"Kendra, look!" said my friend Jake, pointing behind me. The setting sun had painted the November sky in a kaleidoscope of purple, red and orange—a breathtaking sight. As we began our drive north to my hometown of Lee, Maine, I looked at the sky in awe. I wouldn't have noticed it if Jake hadn't pointed it out. Growing up an hour south of New Brunswick, Canada, I spent all my free time in the woods, hiking, hunting, marveling at the beauty of the forest of pines, cedar and birch trees. When had I become so immune to nature's offerings?
Time to see the forest for the trees, I decided, as the jeep passed the Maine state line on the Piscataqua River Bridge and Jake gave the horn a customary beep (going in or out of Maine, it's my family's custom to beep the horn as we cross the bridge).
Saturday was taken up with my youngest brother's wedding festivities and reminiscing with family (a favorite tale of my uncle's is when I tried to imitate a deer call while we were hunting—he claims I scared off all deer within a 100-mile radius). Sunday was slated as the day of backwoods fun. We arrived at my dad's farm a little late on Sunday morning, barely missing the skinning of the spike-horn white-tailed buck my father had just bagged, and had to settle for ogling the piece of meat strung upside down in the barn.
When my father took in my flimsy leather jacket and boots, he gave me a withering, skeptical look. My stepmother took pity on me and offered to lend me her Carhartt pants and winter jacket. While my aunt and stepmother finished cooking breakfast, my dad, Jake, my Uncle Buzzy and I went "out back" to practice axe-throwing. (One of the perks of being a tomboy in Maine is that you get to play with the boys while the "womenfolk" do the cooking.)
Using the new Truper axe my father gave me, I worked on my technique. In regulation axe throwing, the thrower stands 20 feet away from the target, a wooden bull's-eye. Just as in darts, points are allotted depending where the axe strikes and sticks. My axe never stuck. My dad, a veteran lumberjack, however, is an axe-throwing champ (he won the category in the 2007 Springfield County Fair woodsman competition). After many more throws, we went inside and "inhaled" eggs, homemade hash browns, homegrown bacon and Aunt Dolly's coffee cake.
Sufficiently stuffed, Uncle Buzzy, Jake, my cousin Paige and I took off on four-wheelers to explore. First we checked the live bait traps that my brother and father had set in a nearby stream that morning. Still empty, the traps were supposed to catch bait for the upcoming ice fishing season. Then we investigated a few beaver dams—my uncle was worried about their stability because one collapsed recently, flooding the adjacent road.
My spot on the back of the four-wheeler was perfect for breathing in the crisp, unbelievably clean country air and ogling the fall foliage. The landscape looked different than when I left 13 years ago. A crumbling shack was hardly visible— vines, like nature's fingers, were sprouting out of its windows, roof and cracks in the wall. Trees were taller, bushes fuller. Nature had reclaimed what once belonged to it. I was struck by how different this scenario was than the one I left in the Valley. There, precious woodlands and wetlands are being destroyed and altered in the name of smart growth, but here, in these northern woods, nature roams free. Is this because the local economy is stagnant (the per capita income of Penobscot County, which Lee is in, is $17,801) and no one wants to "develop"?
Back at the farm, we chose a few guns from my dad's gun closet—a .22 Ruger, a .22 Thompson Center Contender, my grandfather's .22 bolt action long rifle that I shot my first patridge with, and a .223 Thompson Center Contender—and headed to one of the farm's hilly fields. Amid moos of protest from the Scottish Highland cows grazing on the outcrop above, we set up shooting shop.
In northern Maine, besides guns and ammo, only two things are needed for target practice: cardboard and a tire. My dad laid down the ground rules—there aren't any. Stuffed with cardboard, the tire, pushed by my dad, steadily rolled down the hill. The object is to hit the cardboard as many times as you can before the tire stops rolling. This form of target practice, except that it is on the ground, is like skeet shooting, which, no matter what gun is used, is nothing like shooting a stationary target. Jake, the non-Mainer of the bunch, took the day with three hits.
Before leaving the farm to head back to points south, I took a final walk through the fields, taking a few pictures. How different would it look the next time I came back?
As Jake and I drove back to the Valley, I made a vow to enjoy the beauty and recreational possibilities of the area that I now call home. No, I don't have a four-wheeler; I can't go "out back" and shoot rolling tires; and I haven't yet found anywhere to practice my axe throwing without frightening the neighbors. But I have long ignored the nature on the outskirts of town and the looming mountains on all sides of our idyllic Valley, perfect for hiking, biking, walking and so many other activities. A trip to the Maine woods opened my eyes to what's in my own back yard.
