Our road trip — disrupted at the outset by Hurricane Elsa, in Florida — faced yet another disruption in the form of oncoming Hurricane Henri, in Maine. Luckily, our reservation at Holbrook House in Bar Harbor was up on September 21, a day or two before the new storm’s anticipated arrival. Unluckily, our (modified) plan at that point had been to head south, to Cape Code and so on — also well within the cone of Henri’s path. With this new weather evidence in hand, we chose instead to run to the west, starting with New Hampshire. We figured we’d stay there a couple nights, then head even further west into New York State. (We really didn’t want to deal with a big storm by then.)

It took a bit of legwork, especially by The Missus, to come up with someplace in New Hampshire which actually had space for a couple for two nights. (Remember, this was still the height of 2021’s tourist season in New England.) She finally located such a place, though — Indian Head Resort, in Lincoln.

The drive to Lincoln

I should at this point mention the “new” car’s idiosyncratic GPS…

The car we had until August 6 or so, in North Carolina, had no built-in GPS at all. Of course, we did have GPS apps on our phones, and this led to various “interesting” conversations about the driver’s instinctive desire to glance down at his phone to see the route in advance — how many tenths of a mile until the next turn, and so on — and the passenger’s instinctive desire to remain alive. (These conversations were made even more colorful thanks to the driver’s hearing, and his knee-jerk instinct to look towards the passenger when she was, uh, conversing.)

But the new car has built-in GPS. So the driver can sneak little down-and-to-the-right, status-checking glances without actually looking away from the road. On the other hand, the built-in GPS does not appear to be anywhere near as flexible as, say, Google Maps: it shows you the route in progress, but doesn’t (as far as we know) let you zoom out for an overview, or let you avoid highways by choice. All the way up from NC, in fact, it seemed adamantly to insist that we stick to highways…

…except that if you intentionally ignore it, it will eventually give up and accept that you don’t like its preselected routeing. (You’re following this, right?!?) At that point, it sort of sighs and adjusts its own thinking to accommodate yours.

Soooo anyhow, we set out from Bar Harbor. We knew we wanted to go to New Hampshire through Bangor, for our requisite photo-op stop at Stephen King’s old house, and then on to Lincoln — and because we weren’t in that much of a hurry, we wanted to avoid highways. If you look at a map, though, you’ll see there’s not really an east-west major-highway route to get you there; you’ll have to follow I-95 south for a ways, and then get off onto US 301, and then et cetera. Boring highways.

Surprise, surprise: the GPS dumped us off of I-95 fairly quickly, eventually leading us to NH Route 112, also known as the mouth-wateringly-crunchy Kancamagus Highway. (The name rhymes with, well, “bank in August,” and comes from the name of a 17th-century Native American chief who lived in the area. It means, roughly, “fearless one,” or more specifically, “fearless hunter of animals.)

The Kancamagus winds through White Mountain National Forest — or maybe writhes through the forest would be more precise. Definitely not the kind of drive you’d want to do “under the influence,” or in heavy weather! (Aside: driving “through” White Mountain National Forest is misleading: you’re also driving UUUUUUUPPP and DOOOOWWWN the whole time, as well as turning left and right constantly. One of those trips that passengers in the car may generally enjoy more than the white-knuckled driver. )

The Indian Head Resort

As you can see from the resort’s Web site, the place is, well, uh… not new, by most measures. Knotty-pine paneling, old exposed pipes in the bathroom ceiling, well-worn carpeting on the floor… On the other hand, it was well-maintained (e.g., those pipes seemed to have been repainted within the last couple months) and clean — very important these days, of course.

Also important for our purposes: the resort has (besides the classic tacky-touristy gift shop) a restaurant and bar.

An entry in the Interesting Conversations category: When we ate dinner, we talked a little with our waiter, whose name tag identified him as “Rovshan.” The Missus asked what country he was from; he told her twice, I think, but all she could get was that the name ended in “-stan”… and that it’s apparently a country adjacent to Turkey, a country which, well, no longer exists. (I can’t imagine being from a country I couldn’t point to on a current map. If the USA ceased to exist, would I still be “American”???) He expected to be here for only a couple more weeks until he returned, under whatever unimaginable passport he was traveling on.

[Aside: I’ve since looked up the name “Rovshan” on Wikipedia. All the Rovshans listed there are Azerbaijanis, i.e., “a Turkic ethnic group, living mainly in the sovereign Republic of Azerbaijan and the Azerbaijan region of Iran, with a mixed cultural heritage, including Turkic, Caucasian and Iranian elements.” Reading further about Azerbaijan didn’t reveal any “-stan” names, but I probably just misheard the “-jan.”]

Betty and Barney Hill

One element of our visit to the Indian Resort which most fascinated me, anyhow: out front of the place, on the shoulder alongside US Route 3, stands the New Hampshire state historic marker shown at the right.

Like any good aficionado of the old X-Files TV series and other UFO stories, I knew of Betty and Barney Hill, all right — but I didn’t know the details of the whole thing. (And I certainly didn’t expect to encounter them on our road trip!)

You can read about the Hills’ “interrupted journey” at Wikipedia, naturally. I found a couple other good sources of information:

• This history.com article, from January 2020, does a good job of covering all the important points.
• Much more recently — on August 29, just a week ago as I write this — the Showtime TV network ran an episode of their UFO series devoted to the Betty & Barney Hill case. The SyFyWire Web site reviewed the episode. (We do get Showtime but haven’t yet seen this program.)

Inside the resort’s gift shop are lots of souvenirs related to the Hills and to UFOs in general — T-shirts, commemorative mugs, bobble-headed little-green-man figurines, that sort of thing. And just up Route 3, you’ll come to the Notch Express convenience store/gas station where you can take a selfie with an alien:

We’re not sure what can possibly top this excitement, but we’ve got plenty of time to find out… Coming up next: Saratoga Springs, Schenectady, and Lake George, New York!

Okay, so you probably know much of what’s happened on our trip so far. Just in case, though, let’s bring the saga not quite up-to-date…

The car

The photos at the right summarize developments of the week or so following my last post here (from Greenville, NC, although it was about events in Wilmington). From top to bottom, briefly:

(1) Our car. I was so happy that was the only “real” damage. It was still driveable, after all! (Of course, I was a lot less happy when I read up some more on the cost of airbag deployment.)

(2) The other guy’s car. I doubt that he was happy at all.

(3) Our old 2016 CR-V on the left; rental car on the right (both parked outside our Airbnb). All the luggage and other roadtrip essentials had to be transferred from the former to the latter, so the former could be hauled away.

(4) Our “new” 2020 CR-V on the left; rental car on the right (both parked outside the hotel where we stayed for two nights, after acquiring the 2020 replacement car). All the luggage and roadtrip essentials had to be transferred from the latter to the former, so we could return the latter to the Enterprise rental location.

Not shown, because I couldn’t figure out how to include a photo: my beloved camera was apparently a victim of the accident: it turns on okay, but the little monitor screen is dead as a doornail. It’s also stuck in a “program mode” I never would have chosen, with other settings rendering it useless. So the post-accident photos shown in this post were all taken with my phone.

The travel north

We pretty much fled from Greenville on Saturday, Aug. 14, eight days after the accident.

We’d already discarded all the leisure stops and destinations between there and New Jersey, and then most of our planned New England route, still aiming to get to Maine to keep our Aug. 18-21 reservation in Bar Harbor. But of course now we couldn’t linger in NJ, either. So, we thought, let’s just gallop through the remainder of North Carolina and all of Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware, all in one go (estimated drive time: 8.5 hours or so)… to stay with The Brother and Sister-in-Law in northeast NJ for a couple nights. Thereafter, we’d make an intermediate stop in Salem, MA, and proceed on up to Maine from there.

But of course, well, nothing could be even that simple.

The fastest route north — discounting the phobia-stirring route via the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel — was all via interstate highways, principally I-95. It took us 10 hours to get from Greenville to Aberdeen, Maryland. At that point we called it quits and just stayed at a chain hotel for one night before heading north for a single night’s stay at The Brother’s place. The morning after that, we headed off Salem for two nights, thence on up to Bar Harbor for three.

Somewhere in there we got word of Hurricane Henri barreling towards New England. So we changed plans yet again — from Bar Harbor, we scooted west to Lincoln, New Hampshire, for two nights, to a Holiday Inn in Saratoga Springs for four nights of the last week of the racing season, and as of right now are at a Comfort Inn in Scotia, New York, for the last of a three-night stay. But for now, here’s a summary of our visit to Massachusetts and Maine.

Salem, Bar Harbor, Acadia, and a bit beyond

Salem: You probably know of Salem several things. You might know of the Salem witchcraft trials and executions and so on, back in the 17th century. Or maybe you know of its nautical history: whaling, lobsters and clams, great “Northeaster” storms battering the seacoast — that sort of thing. Chances are, though, you do not associate it with Lydia E. Pinkham. I turn the floor over, temporarily, to Wikipedia:

Lydia Estes Pinkham (February 9, 1819 – May 17, 1883) was an American inventor and marketer of an herbal-alcoholic “women’s tonic” for menstrual and menopausal problems, which medical experts dismissed as a quack remedy, but which is still on sale today in a modified form.

It was the aggressive marketing of Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound that raised its profile, while also rallying the skeptics. Long, promotional copy would dramatise “women’s weakness”, “hysteria” and other themes commonly referenced at the time. Pinkham urged women to write to her personally, and she would maintain the correspondence in order to expose the customer to more persuasive claims for the remedy. Clearly the replies were not all written by Pinkham herself, as they continued after her death.

The main tourism driver in Salem, over time, has become not the waterfront, let alone patent medicines, but witchcraft-and-New-Age-themed stores and restaurants, bars and museums and — who knows? — preschools. Here’s a gallery of some of these institutions:

Driving to Maine: It was a few hours up the coast from Salem, preceded by about an hour’s detour south to Marblehead, Massachusetts, for a quick revisit of the town we’d so liked staying at during our “grand literary tour” of the state some years ago. Also, we decided to skip highway driving altogether — following US Route 1 for as long as we could. We did have to take I-95 for a little while, though, and while we didn’t get into “the Kennebunks” as much as some would have liked, we did make this brief rest stop:

In the event, instead of a mere four hours to Bar Harbor, the trip took about six (leisurely) hours. We actually arrived a little after the theoretically latest allowable check-in time at the B&B where we’d be staying. (A few of you might be surprised that we — we — would arrive late.)

Bar Harbor: Holbrook House is a very nice (and rather pricey) bed-and-breakfast close to the center of town. The owners are very careful in dealing with the pandemic: masks are required anywhere in the house, unless you’re in your room or out on the sunporch eating breakfast. (The sunporch and a couple of other rooms on the main floor are the only common areas you can get into anyway.) To check in, only one person per party can leave the car — that person must be masked, and carry on the check-in and orientation conversation with one of the owners (also masked) on the front porch.

Under the circumstances, then, The Missus handled nearly all interactions with the host, Eric (since I couldn’t hear anything through his mask). Most of these were simple and more or less obvious anyhow — “How would you like your bagel prepared?” and so on. But the first conversation went on a long time, involving exaggerated eye and brow action, hand- and arm-waving, elaborate shrugs and so on, to compensate for the missing lower half of their faces. I sat in the car, watching… and thought about silent films: actors trained on the stage to project their heart and meaning to the back of the theater, suddenly robbed of that form of expression, reduced to very agitated mannequins of profound horror, grief, manic laughter, and so on…

Anyhow, the room we’d reserved was a sort of baby suite. There was a bathroom of course (more on that in a moment), and also a bedroom. But the bedroom also included — besides end and side tables and a large dresser — a, well, a love seat. It was positioned with its back to the bed and about 3-4 feet away, facing the dresser. There was no TV on the dresser or the wall, just a painting. (A bit of an odd touch. I think we both felt a little awkward about the love seat; we never sat in it, just used it to drape clothes on, to hold luggage we needed to open temporarily, and so on. We had no reason to use it for its obvious purpose, but wanted it to feel useful.)

Aside from the bath- and bedrooms, there was also a small space just inside the front door which served as a sitting-and-TV room. The TV here — flat panel, mounted about six feet up on the wall — wasn’t enormous, and didn’t need to be (given the size of the room); the room also included two armchairs and a low side table.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to experience as much of downtown Bar Harbor: it was mobbed. Eric told us later that the record tourism season for Bar Harbor was 1976 — the US Bicentennial year — with 3.2 million visitors to a town which (as of the 2010 Census) housed a mere 6,000 residents. Our 2021 visit, in contrast, occurred during the height of a season where the numbers were on track to hit four million tourists. We did have a very, very nice dinner the first night, at a restaurant called Galyn’s… seated in a nice quiet room, served exquisite food and drink by a very earnest staff. A lucky stroke, considering that we had no reservation and the pavements outside were a wall-to-wall tsunami of human bodies.

(I have no photos from that meal, probably an indication of how desperate we were to be eating at all.)

Acadia National Park: The main draw to the area in general, of course, is this park occupying much of the island — Mt. Desert Island — on which Bar Harbor itself sits. But like the town, Acadia this year was a magnet for millions of people tired of staying home or otherwise confined — which robbed our intended leisurely visit of its charm. We thought we might at least get to eat lunch in the park restaurant… but no, as it happened. (The line to get into the little gift shop practically wrapped around the building — and then there was the line to get into the restaurant proper, both lines sharing the same space, side-by-side.)

That said, we did make the winding and a bit scarifying climb in the car to the top of Cadillac Mountain (whose panorama — showing half of the 360-degree view — tops this post). We’ll have to hope for a return visit someday, to Bar Harbor and the park. We understand there’s a brief two-week window of time between Labor Day and the onset of autumn’s leaf-watching season when visiting is optimal — so at least we have that target to keep in mind.

Leaving Maine: About a day into our Bar Harbor adventure, we got word of Hurricane Henri — necessitating yet another change of plans. So we decided to switch all the other eastern Massachusetts and Long Island stops we’d intended, yet again, and flee west, out of the storm’s projected path. (Our optimistic reasoning: we can hit the Atlantic coastal areas after doing western and upper New York state and maybe Vermont. When done in MA and Long Island, perhaps then is when we’ll finally make our way south to NJ. Of course, this depends in large part on the progress of the Fall 2021 storm season, even more than it does on our hopes!)

We did make one more stop in Maine, though: in Bangor, to the home of author Stephen King. Actually, he no longer lives there; he’s got another home elsewhere in Maine, as well as a couple other places around the country. But his old home in Bangor now houses the Stephen and [wife] Tabitha King Foundation, and we were going through Bangor anyhow, so why not jump on the photo-op wagon. Each of us took photos of the other before the large iron gate, but alas, the ones of The Missus did not meet her approval. So I’ll close for now with this one of me:

Are you thinking this was kind of tacky of us? We had some thoughts along those lines, too. But it turns out that the house draws tourists and King admirers all the time. In fact, while I was crossing the street to strike a pose, another car drove up and parked between the camera-wielding Missus and me. Just as I got to the gate and turned around, the two people in the car got out and began to set up their own selfies-and-ussies… until they suddenly realized (as in the photo shown above) I was standing stockstill, a grim smile frozen in place, looking across the street behind them. Then they skedaddled out of the way so The Missus could concentrate on the real subject of the shot.

Next time, we’ll pick up the tale from New Hampshire… where (among other things) we really had to scamper out of Henri’s way!

[The setting: Wilmington, NC. The couple has already done grocery shopping for the day’s relocation to an Airbnb, from this hotel: they’ve picked up milk and creamer, and kept it in the refrigerator overnight; ditto bottles of water and soda, a small bottle of vinegar to be used for mysterious laundry purposes (Hers), and so on. He has already filled His insulated water bottle, the previous night, and as they prepare to move their luggage down to the lobby He takes a first generous swig from it.]

He: Gaaaaaah! What the living hell did I just drink a mouthful of?!?

[He opens the water bottle, takes a whiff, gags and sputters. He checks the refrigerated plastic bottle from which He filled His own metal one.]

He: Jeezus Chr—! Why the hell was the bottle of vinegar in the refrigerator?!?

[He rushes to the bathroom sink, metal water bottle in hand. He dumps its remaining contents into the sink, continues coughing and retching, washing His mouth out with tap water.]

She (from other room): What are you doing?!?

He (spitting and coughing): I’m dumping the rest of this sh!t into the sink!

She: You’re dumping out all that vinegar? I need that vinegar for washing my clothes!

[He stares at His reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes are tearing and bloodshot. His tongue feels corrugated. His throat burns like that time when He was a kid and clumsily tried siphoning gasoline from a canister for use in a go-cart, and the fuel ran down His esophagus.]

He: I just drank vinegar, and laundry is what you’re worried about?!?

She (calling out his name): You don’t understand! I needed that vinegar for my clothes! And that little bottle was the perfect size for a trip — I’ve never seen vinegar in such a small bottle! Now we have to go back to that store for more!

[He fumbles about for a breath strip, for a second and a third breath strip. He swallows, downs a fourth breath strip. His forehead is beaded with sweat. His eyebrows will probably return to their normal altitude by evening. His throat will burn for a couple days, and He will be awash for that long in inescapable olfactory memories of dyeing Easter eggs.]

He (weakly): Okay, okay… Let me go down to the lobby for a luggage cart. Then I’ll get the car, and then we can go the store for more vinegar and then we can do whatever until it’s time to check in at the Airbnb.

She: I just really can’t believe you drank my vinegar! Jeezus!

Last night we arrived in Wilmington, NC, for just the one night at a Hampton Inn. (We’ve since relocated to an Airbnb closer to the shore for a few days after that.)

But two nights ago, ah yes: the stuff of which memories are forged:

We were spending our second night at a Sleep Inn in Charleston, SC. At 5:00 AM, I was awakened by The Missus, beating me (lightly but unmistakably) on the shoulder. Of course both my hearing aids were on the night stand, but she at least had had the presence of mind to turn on the light there, too. Result: I could at least see her lips forming a one-syllable word starting with F, followed by I—

“Fire?!?” I exclaimed, fumbling for the hearing aids. She was already donning some kind of wrap but yes-yes-yes, she affirmed, waving me to hurry. I donned one hearing aid (the main one) and an overshirt, not stopping for my phone, laptop, camera, or anything else. On my way to the door I saw The Missus emerging from the bathroom and I thought, Good idea. I ducked in there myself, “drained the keg” (as the saying goes), and then, finally, made my way to the door behind The Missus.

It was open partway, and we could see people milling around in the hallway looking very confused and tired. And then I looked down, and realized I was just in the overshirt, my undershirt and undershorts. NO PANTS. I backed away from the door, turned to one side and the other, started to walk back into the room—

And then The Missus was back. Never mind, she said, False alarm.

So, not really a Big Story. But it might’ve been. We’re just glad that for once, recently, drama passed us by.

We now have a definite must-leave-by date: next Friday, July 30 — that is, the day our hosts leave for a long-planned (and frankly, long-desperate-for) five-day drive to Michigan and back. Our intention, though, is to leave a couple-three-four days before that, to give them some time to tie up some loose ends here with their home and business.

But, well… 2021, right? The Year of Overturned Schedules. (And we thought 2020 was bad: bwaa-ha-ha!) So, not counting any chickens. We’ll just have to see.

Admin Note: please be careful how you respond to this post — at least, here on the site. As this is, for now, publicly visible, I’ve intentionally omitted many details of the “pause.” If a comment crosses the line into territory that I’ve avoided, I’ll delete the comment without asking for permission. (I will, though, let you know via email that I’ve done so.) Naturally, all comments about the “pause” — or anything else — are always welcomed with gratitude, from any of you… via email, text message, etc.!

As it happens, we’re staying put for a while more, here at the House o’ Canines. Not of course what we planned, especially in the wake of the earlier pause *shakes fist in Elsa’s direction*. But I don’t really want to talk about that stuff, because we are, after all, still Taking It Easy — and who wants to ruin things when you’re in a soft-rock frame of mind?

Besides, there’s so much more, well, important stuff to consider while we’re cooling our heels. Stuff like:

But the pictures? What about the pictures?

Since The Missus got me the “real” camera three years ago, amplified especially by the pandemic lockdown, I’ve spent a lot of time taking what might be politely called “still lifes”: photos of everyday household objects and such. So yes, I think I’ll have plenty of opportunity to continue and expand on that practice.

Taking deeeep breaths; trying (?) to develop some good, healthy habits

Without many of the comforts and conveniences we’ve gotten used to, we’l be forced to improvise new (preferably better) habits and patterns in our daily lives. I speak of comforts and conveniences like:

• Doing whatever the hell we want to, within decent limits, without worrying about other folks’ schedules and needs of the moment.
• Waking up in the middle of the night and staggering down dim-lit, familiar hallways to the darkened kitchen “just for a snack,” knocking over empty plastic containers and other noisy objects on the counter… In The House o’ Canines, even if you yourself drift like the wind, you might as well be leading a brass band at 3 AM in the morning.
• Watching hours of fitness videos instead of actually, y’know, getting fit. (“But the fourth or fifth rewatch of the original Star Trek series is even better than the third or fourth!”)

…while solidifying some bad (but at least trivial) ones

You cannot even imagine how many TV series and films I’ve been wanting to watch for the first time… you cannot imagine how many TV series and films I started but lost track of in the flurry of all the other stuff… and how many of those long-open pop-culture chapters of my life I can now close.