Homecoming: Maine, Man-Time, Mom's Cooking, and Moustaches

There is something about returning to somewhere you have not been in way too long, seeing people you have not seen in even longer, and doing things you almost have to relearn because you have neglected to keep up the practice. The real enjoyment comes from the fact that it everything comes so natural, even after so long. The faces are still pretty much the same, every place is still in its same location, and, as with riding a bicycle, everything has its way of coming back.

Embarking on any journey causes excitement as well as a bit of angst and uncertainty. But, no matter how tight the time frame or the restraints placed upon it, there is nothing like a road trip. There is something romantic about being on the open road, making great time, seeing places that you would otherwise have no need to see or to which you would go, seeing just how long you can go without sleep--it's all part of what makes it worthwhile. From a strict, economic, cost-benefit analysis, driving 23 or 24 hours, staying up for 40 hours straight, filling the car up with gas multiple times, the wear and tear--not to mention the real possibility that something could go wrong and cost money, sanity, well being, it really does not make any sense to do anything but get up, go to work, and get back home as quickly as you can.

Home. No matter where we go, we all see to return home, again. Home is exactly the reason why the cost-benefit analysis does not apply because home is not a solitary location--for anyone. I feel home when I walk in the front door of the house that my wife and I bought almost a year ago. She feels home when we are standing on the beach in Delaware. We both feel home when we are sitting down to Sunday dinner at her parents' house. And we both feel at home, in front of a fire, with our dogs and my mother, in the house where I grew up.

In addition to feeling home, it is also important to feel at home. Heading back to Maine in the middle of the night, I really started to feel at home. The familiarity of late-night drives with my wife hit as soon as i reached just behind the gearshift, turned the key, and the the Saab wagon came to life--packed with dogs, bags, coats and boots. We are no strangers to long road trips. Living in Boston with a dog and having family and friends in both Maine and Maryland, car was the only way to go. It also brought me back to my college days when I used to wake up at 4 am to drive four-and-a-half hours so I could feel at home with some great friends in the mountains of Western Maine.

This mentality and familiarity could serve to explain why it just made sense to, after an 11-hour drive through the night and 24 hours without sleep, say hello to my mother and turn around to drive another two hours to the mountains to do some long over due riding and see some great friends.

It was fitting that my first run would be solo. Though only the better part of the nine o'clock hour had passed, it felt like it was half past noon. The sun was bright, the snow was soft, and all the lifts were turning. I attached my lift ticket, got on the chair, and headed straight to the top. To get to the top of Sugarloaf, one has to take two lifts. The first one heads straight up the middle of the hill, the second runs up the western ridge and provides spectacular views all the way into New Hampshire. That day I could see Sunday River and all the way to snowy peak of Mount Washington. I then unloaded off the chair, strapped in, and took off toward the familiar pitch of the West Mountain trail to Penobscot circle to see some old friends. Yep, it sure felt like home.

Walking up to the condo door was a walk I have made countless times over the years, but this time was something different. I opened the door and saw the two familiar smiling faces that I expected. Though I had not seen Greg in over a year and Joel in close to five times that long, we immediately fell into our old routine: set up the new board, lace up the boots, put on the goggles, and head out. The day would only get better when I surprised an old friend with my presence and my brother with my early arrival. The day was spent as so many others, taking lap after lap after lap. Everything came back almost immediately. Though I was not at the top of my game and those I grew up riding with had progressed incredibly, it felt like I had never missed a day on the mountain.

It was hard to top such a great day on the hill, but time, as they say, marches on. We had a lot to do and not adequate time in which to do it all.

I was able to spend some (though not enough) time sitting and talking with my grandfather, whom I had not seen in way too long. Again, it did not feel like it had been years since my last true visit. We aught up, he shared stories, and showed the true wit and humor that I always remember him having. After a difficult goodbye, we met some other friends for dinner and beers down at the local brew pub where we had spent so many nights in our early/mid twenties. Really, we could have been anywhere and had an amazing time. Again, it was as if this was our regular Friday night get together. No one missed a beat. The stories and the jokes all seemed to flow with as great an ease as they ever did.

The next day I was able to really experience Maine in a way that few people from away ever get to. Spending a day on a frozen lake with some great people in a home made shelter is rather humbling. Being out in the open with the wind whipping 40 to 50 to 60 miles per hour around you in a couple hundred pound structure heated by a wood stove on 18 inches of ice really lets you know what it means to be at the mercy of nature and those around you. This was less about catching fish than it was about good company and good times. More comes from the shared experience than the shared catch.

Our final full day was spent in one of my favorite places that I have ever had the opportunity to experience. We spent the day hiking on a groomed carriage road in Acadia National Park. Through the just under 4 miles, we ascended the incline through the woods to some amazing frozen waterfalls, views of jagged mountains, and the shimmering Atlantic Ocean. This is a ritual for us. It was cold, sunny, and the perfect place to be. The dogs had a great time and we were able to spend our last day outdoors, with my mother, doing something we all love.

Though the time was well spent, it was all too short. It seemed that we had just arrived and it was time to pack up and hit the road again. We managed to pack just about everything we had planned into a mere 4 full days. I saw the mountains, lake, and the ocean. I saw friends and family and family friends. I was able to relive old times and create some new memories. Not a moment of the trip was misspent.

So, with teary eyes and more bags than with which we came, we started up the Saab, loaded up the dogs, blew the horn, and set off to retrace the miles we had driven 4 days prior. It was difficult to leave, but there is comfort knowing that it will not be long before we return.

The first half an hour was spent in almost total silence as we watched the trees go by and the mile markers ticking closer to Portland. Then, before we knew it, 12 hours and 9 states had passed and we were home, again.

*Photo credit: C. Lawson: "Oh My Gosh Corner" Carrabassett Valley, Maine (via Blackberry).