When I decided to go to Maine I had a few ideas in mind of what I’d be doing but one of the things that has been on my bucket list for the past few years was going to Aroostook county to finding a set of abandoned locomotives that were there at the end of a mile long hiking trail. The reason I hadn’t already made the trek was because I needed someone to go with me in case things got hairy. You see the trains were so far north that they were only accessible by a series of logging roads.
When I plugged in the coordinates online it said the journey should take me four hours to get to my chosen destination from where I was staying. The original plan was to take a week off and go camping up in those parts but life got away from both of us and that just didn’t happen. So instead it’d be a long haul… in one day.
Imagine how happy I was that morning when after getting up early the GPS claimed the nearest town to the ruins was only two and a half hours away. I was confused but happy. The trains were however beyond civilization. As it turns out far beyond civilization. I knew they were up a bunch of logging roads and “an adventure” but I figured I could handle it.
For those of you who do not know logging roads are not what you’d expect a road to be. They’re exceptionally primitive, only created for the use of giant nearly indestructible logging trucks which carry full size logs out of the wilderness to be processed. As such they are not paved and aren’t even particularly flat. In fact large sharp rocks jut up at random everywhere and if you’re lucky it’s covered in shale for the tires to grip. Shale is gravel. Sharp and unrelenting little rocks your car is not bound to appreciate.
The other thing about logging roads is that because they are generally not inhabited by people they have no need to have names or street signs. In fact they are usually not marked at all so before going on one you really need to know where you’re going and not get lost. This is made all the more difficult since GPS units are useless on these roads unless your aim is to die out there. You see with no street names there’s also no addresses and since logging roads are subject to change (going out of disuse when said area is logged) coordinates aren’t even particularly helpful.
I decided to use these directions to get there. If you click it you’ll notice they’re preceded by a cheerful list of precautionary to-do’s. Things like bring extra water and food, make sure you have a spare tire on hand, and bring spare clothes and blankets in case, god forbid, you get stuck out there.
On this particular day I had the Prius. Priuses are just about the worse thing you can drag down a logging road. In previous occasions I have gotten the Prius stuck in mud, stuck in fields (which is the country’s version of a parking lot) and have been unable to brake going down a hill in winter. It also only stands about three inches off the ground so I have literally driven into hills before. Basically they’re city cars, fond of paved flat roads and smooth driving, and every time I take the wheel the poor thing starts to shake in pure terror. This was not the first time I have taken it down a logging road and likely won’t be the last – this is however not AT ALL suggested. Please, should you be inclined to follow in my footsteps bring a proper truck with four wheel drive. I will not be responsible for your death.
“Are you SURE this is what you want to do on this visit?”
“More than anything.”
“Because we might die.”
“I’m sure we won’t die.”
“I’m not. See this cute little village of Kokadjo? With it’s touristy little main street?”
“Yup.”
“This is the last we’ll see of civilization before we get back.”
“OK.”
I didn’t feel he got the gravity of the situation. So I played a little joke. As I turned onto the first logging road I said, “You’re my navigator now. Got the directions?”
“Shit, no. I’ve got no reception.”
“Yeah, you also won’t be seeing that again until we get back. So if we get a flat we won’t be able to call for help.” And even if we could what would we say? Not like we could give them a place name or address to find us at…
I then pulled up the directions on my phone which I had copy and pasted into my notes the night before. I really did need a navigator because my sense of direction is shit, and my memory for where I have been is even worse, but I had noticed while hiking in previous day trips that my travel companion was actually pretty damn good at this… I just prayed getting up so early would save us from being on the logging roads after dark when things look different and can get confusing.
This trip was supposed to be a sweet little get away. We both desperately needed a break from our lives and we though stranding ourselves in bigfoot country might be kind of fun. I am not entirely certain that he was completely aware or consenting of the fact that what was essentially a date might end in imminent death. Then again what is the point of a date that doesn’t? I mean there’s a lot to be said of a good trauma bonding.
“See that pile of poop in the road?”
“Yeah…”
“That’s moose poop. Moose are like three times bigger than the Prius and if I hit one we’re fucked.”
“Oh shit…”
Aside from the threat of moose the first bit of logging road was pretty decent. It had a name, was pretty flat, and even had speed limit signs which gave a ludicrous suggestion of 45 miles an hour. On its best bits, which there weren’t many, I could only go at most twenty five miles and hour in the Prius but more often I was just happy to be able to reach fifteen! This isn’t to say the locals felt the same. They had huge trucks. You know the sort of trucks you see on the highway with double tires and wide asses and you just think, “My God what is that douche over compensating for?” Well out here in the wilderness they actually have a legitimate use and the people driving them haul ass down these roads. We passed a number of them going the opposite direction and they all gave the Prius a look of absolute confusion perhaps mixed with tinges of horror and concern. Tourists.
Everything was going OK until I found myself tottling down a large hill. I was only going seven miles an hour but I still managed to hit a giant rock which looked like road from where I was perched. By the time I hit it I slowed down to a near stop but it was still under the car and the only thing I could do was push forward. The sound it made scratching the Prius’ metal belly made my stomach churn.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” As usual I was able to sound confident and self assured in such a situation.
It got worse. I couldn’t pull over to check for damage because ahead of me there was about 250 feet or more of jagged rocks which I had to dodge. The only thing is I couldn’t dodge them all, there were just too many! So instead I crawled down this hill going four miles an hour and yelling profanities the whole way. The experience took years off my life.
“Are you SURE you want to continue?” I asked as I got to the bottom. Part of me wanted to turn around and go back knowing the road ahead might be just as treacherous but also knowing turning around meant dodging the same ungodly car killing obstacle course that I just came off of. From here on out the side of the road would be littered with the comforting sight of broken strips of rubber tires and random metal car parts.
He was as scared as I was. Yes. But determined. “Well, I think are OK and we already got this far…”
Not too far away we were both brought to silence by a memorial by the side of the road. A giant cross with flowers. It wouldn’t be the only one and likely memorialized the death of someone in a car crash. Such sights are not uncommon in the country but their frequency on these roads was alarming.
By now traffic went from a car every 15 or 20 minutes to none at all. Until a logging truck came by. This proved a bit much for my unwitting passenger.
Logging roads are for logging trucks who barrel down them taking no heed of who may be driving along in the other direction. Also being so primitive there’s little room to pull over, sometimes no room at all. So when I saw the truck coming I immediately looked around for a spot to do just this and sped up to hit it before the huge monster came down on all of us. I darted to the side in time for it to come through but although I knew I was enough off the road for it to pass my passenger probably didn’t. He was white knuckled and screaming, “Oh my God!”
And I admit seeing that huge truck approaching at great speed while I sat motionless and vulnerable in a tiny tin can was in fact terrifying. The trucker however was super nice. He waved on the way by and left a staggering cloud of dust which caused a complete whiteout condition to me. I couldn’t see my own hood and had to wait for it to settle before getting back on the road. There’d be more logging trucks, each delivering a near death experience which kept my adrenaline pumping.
What proved almost too much for my navigator to bear was when we approached a one-lane stretch of road that seemed to be piled up debris with steep embankments to each side, not allowing for anyone to pull over. Think about what a road must look like going into the mountains of a third world country – the sort of thing far more appropriate for mules than cars. Luckily what remained of the road was decent enough to drive over it as a good clip – twenty five miles an hour – which I did to decrease the chances of getting myself into a sticky situation. Halfway through there was a turnoff which made me feel a little better but still… I’m not sure he breathed at all in the minute or two it took to get to the other side. This was much worse than the multiple primitive one-lane bridges we had to cross. At least you could see who was on the other side of those, not so in this winding part of the road!
By now we were well into the directions but we’d already been on these logging roads for an hour and there seemed to be a long ways to go. The markers this author chose to tell us about were randomly set apart. Some were really close to each other, others were miles in between. We passed a bunch of other logging roads and every T, Y, or intersection brought the uncomfortable possibility of getting it wrong.
There were just miles and miles and miles of trees. Every twenty miles or so we’d see an off the grid hunting camp, a logging camp, or a sign directing people to some sort of extreme tourist camping village. Those were the most amusing because there were signs that would read things like, “moose tours!” and “bear hunts” as if there were a ton of people passing by to read them and think, “Yeah, you know what? I haven’t been on a good bear hunt in a while…”
At one point I came across a clearing with a bunch of RVs and I was confounded. How did those clunkers get all the way out here?! AND WHY?! The best their owners could do was get out of them and walk into the woods… I mean… I guess if you’re looking for some sort of epic send off for yourself I can’t think of a better way to disappear but WOW.
By now the road was getting better and I was going at a steady clip and feeling confident. That’s when a rock appeared in the middle of the road that I didn’t see until I ran over it with another gut wrenching bang. I was able to steer almost clear of it in that split second but almost wasn’t good enough.
“Navigator! Why didn’t you say something?!”
“I didn’t see it either!!”
“Dude! You have one job! Warn me of the fucking icebergs!!”
“I know! But!” now forlornly muttering, “I didn’t see it…”
We pulled over and checked for damage. I checked to see if the car was leaking any fluids. It wasn’t. It was running just fine. I can’t explain why. We were both thoroughly shook. We got back in and continued on, this time with an even more full attention given to the road.
It seemed like days out there. Sometimes we’d come across sharp turn or speed limit sign but they were always riddled with bullet holes. There was little other signs that people were around in these parts. There were no longer any traffic what-so-ever except one confused old couple coming the opposite direction who pulled over to speak to us. They were lost. Their GPS had brought them to Caribou and all they wanted was to go to Greenville. We were of little help to them although I did mention we came from Greenville (which is south of Kokodjo) so at least there was that…
Not too far up the road we came to a breath taking sight. It was a beach filled with more driftwood than I have ever seen in my life, all bleached an eerie white by the sun. There was a tiny parking lot that read, “No PM parkin” complete with accent. We stopped and took a moment to soak it all in. I took photos. This place was amazing. I was at peace here which was a nice relief. But we had to keep making time. We’d already been on the logging roads for more than an hour. We had to make it to the hike and back out of here before dark and I didn’t know how far we had left.
After this we drove up to a T in the road where there were a ton of signs, as if they were all congregating here and multiplying like bunnies. It was an insane sight. We took photos and a local drove by asking if we were OK. Yup, just enjoying the scenery.
Things got a little more morbid from here as I finally drove up to the check in station. I kid you not, civilization is so sparse in these parts that in an attempt to make it a little safer there’s a little station that takes your details and money to keep track of you in case you don’t come out. I was more than happy to fork over my $16 (per out of stater) and tell her my legal name, license plate number, where I was going, and how long I’d be. The woman there was super friendly. She gave me a sheet of paper with the directions on how to get to the trains and gave a dire warning not to deviate from them in any way or hit any moose.
“Did you see the ambulance?” She asked cheerfully. “We just sent one out.”
“Yes! I did!” I was in disbelief when I had to pull over for an ambulance to rush past out here. I mean… where did it come from!? And where was it going?! Turns out it was going to one of the tourist camps and coming back here to this little station which was also a helipad. That made sense as we had to have been at least 2 hours from a hospital of any kind. I hope they had good insurance!
I left that place feeling good that I got this far knowing I would have never done so alone. And already it’d been such an adventure! I almost was OK not even seeing the trains because damn did I already have a story to tell! But we continued on.
We drove six miles up the road to a Y where we found a rugged parking lot of sorts which was set up for boaters complete with an outhouse. There was no electric poles or plumbing this far north. An outhouse was just going to have to do. We took a little break here before continuing on, having no idea we were still more than an hour from our destination.
The woman at the check in told me she’d recently sent four other people to the trains so I should be meeting others out there. I was intrigued. But I was so slow in driving the Prius that by the time we got to what the new instructions called a “perfectly drivable road” (nothing suspicious about that) there was no one in the parking lot. I am pretty sure we passed two of them only minutes before. What happened to the other party is anyone’s guess.
It was desolate and I was ready to leap out of the car. The last road we drove was so ill travelled there was grass growing in the middle of it and it tickled the bottom of the Prius making distressing pinging noises that made it sound like its undercarriage was nothing but shrapnel to be used in this impromptu percussion band. It was making me edgy. So was my plummeting blood sugar. I had not intended this journey to take this long. Thankfully I’d packed a lunch. I ate it like a starved bear and then checked out their outhouse which was not furnished with toilet paper. Good thing I had my own roll – stored in the car for moments exactly like these.
After this little break I was feeling a little better although my teeth were still rattling from the bumps on the road. It was hot but it wasn’t too humid so I was very happy about that and more than ready to take the mile trek down this easy trail which was the most well marked I have ever seen. There was literally a corridor of trees all marked with blue strips. The only way you could get lost on this trail was if you purposely wandered off.
The trail itself wasn’t particularly noteworthy. It was much the same as many of the other trails I have been on – with lots of ferns and mixed trees. Although I must say there was more moose poop than I am used to and I was hoping some of the dog tracks in the mud were indeed dog tracks and not wolves or Eastern Coyotes which are a dangerous combination of wolf, coyote, and domestic dog. Neither of us were packing.
And then we came across something weird. I think it was a boiler? The woman in the check in told me that when I got to the boiler I was to stay to the right. So even though the path diverged here we took the right after poking at said boiler which was rusted, intriguing, and totally worth poking.
It wasn’t far from there when the forest opened up and there in a clearing on the tracks were two full locomotives just waiting for us like a goddamn fairy tale. We both literally stopped in our tracks to stare at them slack-jawed and take a photo from this whimsical angle. This was so worth it.
As we approached the enormity of these antiquated machines became apparent. They were magnificent rusted beasts just quietly decaying in the woods. A small plaque told their story. And beyond them there was a whole graveyard of rusted train parts covered in moss and being slowly taken over by nature. It was… magical.
We both felt it and took a moment to play. He had brought a steam punky costume and I goaded him onto the actual train and into the cab for a slightly dramatic photo shoot. I was of little help as people photography is not my strong suit but I was happy to oblige and he seemed happy with the results. In return he videoed me reading a chapter from my new book Milking the Cat to promote it but between the heat and exhaustion of getting there I was barely able to speak and it came out poorly. Another time maybe.
In the woods around the two locomotives lay a variable train part graveyard where all sorts of bits and pieces lay quietly rusting under blankets of moss. Beyond that was a beautiful little beach of sorts with a beaver lodge, a family of ducks angrily quacking at me, and a gorgeous view. I took a few photos just to remember it.
We loitered for as long as we could before coming back to the car. I ate some grapes and a cereal bar and we were off. It’d be another four or five hours driving before we’d be home. And it was just as much of a challenge because now we had to go perfectly backwards tracing our steps. The GPS wanted to kill us, you see. I told it to bring me home and it said, “Why not turn onto every logging road we come across?” Every time I denied her this satisfaction she tacked on another twenty minutes to the arrival time until we were hours from home. When we were parked outside of the train trail the GPS showed us floating in air, not even on a proper road. It was utterly confused. Now it recognized the road it thought it recognized many more – some of which were nothing but trees and clearly not real. Hilariously one of these roads it named “useless road” as in, “Take a left onto useless road.” That just about sums up the legitimacy of this little machine at this point in time. Cryptically it told us we were currently travelling Road. Road Road. Think about that for a minute.
Still, we needed to get back to the check out station so no one would be out searching for us! I had my little receipt to pass back in to show I was still alive and whatnot.
On the way we saw all sorts of wildlife – a whole family of grouse crossing the road, a flock of ravens, an ominous circling of vultures, a pileated woodpecker who we saw both going in and going out, a baby fox, and a ton of snow hares. I’d never seen wild ravens or snow hares before so this delighted me. It’s not often I get to check something off my wildlife list! And I am sure my city mouse hadn’t seen these things before either. Curiously we did not see any deer, moose, caribou, UFO’s or bigfoot.
By now I had grown quite comfortable on the road and was going at quite a clip down the good parts of it having remembered where all the damn rocks were. This was important as the road had a tendency to go fine, fine, fine, REALLY NOT FINE, without warning. But even I couldn’t have guessed what would come next.
Just as I was assured all was well the Prius hit some gravel it didn’t agree with and it was just like being on black ice. It flung out of control towards the side of the road and I let my own instinct take over. I did not touch the brake, which would have made the situation worse, but rather let the car swing as it pleased, turning the wheel abruptly when it came to the edge of the road forcing it into a fishtailing maneuver. The first turn I had little if any control, I let the car do the same thing as I forced it into a second fish tail. By now I was regaining control but there was so little time to express this that my white-knuckled passenger had no idea and by now was screaming, “WOAH! WOAH! WOAH!!”
The Prius fishtailed twice more, although with far less vigor and by then I was mostly in control. I was proud how I pulled this off but my navigator was unappreciative having probably just watched his whole life flash before his eyes.
“Maybe we can drive slower?!”
“Oh fine. I just want to be home.” I said sulkily after it was all over.
By the time I pulled up to the check in station it was getting late and I knew I had to keep my time. I got the same woman there and cheerfully told her it was beautiful and totally worth the drive as I passed in my proof of continued existence. We’d be on our own from here on out.
My navigator now was a bit stressed out – partially from having defied death so many times today and partially because I was wholly relying on him to stay on the same exact route as the one we came. I nearly messed up once but he caught me, thank god.
And then we ended up back at the scary beginning of this adventure. Back up the one lane road with nowhere to pass and then back to the original horrific obstacle course which I could now see from this side for all it was. There, stretching up a huge hill was tons of jagged rocks and the weaving trail marks of other vehicles trying to avoid them all. They were like the rut marks you find in old pioneer trails where the wagon trains used to groan by.
“What the fuck. We’re taking a picture of this before I attempt it again.” And so we did. Here it is in all it’s glory.
I drove up to it with massive trepidation. At my fastest I was able to go over it at four miles an hour. Otherwise I was just inching because there were so many rocks I literally could not navigate a safe path around all of them. Some I just had to go over and let me tell you there’s nothing as deadly to a Prius as a combination rock and pothole. This felt like an Olympic feat. Sweat was pouring down my face just trying to get it done but I managed finally seeing the original rock I hit on the way through the first time – no wonder I had missed the frelling thing, although it was huge it was flat and looking down at it from atop the hill it did not look like what it did now looking up at it!! When I finally got to the top I felt insanely accomplished. From here on out I was sure we’d make it to civilization just fine. Up until then I just wasn’t sure of that.
When the logging roads ended and we found ourselves back in Greenville I nearly kissed the ground. We got out to stretch our legs and buy a celebratory ice cream. Two and a half hours later we were back “home” for the night. Looking in the mirror I noticed I had the biggest blackest bags under my eyes that I had ever seen and likely a few gray hairs. This adventure probably took a few years off my life buuuuut I was happy and would totally do it again if I had to and better still this sentiment was reflected in my hostage, er, I mean travel buddy. In fact I was so intrigued by the little camping villages that next year I want to take a tent up there and spend a week giving the whole area a proper look! Maybe not in the Prius though…
***NOTE TO READERS: usually this is where I make separate themed galleries for you to click on. However I have been fighting with writing and getting this blog up for three days now and I am tired. So here are photos from two cell phones and a proper camera, in no particular order, for the whole trip. ENJOY!
And finally, after a good night sleep I can tell you about the third place I visited in Deer Isle – the Turtle Gallery. Again, it just happened to be en route so I decided to stop in and see what it was about. I had noticed this little coastal village seems to have a lot of galleries and I am already planning a visit just to do a tour of them! But in any case the Turtle Gallery is the one which I ended up at randomly after enjoying the 
The Turtle Gallery was a swank little place, that’s for sure! The main gallery, as you entered, boasted a series of large colorful paintings depicting life in coastal Maine, as well as some intensely detailed very large charcoal sketches. Prices seemed to mostly stay within the $800-2000 range from what I could see. A door leading outside had a sculpture garden and when I went to check it out I found another “pop-up gallery” in a shed out there which had more folky art, mostly small sculptures.
I thought that was it but found myself wandering around the front where still more sculptures were being displayed, some metal sculptures were in brilliant colors and their shapes, texture, and color, really caught my eye. A private residence was sandwiched in between the main gallery, the outdoor sculpture garden, and the paper and glass gallery in the house at the far side. Here paintings on paper adorned the walls and a series of fantastically beautiful goblets for $800+ a piece glinted in the sun coming in from the window.
This was a peaceful and relaxed gallery displaying some really fine talent. I was happy we stopped by. I doubt I will ever be able to afford art from such a place but being around it calms my creative nerves. I must visit more galleries…
This was possibly the most bizarre destination I have ever ended up at. It’d been suggested by several people, and of course the Internet, but no one had much to say about it, just that I needed to go. On this particular occasion I ended up with quite a carload, my mother, a cousin, and my great-aunt. We had five hours to waste so I suggested we go to 
First off let me tell you the area it’s in is picturesque Maine seaside, absolutely beautiful, and there’s so many things to get happily distracted by including a series of high end galleries. Then there’s Nellie’s which… is so far from that scene it might as well be its own planet. When I drove in my mother didn’t want to get out of the car, “This looks scary!” She yelled, pointing at a heap of rusted metal lying haplessly in the woods. I made her get out. I always do. Besides everyone else was already bounding out.
Here, instead of the cute little jam shop I expected there was an entire Wild West village, run by an army of fronteirsfolk who happened to be made of scrap metal, recycled miscellany, and clay. They were both fascinating and terrifying, somewhere between sweet whimsy and an apocalyptic hellscape. And there was everything… a general store, a saloon, living quarters, a jail. Oh, we had fun in the jail, burbling to a couple who’d apparently made this a destination whenever they got bored. Very sweet people. I thought it was just a little mock village but this thing kept going and going and going. By the end I found myself out in the woods staring at a dead knight being loomed over by a dragon, a plywood castle half completed in the background. The Wild West town was more Whimsical but by the time I got to the knights and the dead Viking, being sent off in a half decayed boat, everyone was getting lightly unnerved. In fact the creatures drawing the wagons and carts had gone from quirky to “Soooo…. that last tab of acid is what did it, huh?” Clearly this artist had as many voices in his head as I do (which I can truly appreciate!)
I love places that encourage the desire to play in everyone from small children to the elderly. It just really brightens my day, but this isn’t even mentioning the jams! They really do have jams! And jellies! Preserves! And chutneys! All of which are free to sample at the little shop on crackers, or if you’d like to pay for a scone there’s a sweet little cafe sitting area to enjoy. Of course I sampled everything and 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
After being laid up for two days with a migraine I was just about crawling out of my skin this morning, desperate to go somewhere, anywhere. I’m still in central Maine with my mother and she’s still none too keen on going for a hike in 85 degree weather soooo I offered to bring her to a museum, which I figured had to be climate controlled. Usually I drive but since we were so close anyway, and she does need practice driving, I climbed into the passenger seat and off we went.
It was an uneventful drive until we were almost there. Then the GPS insisted we had to go down Rangeley Road to get there. Only problem was the road was closed due to construction. So I took the GPS down, zoomed out, and found an alternate route through the college campus. It was, after all, a museum on the college campus. And wow. I don’t want to sound critical but all I ever knew of Central Maine was poverty and a lack of education, so to stumble upon such a crazy expansive campus here, nestled in such a well kept little town…. well I was shocked. This was not the Maine I grew up with. I must have fallen through the Twilight Zone again.
The museum has a range of art and utilitarian items from the native peoples of both North and South America, everyone from the Inuits of Canada all the way down to the Mayan and Aztec Empires. It was actually quite impressive! Funerary dolls, textiles, baskets, and a series of interactive displays for children that my mother kept herself entertained with (as she forgot her reading glasses at home and couldn’t read any of the plaques anyway.) They even had a bunch of South American dress up clothing and a wee wigwam. OK, even I went inside that one… Because when else do you get to play a wigwam? All and all it was a lovely little trip and was happily surprised. If you’re in the area and into museums its well worth a look!
Today’s little adventure started with the usual – this time it was my mother trying to figure out where this pretty bridge she kept seeing on FaceBook was located. It claimed to be in Pittsfield Maine, the town she grew up in, but she had no recollection of it. This isn’t unusual for my mother…. she’s the sweetest woman you’ll ever meet but she has the attention span of a gnat. On several occasions in the past I had to inform her her cousins were the offspring of her aunt who she swore up and down was a childless spinster. And so it goes… A week of speculation on a bridge…
As it turns out there is indeed a snow mobile bridge in Manson Park, right past the center of town. It claims to be the longest pedestrian suspension bridge over the river but I can’t for the life of me figure out if it has a name or who put it there. Oh well! The mystery continues!
I have been to Manson Park many times over the years, always during the big Egg Festival. It’s a really nice park with a full baseball diamond (complete with dug out) a public swimming pool, several play ground type areas, some scenic picnic spots near the river, and lots and lots of open space to run wild and free on. Honestly this park is better than most city parks I have seen. STILL, I had no idea what this whole damn bridge debate was about so I herded my mother in the car and off we went.
I parked in the lot aside the river and it didn’t take me long at all to locate the bridge. I could see it, though I was uncertain how to get there, I knew I could because there were two women sitting out there chillin’. I walked alongside the river until I couldn’t anymore and found a footpath through the grass not far away which led into the woods and onto the bridge.
THIS BRIDGE IS MENTAL. No seriously, it’s proper scary. It’s a long suspension bridge weighted down on both sides by trees. Trees which, mind you, had grown in the past 30+ years and who were literally being slowly cut down by the wires… This DIY Maine engineering is common out here but always scares the crap out of me. Getting onto the bridge was no better. It swayed and swung in the breeze, lurching back and forth and wobbling heavier with every step. The two women chilling noticed us walking out and they walked off…. they probably know something we don’t. By the time I got to the sections that were missing boards I was more than a little unnerved. If you’ve ever seen the video of 
All that being said it was gorgeous! And attached to a trail on either side which led god knows where… I made my way up to the train tracks before turning around… 85 degree weather will put a damper on anyone’s desire to explore! All and all this was totally worth it… if not just to be grateful for being alive…
