It all started with the best of intentions, of course. Summer was accelerating at an alarming rate and there were precious few opportunities for camping left. It would be snowing before you knew it and it will cost $4,000 to heat Cobb Manor for the winter. I blame the (failed) oilman in the White House. But then again, I blame him for everything.
It was decided: camping at Quoddy Head, simply because we had never been there and it was the easternmost point in the United States. We would “rough it” like the manly men we are.
The timing, as usual, was a little iffy. The trip, as usual, was organized by Jefferson Phil, the founder and patron saint of the Upsidedown Canoe Club. The UCC has a rule against women, since none of them is interested in our misguided adventures.
JP used to screw up most camping trips by working at some murder trial or another — he was a court reporter — waiting for a verdict, almost invariably on Friday night. Now, he is a freelance reporter and he screwed up this trip by preparing a transcript for some greedy lawyer or another.
Most camping trips start at the crack of dawn or even in the dark. This one started about 1:30 — p.m. We headed north from Camden with a car overloaded with tents, sleeping bags, coolers and tons of books.
God forbid you should be stuck somewhere without a book.
We headed off for Quoddy but got only 15 miles, as far as Belfast, before we got hungry. Custom dictated that we stop at Rollie’ s and visit the Belfast Godfather, Waldo Walt. He said it would take at least three hours to get to Quoddy and it was then past 3. He mentioned the dire thunderstorm warnings.
We looked for a post office to mail off the damned transcripts. Belfast was too busy so we headed north again, off to Quoddy. We only got another 15 miles to Bucksport when Jefferson Phil remembered the transcripts. We found a post office, then Hannaford’ s for our typical $60 grocery bill for a single night of camping.
We packed the coolers and were off, for at least another 15 miles before Jefferson Phil faded noticeably. He said he was tired (from all that transcripting) and could only drive another hour. It was now 6 p.m. and Quoddy looked as far away as Barcelona.
Phil is nothing if not adventurous, so he swerved off Route 1 onto Hancock Point, another place I have never seen. We passed perfect little Hansel and Gretel buildings all the way to the shore, overlooking Mount Desert Island.
On the return trip we noticed this perfect little inn, The Crocker House Country Inn.
We had tents, coolers, sleeping bags, pads and food. There was no reason in the world to pay money for a fancy inn when we didn’ t have to. Naturally I went in to inquire.
For the uninformed, the Crocker House was built in 1883 by John Crocker (figures) since the Bangor branch of the Maine Central Railroad linked up with the Bar Harbor-Hancock ferry a few feet away. It was hard to believe on that sleepy, sunny afternoon but 8,000-10,000 passengers a day used to rumble through the point, before the Thompson Island Bridge was built.
The house was later purchased by a Broadway dancer named Olga Szabo, who collected sugar daddy Baron Carl Lanoff, then investment banker Guy Giegel. Legend has it that Baroness Szabo’ s ghost still dances through the inn’ s corridors.
Owner Richard Malaby, a refugee from Washington, D.C., was most anxious to see us since he didn’ t have a single guest at the moment (the Bush economy, naturally.) Since Phil has a snoring problem even worse than mine, I decided that a single room was out of the question. Malaby said he would rent us two rooms for the price of one. And throw in breakfast.
Done.
The women will be mad when they see this place (“I thought you were going camping!”).
We left the tents, coolers, bags, pads and food in the car and checked in to the luxury of the Crocker House. Malaby said dinner was now being served. (Well we couldn’ t bring the ham-and-cheese sandwiches into the dining room, could we?) I chose the seafood pasta and JP went for the steak, both $30 meals, more than I have ever spent in my life. Both worth it. With a straight face, Malaby explained the pasta taste had something to do with boiled lobster shells.
I smoked an apres-dinner Romeo Y Julieta I had packed as I watched the Red Sox lose still another game as Phil luxuriated in the hot tub. Some “camping” trip.
In the morning, after the (included) breakfast, we took our glorious leftovers and headed north for Quoddy, once again. We got all the way to Roque Bluffs before the leftovers got the best of us. Well, at least we could do some cooking at the picnic tables. I unpacked the dishes, gear, cooking utensils and the tablecloth (gotta have one) to get to the stove. It was then and only then that I realized we had no propane for the stove.
Undaunted (we are used to this) we ate the perfect cold leftovers on the beach, fighting off an invasion of horseflies.
Quoddy looked even further away instead of closer as the storm clouds gathered over our heads. We drove back to Route 1 to make the decision. Phil whined about his next assignment in Portland, the very next morning. He had to get home to pack and oil up his tape recorder and whatever else court reporters do.
A shot of lightning in the western sky made the decision for us. We headed back south, away from Quoddy Head, with our tents, sleeping bags, pads, gear and food untouched behind us in the car.
The storm raged behind us as we hurried back to Camden.
Quoddy Head, maybe next year — unless we find another perfect little inn along the way.
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and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.