By Dan Rhodes
I confess: I’m from away. My father served in the military for more than three decades, and my entire childhood is a blur of moving boxes and new places. My wife also spent most of her childhood moving. So maybe we can be forgiven for dreaming of a place to call home.
The first time my wife, son, and I visited Western Maine, somehow we knew we’d found “it.” Friends and family constantly ask what led us here. Well, there was something in the clear water of the Carrabassett River. But also in the pine-scented air, the windswept mountain peaks and the palpable sense of community we’ve found.
Our son is 6 now. Whenever we visit a new trail, and I watch him wondering what “creature” he might spot, I feel a deep affirmation that we made the right choice. But what I’m starting to appreciate more as our life here unfolds is that the lands themselves are teachers. There is something to learn about peace when we rest amidst the quiet majesty of tall trees to breathe in utter silence (broken only by my son’s dubious insistence that this time he really did see a moose). But there is merit in silence and connection and as much as I treasure those quiet moments, there is equal value in the unexpected meetings we’ve had along the way. Like the land, friendly strangers have been our teachers, sharing details about flora and fauna we alone surely would have missed or their own childhood memories of the trails I want my son to introduce to his family someday.
While these incredible places exist everywhere in Vacationland, Western Maine is an embarrassment of riches. Places like the Perham Stream Birding Trail in Franklin County are a perfect example (when you go, say hello to Carson, the former landowner). Securing access to them for future generations is never guaranteed and takes the hard work of dedicated people. Groups like the High Peaks Alliance work with landowners and land users to keep these places wild and open to traditional use. Their mission to secure access for everyone (from bikers to hikers, snowmobilers, anglers and all outdoor enthusiasts) speaks to their commitment to protecting both these lands and their lessons and it inspired me.
Whenever we revel in the beauty around us, we must appreciate that our access to these places remains possible largely thanks to human commitment. The same thing is needed to ensure access tomorrow and farther into the future. In my own ponderings, as I cross an open meadow blanketed in a soft veil of fresh snow with my son darting ahead and my wife walking with me, I imagine myself and even our son as the friendly stranger, welcoming and inviting the next generation of students, and asking them to listen to how the land itself can teach. Thanks to the High Peaks Alliance, I know these places will still be accessible then, and that, like the land, brings me peace.