink a bit more each season as trees and brush take over. On weekends, hikers and casual visitors wander the summit’s open meadow, bikers careen down the rocky trails, and the mountain can feel like a busy place. But even with the people there, the blue ocean shimmers to the east. To the west, the spine of Mount Washington rises above the Ossipee Hills, a spectacular sight any day but especially on a clear spring afternoon, when the sloping ridge of Washington remains covered in snow.

A variety of trails (as well as a road) lead to the summit, and more trails lace the conservation land surrounding the mountain. Mount A is ideal for younger children (but fun for hikers of all ages), because parents can tailor the length of a hike to the interest and abilities of their kids.

From the parking area at the base of the mountain, hikers can begin on the Ring Trail, and then hike in a loop up one of four side trails to the top, and down another to the bottom. I like to climb up the rock slabs of the Sweet Fern Trail, where the old ski lift rusts in the woods, and then hike down the Blueberry Ridge Trail to the Ring Trail.

Variations include the Sea-to-Summit hike that I’ve written about before, and hikes out to Second Hill or Third Hill. If attempting Third Hill with kids, I recommend driving to summit and starting there, as the hike could become a long slog through the woods. Hikers need a map to get to Third Hill (see link above), as the route is convoluted. It is easy to get lost if not familiar with the area.

3. Dorr Mountain, via the Homans Path, in Acadia National Park

The Homans Path (about a third of a mile) offers granite steps, passages between giant boulders and other interesting features. Hikers wishing to continue up to Dorr Mountain can pick up the Schiff Trail, featuring ladeders that climb a cliff. Many choices for longer and shorter loop hikes in this area.

The Homans Path (about three-quarters of a mile) offers granite steps, passages between giant boulders and other interesting features. Hikers wishing to continue up to 1,270-foot Dorr Mountain can pick up the Schiff Path, which features ladders climb up a short cliff. Estimated RT on our hike: about 4 miles. However, hikes can choose from many longer and shorter loop hikes in this area. Be sure to hike with a map, as there are multiple trails and trail junctions.

Okay, so selecting one family hike at Acadia National Park is just about impossible. Acadia is packed with countless great hikes ranging from under a mile to four-to-six miles loops (and longer, of course, but probably too long for most kids). Boulders, ladders, caves, and views abound. I’ve hiked all over this park, my favorite in the National Park System because of its combination of wildness, human history, and long-standing traditions such as popovers at Jordan Pond House.

Here I’ll focus on the Homans Path route towards quiet Dorr Mountain, the second highest peak in the park (People climb Cadillac, the highest peak, while Dorr is happily neglected).

The stone steps of the Homans Path were meticulously crafted around 1916, but the trail stopped appearing on maps in the 1940s. Its granite steps disappeared beneath thick layers of moss beds. Local trail enthusiasts rediscovered the trail in the 1990s, and the Park Service began restoring the path, which officially opened again in 2003.

The Homans Path can be picked up near the Wild Gardens of Acadia, at the Sieur de Monts parking area. (I couldn’t find a good link to an online map).

It’s hard to get truly lost in Acadia, but you can certainly end up a very long distance from your car, a situation that is not fun when hiking with kids. I recommend obtaining a recent edition of Tom St. Germain’s Acadia trail guide, A Walk in the Park, which will lead you to many other fabulous family hikes. Gorham Mountain, The Beehive, and Beech Mountain with its fire tower also are among my favorite Acadia hikes.

4. Mount Aziscohos, Lincoln Plantation, Maine

The view from 3,192-foot Mount Azisc0hos.

Mount Aziscohos, which I’ve mentioned in a post about summer days in Rangeley, is an undiscovered gem. A 1.75-mile hike brings hikers to an open granite summit with views of more than 25 lakes and countless mountains. I first took my son here when he was about six and have returned several times. I’ve never encountered another hiker on the summit with its 360-degree views.

In August, expect a feast of blueberries. Many years ago, a large forest fire burned on the mountaintop, creating ideal conditions for the berries to flourish.

Down the road in Oquossoc, crowds flock up the muddy trail to Bald Mountain, but few venture north on Route 16 to discover Aziscohos. I probably shouldn’t even be writing about the mountain, but I guess the 17.7 mile drive from Oquossoc Village discourages the hordes from finding it.

Aziscohos once was a popular hike for 19th and early 20th century summer visitors staying at the Aziscoos House in Wilson Mills, although “popular” is a relative term. An information sign near at the summit tells hikers that in one summer, a total of 116 hikers signed the log book. (The Azicoos House ceased operation many years ago, but I believe that the 1830 inn-like structure still stands, as a private residence, in the Magolloway River Valley).

A fire tower on the summit was manned until the late 1960s. Eventually it toppled over in a hurricane and was removed from the mountain via helicopter by the Maine Forest Service in 2004.

5. Blueberry Mountain via Stone House Trail, Evans Notch, Maine

I can't find my Blueberry Mountain photos, so I'll end with a photo of a happy hiker pasted on a rock on Mount Aziscohos.

I can’t find my Blueberry Mountain photos, so I’ll end with a photo of a happy hiker vertically pasted on the granite of Mount Aziscohos.

As with Acadia, Evans Notch, which straddles the border of Maine and New Hampshire, is packed with terrific family hikes as well as the “challenge” hike of the Baldface Circle Trail. Here, I’ll focus on 1,781-foot Blueberry Mountain, as it offers great views, good ridge hiking over barren rocks, the possibility of a dip in Rattlesnake Pool, and an exciting descent down (or climb up) ledges (caution needed). The hike is about 4.5 miles long.

After parking at Fire Road 16, we took the Stone House Trail to the summit and followed the Blueberry Ridge Trail to the Overlook Loop, and then followed the White Cairn Trail down steep ledges and back to FR 16.

We hiked on a cool fall day, so we didn’t stop at Rattlesnake Pool, but when I do this hike again, I plan to hike up the White Cairn Trail and finish up at the pool for a cooling dip.

The Stone House (a private residence) sits up against the mountain just past the trailhead. It’s an interesting structure, more than 200 years old, and looks out over a flat grassy meadow that once was farmed, but more recently was used as a landing area for small planes, during World War II.

The house (privately owned) dates to the first half of the 19th century, when Abel Andrews built it for his bride, Lucinda Brickett, the daughter of John Brickett, who was one of the earliest permanent settlers in the area. Around 1812, John built the brick farmhouse known as the “Brickett House,” located a couple of miles up Route 113.

I’ve also written about the nearby Basin Trail, which is undiscovered and beautiful, like Evans Notch in general.

Happy hiking!

Additional resources:

Nature Hikes in the White Mountains, by Robert N. Buchsbaum, is an excellent guide to family hikes throughout the White Mountains of Maine and New Hampshire.

Hikes in and around Maine’s Lake Region, by Marita Wiser, is good resource for hikes in southwestern Maine (Bridgton/Fryeburg/Lovell area).

As mentioned above, Tom St. Germain’s Acadia trail guide, A Walk in the Park, is a great resource for all kinds of hikes in the park.

Time travelling, sea to summit, in the woods of York, Maine

Posted on October 14, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

One of my favorite “backyard” walks is the “sea-to-summit” hike from Highland Farm in York to the summit of Mount Agamenticus. The walk doesn’t actually start at the beach, but at the York Land Trust Highland Farm property, located on a hill overlooking the saltwater marshes of the York River. From Highland Farm, a series of interconnected trails on various parcels of land lead to the summit of Mount A, the highest peak on the coast south of Camden.

On this cloudy but warm fall day, we had lunch on the cliffs above Folly Pond, deep in the woods of York.

This hike through the forest is full of intriguing natural features as well as the ghosts of those who once farmed this land: Bluebirds and blue herons; old cemeteries deep in the woods and granite-walled cellar holes where families lived and died; a scenic overview above an isolated pond; erratic boulders and steep cliffs carved by glaciers; and finally, at the Mount A summit, a view of the sea to the east and Mount Washington (on a clear day) to the west. Not bad for a hike just that begins just a few minutes from my house.

Old foundations, cellar holes and other remnants of the past in the woods of York.

This fall, on Columbus Day weekend, I completed the “Sea-to-Summit” walk once again with a small group of friends and two active kids. The distance from Highland Farms to the summit of Mt. A is about five miles, including a small portion on Mountain Road. Hard-core hikers can easily hike to the mountain summit and back, but most people probably will want to spot cars. If you can’t spot cars, just exploring these trails half-way is a great morning or afternoon walk.

When we dropped one car at Mount A at noon, the summit was busy with hikers and families enjoying the foliage and views of the Atlantic Ocean. But later, deep in the woods, we didn’t see another hiker on the four-mile hike in the woods from Highland Farm to Mountain Road. (We did run into a York police officer patrolling on an ATV, the same guy we had seen the year before, in almost the exact spot, time and day). The area is great mountain biking terrain, but the trails are not as “discovered” as the trails in the immediate vicinity of Mount A. Mostly, these woods are unpeopled. While I love my visits to Yellowstone or Acadia National Parks, every time I walk through this forest, I am reminded that beautiful and often more peaceful destinations await discovery in my own neighborhood.

We began the walk at Highland Farm (a farm for generations, until it became a nine-hole course that went bust), with the two boys sprinting ahead to look at the graves in the first of three Junkins family cemeteries on this route, two on the Highland Farm property and a third deep in the woods on land owned by the Kittery and York Water Districts.

The Junkins family first came to York in 1661, when Robert Junkins settled in the part of York known as Scotland, where he built a garrison house overlooking the York River (on what is now Cider Hill Road, I believe). Junkins was a Scotsman who had fought against Cromwell’s army during the English Civil War. He was taken prisoner in 1650 and, with 150 others, sold into indentured servitude on a ship headed for Boston. Junkins was purchased by Valentine Hill of Durham, New Hampshire, and worked for him until the completing the term of his indenture, when he moved to York. (Valentine Hill’s home in Durham is now the Three Chimneys Inn).

The Junkinses multiplied mightily and many still live in the area. They have an entire website devoted to their geneaology and history, the Junkins Family Association, including a more comprehensive (and fascinating) account of how Robert landed in York. Two of his sons died in an Indian attack in 1714 and the family cradle that rocked these two sons and many other children that followed now sits inside the Old Gaol Museum in York. I don’t know if Robert walked these lands, exactly, but his descendants did, and I love walking on this trail that shows such visible artifacts of the human past: the gravestones, the stone walls, the foundations and covered wells.

I’m glad to know that someone take care of these graves in the woods. David Junkins was just a babe during the Revolution, but perhaps a veteran from the War of 1812.

Jeremy and his friend soon located the oldest grave is the first cemetery, a small well-maintained patch of land surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Then they dashed off down the Barred Owl trail, where we found the second Jenkins cemetery up on a little knoll. One small stone marked the grave of a small child. “What do these initials mean?” Jeremy asked as he pointed towards an even smaller stone. I explained that the stone was probably the footstone for the headstone, which memorialized a baby’s short life.

We walked on, intersecting with the Kingsbury Trail, which we followed down a small hill to causeway/dam on the swampy edge of Boulter Pond, where an osprey soared above us. Shortly after entering the forest again, we picked up the “White Trail” (on Water District land) Water District land. Soon we were deep in the woods, with steep cliffs and piles of rocks looming above us on the eastern side of the trail.

Further on, we spotted a cellar hole, just off the trail, that opens the door to the human past. Who lived here? What did this branch of the Junkins family do to keep body and soul together? When was this home abandoned, or moved to another location?

Within the granite-slab cellar-hole is a small dark chamber constructed from other stones. Was this a root cellar? A special pen for sheep or other animals? I wanted to know, but in a way, not knowing makes the structure more intriguing.

A few minutes later, we came upon another cellar-hole, lined with large slabs of cut granite. A couple of hundred yards off the trail, (to the left) is another cemetery, the family cemetery of the particular band of Junkins who farmed this parcel and probably raised sheep.

Sheep were big in New England in the first part of the 19th century and far more profitable than cash crop farming in the stone-filled soil common to this area. But as the sheep industry in the West expanded, the industry began to decline in Maine, and so did the farms. This abandoned home that seems so remote once was part of a small community, one that was isolated from the village of York, but existed as a complete small world of Junkinses.

That black lump on the side of the tree trunk is the porcupine inching his way up the trunk.

“Look, there’s a porcupine,” my friend called out.

The boys immediately dashed up the main trail towards a tree, where a porcupine was inching its way up the trunk. After reaching an overhanging branch, the animal settled, sloth-like, above our heads.

Although I wanted to show the boys the third Junkins cemetery, we needed to continue on, due to the press of time and daylight.

When the White Trail intersected with the “Yellow Trail”, we took the turn (on “yellow”) towards Mount A, 2.4 miles away. A few minutes later, I recognized the side trail up to the rise that overlooks Folly Pond. We climbed uphill, then settled on some smooth stones carpeted with pine needles to enjoy a picnic lunch and the view of the pond through the pine trees. Steep cliffs drop down to the pond, but the boys were busy on another rock, discussing Minecraft, so I enjoyed my lunch without the hovering possibility of a boy falling overboard.

After lunch, we continued onward, crossing streams, and passing by the berm at the lower end of Folly Pond.Eventually we emerged from the woods onto Mountain Road, where hikers can either turn left and then take a path into the woods to connect with a trail that parallels the road, or turn left along the road. We chose the road and walked on pavement to the base of the mountain, then headed up the mountain towards the Ring Trail.

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

Mount Agamenticus offers many routes to its summit (the most direct being the road). The most direct route, from the parking area at the base of the access road, is the Ring Trail to the Witch Hazel Trail. After 20 minutes of steady uphill hiking, we again emerged from the woods, to a view of a granite cliff topped with a row of pines. Nearby, the viewing platform offers a view of Mount Washington, but not on this day, as the clouds had rolled in.

We made it, Sea-to-Summit, a great five-mile hike.

We drove a circuitous route — probably 8 or 10 miles — back to our car at Highland Farm. Within a few minutes, we arrived at the parking lot from whence we departed three hours earlier. In taking the more direct route to the mountain, through the woods, we had become time travellers of a sort. We had visited the past and walked at the same speed the with which the Junkins children once had travelled to school. It felt strange to return so quickly in our cars at the Farm. Maybe this “small adventure” wasn’t so small after all.

Notes and Resources.

The Highland Farm property, (see map at this link) owned by the York Land Trust, offers a neat walk all by itself, through fields and woods and along rocky cliffs. One spring day a couple of years ago, while walking up on the highest part of the land, I was surrounded by an angry bunch of turkey vultures, probably because I was near nesting site. Watch out for ticks.

Hikers often get lost in the woods surrounding Mount Agamenticus. Although trail signage has improved over the years, both at Mount A and on the Water Districts’ properties, hikers who are not very familiar with the area should bring a map to avoid trudging many unintended miles. The York and Kittery Water Districts offer a combined map of their properties here. A map of Mount Agamenticus is here. Pets must be leashed on these lands. Hunting is permitted on Water District lands; hikers should wear bright orange during fall hunting season, or better yet, hike on Sundays, when hunting is not permitted.

The York Land Trust offers a history-based hike of this area every so often, which I hope to attend one day, for this walk holds many layers of history beneath its trails.

For more family hikes, see my post, Round up: Five great family hikes in Maine.

White elephant in a green valley

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Dianne Fallon

The trail map at Evergreen Valley.

Here at Evergreen Valley, the outside temperature is 12 degrees, but a full 28 degrees warmer, at 40, inside our “villa.” We lost power yesterday (2/17), late in the afternoon after a day of wild snowless winds. Now, this morning, we sit wrapped in blankets in this electrically-heated 1970s condo. Somehow the outage seems fitting, what should be, one more challenge to overcome in Evergreen Valley’s long struggle to become a destination.

The ski lodge remains a functional building. A little TLC and it could be open for something….

I first discovered Evergreen Valley, in Stoneham, Maine, about 10 years ago, as my husband and I spent a summer afternoon exploring the area while staying at another spot on nearby Kezar Lake. Intrigued by a sign on Route 5, we turned off and followed the road for a winding 3.5 miles as it went far back into the woods and then opened up, improbably, onto a scruffy but still-functioning golf course. Further back, a lodge-style inn was tucked into the woods. The road climbed another couple of hundred yards up a steep hill and ended in a small parking lot bordered by a dozen lonely condos backed up against the edge of the White Mountain National Forest. Down the hill and around the corner from the Inn, a massive ski lodge loomed at the base of an abandoned ski area. A memory clicked into place for my husband as he recalled having attended a rock concert here back in the 1970s.

Evergreen Valley was once a place of big dreams and big schemes, and a tale of how easily local and state officials are wooed and won on the hopes of a little economic development in an unlikely spot. Developers wanted to build a mega-ski resort here, one of the largest in New England, with a golf course, bubble-topped tennis courts, a marina on Kezar Lake, and hundreds and hundreds of housing units. At first, the idea for the resort was a grass roots effort, but as the project expanded from a small ski mountain to a mega-resort, other locals –especially the well-off part-year residents who populate these parts during the summer months – organized against the project, citing the scale of the resort as incompatible with the surrounding area. But really, environmental activism was the least of the challenges faced by Evergreen Valley. The sad fact is that skiers don’t flock by the thousands to an off-the-beaten path mountain with a 1,000 vertical feet – a hill really – in an industry that already was beginning the process of consolidation that would see many of New England’s small ski areas close in the 1980s.

The Olympic-sized pool was intended for year-round operation.

For the dreamers who envisioned Evergreen Valley, no expense, it seemed, was spared. Timbers for the massive lodge were trucked in from Oregon. An Olympic-sized outdoor pool – intended for both summer and winter use – was dug next to the lodge. Tennis courts protected by a bubble dome were built, along with a riding stable with stalls for with 30 horses. Three chair lifts were installed on Adams Mountain. When the Evergreen Valley ski area finally opened for business in 1972 (after many delays), it was a state-of-the-art recreational facility, the most ambitious opening debut in New England ski history. At the time, some other resorts had more trails and lifts, but these ski areas had typically started small, with a rope tow and a T-bar, and gradually developed over time. At Evergreen Valley, skiers would not strain to balance on T-bars or flail around on a rope tow.

A half-finished condo unit greets visitors as they drive up the lonely road into Evergreen Valley. The inside was never finished. Today, several holes punctuate the roof.

But the mountain struggled to attract skiers. By the mid-seventies, it was bankrupt and closed, although it did open again later for a few more seasons. At one point, the state of Maine purchased the resort at public auction for $500,000, and later sold it to another hopeful developer (for full details, see the link to the article below at the New England Ski History website). Today, the lodge sits empty, and the swimming pool is an empty hole. But the valley offers great snowmobiling, with access to miles and miles of trails, and has become a destination for snowmobilers from around the Northeast, many of whom stay at the Evergreen Valley Inn. Maybe the snowmobilers stay at the condos too, but we don’t know, because on most nights, our car is the only one in the parking lot. The resort would be a great setting for a Stephen King novel. I’m surprised it hasn’t showed up in one yet, given that King spends a lot of time in the area, at his home on Kezar Lake.

So why are we here at Evergreen Valley? (Not only are we here, but this is our second week-long stay). We’ve come partly because I like places that feel remote and apart from the hustle-bustle. Also, Evergreen Valley is located in convenient proximity to Bethel and the mega-resort of Sunday River (a slope with a few trails when Evergreen Valley opened), and to Shawnee Peak, a family ski area in Bridgton. When I saw that this particular condo at Evergreen Valley came equipped with its own hot tub, I was sold. Also, I guess I like giving a little business to the underdog, keeping hope alive. Back-door access to snowshoeing, along the old ski trails of Mount Adams or to the ledges of Speckled Mountain, is another bonus.

Hikers can follow the abandoned ski trails to the summit of Adams Mountain.

On my first attempt to snowshoe up Adams Mountain, I took long steps through the woods as high winds with 60 mph gusts howled. Birch trees bent and flailed and snow swirled up from the ground. I knew that the supple birches were not likely to snap in the wind, but older oak trees stood deeper in the woods. Every time I heard a crack, I looked about to see if a tree had snapped, although I knew logically that plotting an escape from a tree falling in my direction would be a fruitless exercise. I felt a bit like Thoreau on his final ascent of Mount Katahdin, feeling awestruck and terrified at the same time. Although I could clearly see the trail, I wasn’t sure what I would see if I reached the summit, so I decided to turn back to the condo.

The following day, remnants of the wind storm still ruffled the trees, but the howling had ended. With the sun softening the snow and cloudless blue skies that promised great views, I was determined to make it to the 1,650-foot summit of Mount Adams, about an 800-foot elevation gain from the condos. I snowshoed across the brook behind the condos, and bushwhacked through the trees, following yesterday’s tracks to one of the ski trails. This time I pushed further through the woods and began to hike uphill on a wider ski trail, now filled by a glade of birches.

Views of Kezar Lake. I took this photo on a third hike, as the day was drawing to a close. Skies weren’t as clear, but the view was still great.

Stomping uphill through the snow, I came upon a snowmobile trail, which provided a path up a steeper section. (Snowmobiles aren’t allowed on Adams Mountain, and I’m not sure if this trail was legal, but it provided a good reference for bushwhacking). After a final bushwhack through the trees, I arrived at a southwest-facing ledge with views of Kezar Lake. Further south, I could see the ski trails of Shawnee Peak, and to the west, mountains folding upon mountains, although the wind had kicked up just enough moisture to conceal Mount Washington’s summit.

The summit is topped by a flat open area. It’s a great snowshoe hike, and a good family hike in warmer months. In the distance, the trails at Shawnee Peak are faintly visible.

I hiked up along the ledge until arriving at a flat area, forested with a grove of white pines. The snow mobile trail ended here, and then circled around and back down the mountain. I could see footsteps where the renegade snowmobilers had stepped out to admire the view, but on this day, I was absolutely alone on the summit. And even though I love downhill skiing, I was happy that I had this beautiful snow-capped rocky ledge to myself on a February afternoon.

Evergreen Valley, yeah, it’s definitely grown on me. The entire valley is for sale, for a reported $2.9 million dollars. Maybe someday another visionary with deep pockets and more realistic expectations will buy the resort and do more to bring in the snowmobilers, add a destination restaurant to the Inn, or at least a cozy bar. Maybe a millionaire yoga lover will transform the Inn into a yoga and meditation retreat that offers exquisite healthy meals and a New Age summer camp. Maybe, like the developers and their consultants, I’m a dreamer too, because I believe that potential exists to do more here in Evergreen Valley.

I wouldn’t want to see much more than what’s here now, just enough to add some economic development to the region, to keep the country stores open in Stoneham and Center Lovell, to add some kids to the school systems, to sustain the sense of community in this beautiful but hard-to-make-a-living corner of Maine.

I’m not interested in buying the condo next door (on the market at a 1980-ish price of $50,000), but I’ll return again to Evergreen Valley. Maybe on the next visit, I’ll hike up to the ledges on Speckled Mountain. I’ll definitely sit in the hot tub and gaze up at the stars in the inky sky.

P.S. The power was restored mid-morning, but we hardly suffered. The Inn provided us with hot coffee and an invitation to hang out in front of the fire in their great room. After breakfasting at not-too-far-away Melby’s, we returned to the warmth of a sunlight-filled living room. Not too long afterwards, the lights blazed and the hot tub began its steady hum.

References and further reading

Evergreen Valley History – New England Ski History

Evergreen Valley, Stoneham, Maine – New England Lost Ski Areas Project

View from Adams Mountain, Stoneham, c,. 1960

Why I go to church on Christmas Eve

Posted on December 24, 2012 by Dianne Fallon

Growing up in an Irish-Catholic suburb south of Boston, I went to church 60 days out of the year: 52 Saturday or Sunday masses, seven holy days of obligation, and Thanksgiving, which was recommend by the church but not required, hence, we attended.

Although I enjoyed some aspects of the church community, such as our youth group “Gong Show” and ski trips to Vermont, I never liked going to church. The service was boring and sometimes frightening. I especially remember one sweltering 100-degree day in July, when our ancient pastor, Monsignor Sullivan, stood up to deliver his usual lengthy sermon. “If you think it’s hot in here, “ he snarled at the congregation, “then wait until you experience HELL!” Then he sat down, as we trembled, aware of our sin and our guilt in hoping for an early exit from the service.

By the time I was a teenager, the Monsignor had retired and was replaced by a series of kinder, gentler priests, but I never felt uplifted in going to church. Instead, my spirit felt oppressed. Over the years, I have tried different parishes and churches, but I haven’t been a regular church-goer for many years. Sometimes feel that I SHOULD go to the church, for the sake of my son, but I really don’t want to. I’ve told my son that belonging to a church is a good thing to do, but I just can’t quite bring myself to do it as I am ‘churched out’ from my childhood.

Still, I always go to church on Christmas Eve. Even if I’m not quite sure where I stand on the miraculous events of Christmas, I want my son to understand that Christmas exists for a reason apart from great deals at Best Buy.

The First Congregational Church, depicted in this early 20th century postcard, was built in 1730 and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

For several years now, my family and I have been attending Christmas Eve service at the First Congregational Church in Kittery Point. Catholicism is so deeply engrained in my mental fiber that I’m not entirely at home in this austere Puritan building, built in 1730 by descendants of early Puritan migrants. Where is the body of Christ, hanging on the cross? The statues of Mary and Joseph? The 13 Stations of the Cross depicting Christ’s suffering as he walked towards his death?

But the Lord’s Prayer is the same prayer I recited at my childhood Catholic church. We sing “Joy to the World” and other familiar hymns. The Christmas Eve service is family-oriented and we see many friends and acquaintances. The sermon is both short and uplifting.

I especially like going to the First Congregational Church because the church is almost 300 years old. As an entity, the church was organized in 1714, and the 1730 building is the oldest surviving continuously used church building in Maine. (Knowing this, I get a little nervous on Christmas Eve when children and adults alike walk to the altar to light candles).

The Parsonage, now known as the Parish House, was built at the same time as the church. The building has been altered, enlarged, and has modern plumbing (unlike the church, which has no running water), but the Parish House still definitely evokes the feel of an 18th century building. This postcard claims that George Washington slept here, but that is probably more legend than truth. Washington’s 1789 “inaugural tour” visit to Portsmouth, NH is well-documented. The new President briefly touched ashore at Kittery Point during that visit but did not spend the night.

In this church, 18^th century minister Reverend John Newmarch offered comfort at funerals for too many children when diphtheria struck in 1735 and he provided theological reassurance to those anxious souls who didn’t feel the spirit move them during the Great Awakening. It’s likely that the great itinerant preacher George Whitefield spoke from the pulpit. During the Revolution, Loyalists and Patriots walked the aisles and prayed together on many Sabbaths. Later, the morality of slavery was debated and prayers were offered for President Lincoln. The church bells tolled to mark the end of two world wars. In the mid-19th century, once the Puritans/Congregationalists got over their aversion to Christmas, congregants gathered to celebrate Christmas, just as they will on this year.

Maybe someday, when I go to church on Christmas Eve, I’ll feel more connected to a sense of faith. But for now, walking in the footsteps of the churchgoers who came before me feels like a sort of faith, maybe a faith in humanity and its ability to endure, and to keep an institution like this antique church up and running for almost three centuries. The world is often an ugly place, then and now. But on Christmas Eve, the bells still toll. The churchgoers sing the songs. The children light the candles.

The Maniacal Traveler

Travels around the world, in the mountains and through time…..

Category Archives: Maine places

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