The Diverse Pleasures of a Dark Day

Obviously some of the accounts on this blog are fictitious, because I like to make up illegal happenings for the sake of "spice..." This post in particular is shaded by a recent lecture given by an administrator for the Bar Harbor Whale Museum which touched on the illegality of interfering with sea mammal remains... Islanders are far more law-abiding than I would ever make them out to be. And you know, life much less salacious. Finally, the boys of autumn really require more specific identities, so let them be the Tall and the Dark.

It is a truth universally recognized that the best way to experience a late November squall is from the comfort of a cushy chair, before a fire, with a hot drink and a good book. Today was such a day, and- gift of gifts!- the squall coincided with Saturday. I got up late and put blankets in the wash. Cats are picturesque and warm reading partners, but they are always leaving their fur behind. I puttered about in gentle productivity until two in the afternoon, when an assertive knock sounded on my door- and an increasingly familiar pirate-like face looked in through the glass.

Amendment: it is a truth universally recognized by book, bath, and cocoa lovers that the best way to experience a late November squall is from the comfort of a cushy chair, etc... but there are those who think it is best to hike through the woods to a beach where there's a whale carcass. Truth be told, I had nothing better to do that I couldn't put off, and I love a good walk through dramatic weather- it is like being in a book! Before we embarked on the adventure, the boys headed out to run some errands, giving me a chance to change out of my Laundry Day ensemble of pajama bottoms, ex-boyfriend shirt and athletic socks, and switch into my Stormy Hike clothes (the union suit- it is all about the union suit and layers).

When they returned, we piled into their petite, nearly-clutchless truck and bombed down the road as far as the store, where I posted the new book club notice and got a few vital ingredients for my evening meal. While I shopped, the Dark edified the population of the front room with a reading from Uncle Henry's take it or leave it section. Someone had rolls of drier lint- free for the taking! Amazing what some people are willing to give up. Drier lint makes excellent kindling.

The part of the island we were headed to, Seal Trap, is not a part of the park, but it is on the way. As we rounded one of the road's many curves, the Tall, who was driving, brought the truck to a shuddering halt, and backed up- having spotted some fascinating scat. He opened his door, leaned as far out into the road as he could without actually falling, while still giving the firm impression he was, in fact, about to get literally shit-faced. After some inspection, he declared it was probably left by a coyote with digestive problems. That settled to his satisfaction, he shifted his weight back into the truck, and commenced sweet talking: "come on baby, give me some clutch..."

Obviously it was going to be an afternoon of high adventure.

We parked at the trail head, but ventured down to Moore's Harbor first to see what recent storm surges had washed up. They found some joint compound buckets, all ready for in-home agriculture. They threw them up into a field to retrieve later, and decided we'd walk along the shore to Seal Trap, since it wasn't high tide.

Now a downeast shore is not a sandy thing. At best it entails gravel: at worst it is nearly vertical granite ledge, skirted with barnacles and seaweed. The obvious implication is that it's decidedly more interesting to travel this way than on the trail through the woods. So we scrambled, slipped, climbed and jumped most of the way around the point, then cut through some trees to the mouth of Seal Trap. At long last, we reached what I could only assume was our destination, though "whale carcass" had seemed to imply more than a slick of whale grease and a scatter of bones. Their eyes wide, and jaws ever so slightly slack, the boys took in their loss. Damn the hungry ocean for reclaiming the carrion it'd spat up in summer! Looking longingly at an unattainable bone that poked out of the water five feet from the nearest rock, they hypothesized that either the body had slipped out into the mouth a little further (good for snorkeling next summer), or had been pushed to the back of the cove. Setting their hopes on the latter, as children set their starry-eyed hopes on Santa, we tromped back along the strand to the terminal end of the Trap.

And so it was that they hit boney, blubbery gold. There was the mini-leviathan, the minke, in all of its fibrous, rotting glory. The Christmas of my canopy bed and the complete set of Nancy Drew mystery novels was a distant second to their pleasure in locating the storm-tossed remains. The twinkle in their eyes and flash of their knives was worthy of the night sky in winter- a new constellation: Squalus Corpus. With admirable determination, given the smell, the Tall began to saw at the sinew still holding the head to the body, while the Dark held the skull steady. Once they had freed the massive cranium, they began to drag it up to the woods, where the ocean could not further fracture it or carry it away. Though it was only a distance of about fifty feet, it was over rock and sea weed, and through spruce. By the time they had wrestled it (still trailing flesh) to where they saw fit, they were both sweating and breathing heavily.

This major goal accomplished, the rest of the hike was all about the sheer animal enjoyment of being out in severe weather. We rounded Trial Point, and all cover was gone. The gale blasted at us from the open water of Penobscot Bay, one unending howl from the Camden Hills venting its wrath on the unbridged islands. From this vantage point I could see South clear to Matinicus, Criehaven, and Matinicus Rock Light. By this time, the vault of the sky was growing dark, and what light had graced us this day was failing. As I ran over the ledges and popple stone beach, I would stop to lean into the bluster, seeing how far I could trust the force of its breath. The waves came in large breakers, frothing the with the rabidity of the weather system. It was delicious.

Night chasing swiftly on our heels, we made our way forward, leaping along the ledges as the best foot placement presented itself, a quiet single file trio with hats on and hoods up. I am not particularly athletic, but from a childhood spent on the Maine coast I am fleet of foot over rocks: there is little that I enjoy more than the focus and grace it takes to properly gage where to land, the power demanded from one's thighs, the sheer ballsy belief in one's own balance. It is a dance, and I am a very good dancer. The cold, the wind? The best accompaniment. Seldom does professional adulthood afford the opportunity to indulge in the raw pleasure of having a body. But today I had a storm, and a strand of stone.

I was sorry to turn back inland to the proper wooded trail- though I confess, I was beginning to tire. We still had a substantial way to walk before we could get back to the truck, and my eyes were straining to find stable footing. Instead of walking straight to the trail head we went back to Moore's Harbor for the buckets. As we emerged onto the road from the Harbor we heard a throaty bark from the woods. Clearly we were not alone in the immediate area.

Returning to the truck, the Tall and the Dark took their separate stances, both at a distance and back to me. I nonchlantly searched the area for indications of who was also on the Seal Trap path, quickly noticing an abandoned windbreaker on the ground. Once they finished their business, we piled back into the truck: "come on clutch..." As both the Tall and the Dark went around to the engine to pour brake fluid where it didn't belong (but would do the trick), I spied a familiar quadriped of sturdy build trotting down the road with a growl, followed by three shapes, upright. I hopped out of the truck, and entreated the dog with a soft "Diego!"

With the exception of my labrador love, the newcomers didn't note me at first, but the ringleader greeted the brake fluid boys with "we were going to try to scare you, but you didn't come out where we expected..." Once they noticed me, the conversation shuddered to a halt like the clutchless truck, sputtering in fits and starts. From one particularly narrow silhouette, the silence was emphatic, verging on abyssal. While the Tall made small talk, the Dark came around to my side to pat the dog and offer me water from his bottle. Eventually the group came to the consensus that we should probably stop standing around, and we continued on our parallel paths with separate modes of travel: three crowded cozy in the cab of the truck, the other four on their ten feet.

It was fully night by the time the boys dropped me off at my driveway, the Dark stepping out to allow for my exit, and to suggest we meet later, the swarthy and the fair, with little height between us.

There is also a truth universally recognized concerning dark and stormy nights; even the bookish lass and the outdoorsman will agree.

That is to say: it is imperative to watch the X-Files with no lights on.