American Road Trip: Maine

Whooo -- chhhhh -- sssssss...

A real low sound made by the wind out here. Quiet Maine woods -- almost like thos Thoreau wrote about -- but not quite. Today the wind blows so hard it knocks pine needles and leaves onto me and the ground, adding to the soft natural carpet beneath me. This forest is familiar to me -- I've been coming up here almost yearly for as long as I can remember. I can find solitude out here -- the quiet peacefulness of the wind in the trees and, further down, of the meandering river.

Occasionally, the drone of a plane propeller or a car on the road remind me I'm not that far in the wilderness. But I'm in a secluded enough spot that the only person I'd see out here would be one I bring with me.

The cloud-screened sun of late August afternoon filters through to the floor of these Maine woods - illuminating leaves here, a branch there, casting shadows everywhere else. I test my accuracy -- and chance -- by throwing a rock to see how far it will cary before hitting a tree. The first makes it 40 feet or so but the next finds the soft forest floor further down the hill. I sit here a while longer before seeking out that river (by a self-made route through the underbrush), awaiting silence, the stillness of human movement, awaiting only the noise and commotion of the forest as it goes about its daily routine.

After reading through the notebook I've brought with me, recounting some of my travels for the year, I look up at the forest again, having forgotten where I was, and my eyes readjust -- and it all looks new again. I stand and walk toward the riverbank.

The river winds, the river bends and here -- yes -- silence! Birds, sure, wind, naturally -- but all else is silence.