The beautiful road(s) to Maine

Below, a sternwheeler loaded with people pulled away from the dock for a moonlit cruise. To our left was a waterfront restaurant where we just had grilled salmon with wild rice (the lake has its own landlocked salmon). To our right was a large, long three-storey wood building with surrounding balconies laden with people all enjoying an evening drink.

Summer in New England.

On our way to a wedding in Vermont, we made the trip across to Portland, from Yarmouth, on The Cat, more or less following the route of the old steamers that used to connect Nova Scotia to the Boston states. We'd been warned ahead of time that The Cat was rough and could make people seasick, but that was not so. It was like a big bus, though smooth and fast.

The problem with The Cat is that it is designed not for a classy ocean voyage but as a means to move a lot of people and their vehicles. Seats are set up like those on a jet, all of them facing giant television screens. To while away the time on The Cat, you have the choice of gambling at one-armed bandits, shopping for jewellry or liquor, or watching movies on the big screens. You can't get outside to see the ocean, except for at the back, where you can step out on a narrow ledge to see the plumes of spray kicked up by the engines.

We eventually climbed off and went through customs, which was easy. The border guards asked us a few questions, wondered if we were bringing in excess of $10,000 with us, and when I said, "I wish," waved us through. The next morning we drove up the coast to L.L. Bean's in Freeport, the store open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, getting 3-million visitors a year. We stared wide-eyed at the camping gear and tents. Our own L.L. Bean tent, purchased in 1991, had developed a leak, and when we told them that, they said, just send it back, and we will send you a new one.

From Freeport we struck out cross country. Now, here is what is surprising, and even a little depressing. The highways in Maine are beautiful. The roads we drove on were park-like, yet they were ordinary highways. Trees are allowed to grow right up to the edge of the highways, their boughs touching overhead.

In Nova Scotia, everything is cleared well back from the sides of the roads, so that there is a wasteland to see from the car. On Highway 8, north of Liverpool, the trees are shaved right to the top on the road side of each tree, leaving them stark, unnatural and ugly. For some reason, too, Maine gets away without huge ditches beside the highways. People whose properties touch the highways are able to mow their lawns right to the edge of the pavement.

It's like driving for mile after mile in a park. And when we did drive into Sebago Lake National Park, we went over roads that twisted among the trees, beside winding brooks, over little bridges and beside locks (there used to be a canal system that ran from Naples down to Portland). There seems to be an aesthetic sense of not disturbing anything natural any more than it has to be disturbed.

Our idea was that we would poke around the back roads of New England, stopping in pretty little towns and finding bed and breakfasts. We went into amazing historic old houses and ate gourmet food at large old tables. Every now and then we stopped at a library and used their computers and internet connections (the libraries in New England are among the most important, beautiful structures in town). This column is being sent from one of those connections. More later.

-Tom Sheppard can be reached at twsheppard@gmail.com