Whirlwind Week: If It's Friday It Must Be the Farm

We caught the ferry with two minutes to spare.

Headed to an island in the middle of Penobscot Bay, halfway up the coast of Maine.

On board were residents, renters, recreationalists (with bikes, canoes and handmade wooden kayaks), and lunatics like me who agreed to join their partners for a sailing trip in rocky and foggy Maine, preceded by work on a farm.

Huh???? Yup. You heard me correctly. Work on a farm. Whew, what a whirlwind schedule! So much to do and learn. Why settle for ordinary, boring vacations?

You see, the ferry was merely the third leg in a complicated journey from Capitol Hill to Bucks' Harbor Marina where we will board the sailboat. The fourth leg: exploring and exploiting the abbreviated growing season on an island in the Maine woods.

Islesboro boasts some elegant mansions: classic New England "summer cottages," mostly deserted now that Labor Day is nigh. Flowers and bay windows. Wraparound porches with comfortable rocking chairs. Acres of manicured lawns.

We drove right on by. Stopped instead at an ancient wooden farmhouse with barn, woodshed, greenhouse, chicken coops, threadbare carpets and peeling wallpaper. Here, there are no gardeners or greenskeepers, and the work continues in every season. 

August is time for bringing n the summer harvest before autumn ushers in New England frost. Our itinerary this week includes picking, planting winter crops, canning and cooking, alongside farmer Sandy and her companion Toby.

Also endless weeding, hoeing, cutting--and washing lots and lots of dishes.

Yesterday I sliced cucumbers and canned dill pickles while Pope weeded the garden, fed the chickens, and cut down overgrowth.

Today I picked beans, spinach, and squash; whipped up scrambled eggs; and served a salad of freshly picked lettuce, spinach, arugula, nasturtiums, and peaches, with a dressing made from lemon and leftover pickle brine. Hostess Sandy completed the repast with stuffed, baked pattypan squash.

Hungry, you say? Sorry, too late. In the midst of an abundant and demanding harvest, the meals are filling, delicious, and over in a flash. 

Reprise

It started at 7:52 am: the slog down the front stairs with five bags; the rush to Metro; transfer at L'Enfant; airport security. Finally, Portland, Maine--home of Lenny, the world's only life-size chocolate moose.

But this is only the beginning. Right now we are on a long-distance coach headed for Lincolnville. Haven't heard if it? Why, I'm so surprised! It's a thriving coastal metropolis of 1,264.

From there it's a long night slouching in the corner of the bus station waiting for tomorrow's ferry to the island of Islesboro. Unless by some amazingly fortuitous circumstance we make it across town and onto the last ferry tonight, scheduled to depart 15 minutes after the bus is scheduled to arrive. (NO ONE here has encouraged us to think positively about making it. There's a hand gesture that three times, from three different people, has accompanied their ambivalence--roughly comparable to the French gesture for "comme ci, comme ca.")

Three years ago, same season, Pope and I sailed around Vancouver Island with Dave, Joanne and Mark of Denver, Colorado (3 1/2 weeks). We didn't get drowned, depressed, or  disabled. So a short time later, we boarded Echo II in Chesapeake Bay and sailed to the Bahamas (8 weeks). 

Those of you who followed my blog back then know it wasn't all peachy keen. The company was excellent on both trips. But there were also tides, currents, fog, logjams, freezing cold, and later shoals, coral heads, and breakdowns.

In fact, for me, there were moments of extreme distress interspersed with weeks of mild-to-moderate anxiety. For Pope, there were only minor hiccups. We agreed on one thing, though: next time, stay home and watch the travel channel!

One would think that one would not only learn one's lessons, but act smartly on that enhanced knowledge. But no, we are wired as human machines (of the un-thinking variety, much of the time) to repeat long-ingrained patterns of forgetting the past and continuing to make comparable decisions of questionable intelligence.

So when Dave, Joanne, and Mark asked,  "Do you want to sail around some islands in Maine?" we smiled and said "Of course." And when Pope asked, "Do you want to sail to the Bahamas again?" I looked at him, frowned, and responded only with "Are you out of your f**king mind?" before I said "yes."

So here we are, side by side on the bus-- Pope reading calmly and quietly, nodding off, and me fretting and frowning, wringing my hands, over the tight connection. Just a momentary blip in a lifetime of self-induced travel stress.

On the Fulcrum Between Adventure and Insanity

Pope and I are gearing up to go sailing again. Yes. We're off to Maine this week on a bareboat charter. Just a few days after our return, we'll load up Echo II and cast off for southern shores.

Is it fun? Is it fulfilling? Or is it ... just plain nuts? How well I remember--from three years ago--the immense satisfaction of waking to a slice of pink cloud. Home-baked bread on Staniel Cay. Swimming with dolphins.

And then there were....the ocean crossings. Dozens of drawbridges. Shallow water on the ICW and the Bahamas Bank. A leaky cabin roof. Worst of all, perhaps, the mosquitos, no-see-ums, and biting green flies.

Are we REALLY ready for this again? How can I keep my endorphins pumping without Barre Fusion and Power Toning at Sport & Health? How long will it take Pope to miss the indentation in the sofa while he inhales blood, guts and tears on the Sons of Anarchy and Hell on Wheels?

Echo II awaits passenger boarding, happily bobbing in Whitemarsh Creek in anticipation of adventure in bigger water. Five tons of fiberglass, dacron, diesel, and moldy cushions, ready to deploy--as soon as we load another half ton of spare parts and supplies.

I am not bobbing. I am slogging. Through cleaning, packing, organizing, provisioning.

Stay tuned. The countdown to insanity has begun.

Elkins, West-By-God-Virginia

All too soon, Cajun and Country Week at Augusta Heritage Center came to a close. Students cleared out for home early Saturday, and I and a few other holdovers, waiting for Blues Week to start on Monday, scrambled to find easy non-musical pursuits to rest our overloaded brains.

First, into the mountains to witness the gently unfolding pink petals of rhododendron, along an Otter Creek Wilderness trail.

All alone in the mountains on a beautiful Saturday. Where are all the other hikers, I wondered?? Hearing a shout and scream far ahead, I considered: Kids splashing in an ice-cold mountain stream? Backpackers arguing with mama bear? Or...hikers encountering armed wilderness rednecks? It had not escaped my attention that signs along the trail were peppered with bullet holes.

I paused. Listened carefully. 

Prudence prevailed. Rather than running ahead, potentially to help a wounded walker, I retreated from the mostly deserted Otter Creek Wilderness in favor of a different recreation area--Bear Heaven--that turned out to be just as deserted. But this one had a view.

A quiet day; a pleasant interlude. Yawn.... No music jams tonight; just a good night's sleep in my new AirBnB lodging.

What to do in a podunk town on a sleepy summer Sunday morning? Shops closed. College quiet. Streets empty. No, wait, not completely empty...there's a classic car show in the town square.

And a bustling train station. Then it's aaaaaalllllll aboard for an excursion on a vintage (I.e., old, smelly) diesel train to the High Falls of the Cheat River. (High refers to altitude, not height of the drop.)

Traveling alone? We have a half-empty table reserved just for you, in the Parlor Car. Away from the riff-raff. Enjoy the sophisticated roast beef-and-cheese-with-mustard-sandwich buffet.

"On the left you can begin to see views of the scenic Shavers Fork River." (And--unsaid--trailer homes with outhouses, shot-out windows of wooden shacks, fancy RV parks on the river for rich people.) "As we gain elevation, you will see spectacular river views." Maybe a tad overblown. Still, a quietly pleasant  trip.

We pass the sites of former lumber and coal camps, mostly deserted because they are accessible only by train, and of course those are defunct (except for nostalgic tourist excursions.) Onward and upward. Only to come to an abrupt stop at the start of a 180-degree curve, which our tourist train cannot negotiate. "The sharpest mainline curve east of the Rockies." End of the line for "the little engine that couldn't."

Instead, a little walk in the woods. Then suddenly it's Niagara! Well, quarter-sized Niagara, maybe. And obligatory-picture-taking time.

Then it's aaaaaallllllll aboard again--back down the mountain to Elkins and the rest of the sleepy summer Sunday afternoon

Making Music While the Sun Shines

Here I am in beautiful downtown Elkins, West Virginia, on the campus of Davis and Elkins College. The sun is shining, clouds roll by in a blue sky, and Cajun and Country Week is drawing to a close.

The campus with its Victorian mansions  is lovely, the cool nights a refreshing relief from Washington, with breezes bouncing off the mountaintops.

The last jams with Cajun superstars like Sheryl Cormier, Courtney Grangier and talented youth from Louisiana are diminishing into the last throes of harmony.

What did I learn at music camp? 

-How to master songs in high C, in Cajun dialect, with French R's, employing complex rhythms, thanks to the relentless drills and ministrations of former Mamou Playboy fiddler David Greeley. Always found on the back porch, singing while the sun shines.

-Refining my language technique a bit more precisely, thanks to up-and-coming superstar and multi-instrumentalist Blake Miller.

-Walk-ups and runs on my guitar strings from country singer Lynn Healey--a lesson long overdue after 40 years of fooling around strumming open chords. We worked HARD in class!

Seriously, though, all was not serious. My fellow musicians and I shared a few laughs and the occasional prank.

Thanks to the magical musical wisdom (and humor) of our Michigan friend John, I learned some new guitar grooves: the "air mordant," which quickly leads to the "dominant fifth." (Which John demonstrated. Or are those just cramped fingers, from clutching too many wine glasses?)

The mini-lesson quickly led to a blistering critique of John's potentially bogus musical research by ultra-serious jam leaders Patrick and Terri (or was that just the whiskey talking?). 

It led also to a look of pure unembellished admiration (or was it stupefaction?) from fellow Michigander Frank...

...who promptly put thought into action, trying in vain to coax a reluctant mordant from his stand-up bass.

Ah, the joys of being schooled in music theory and then putting it to the test. Every afternoon and evening people gather on the porch, patio, meadow, lounge, wherever, to make beautiful music while the sun shines and sets, once again, over the hills.