Yankee Magazine July/August 2023

YOUR SUMMER DOESN’T HAVE TO END

In Florida’s Bradenton Gulf Islands, you can hold on to the lightness of summer straight through the end of the year.

If you’re one of those ritualists who packs away shorts and sandals the moment mornings turn chilly and there’s a hint of auburn to the leaves, make this the year you toss summerwear into a carryon bag instead. It’s never been easier to hop a non-stop, lowprice getaway flight to SarasotaBradenton International Airport: gateway to islands where pastel beach co ages, coastal-chic shops, and on-the-water seafood restaurants make a fall stay feel like an epilogue to summer in New England. October days are beach days in the Bradenton Gulf Islands; farmers’ markets are just ge ing under way in November; and a moonlit paddle in December feels like an act of defiance for anyone who’s accustomed to the shi ing seasons up north.

The sun still cranks out daytime temperatures in the 80s through much of the fall on Anna Maria Island and Longboat Key, narrow barrier beaches in the Gulf of Mexico connected to the mainland and each other by bridges. You’ll love how it warms your shoulders yet not the pearly quartz sand that remains cool as it cushions sunset walks. Mornings are the best time to spy dolphins and manatees feeding in the turquoise-to-cobalt ombré waters that whoosh gently toward shore, leaving swirly lace pa erns and seashells at your feet.

Remarkably, the travel time here from Northeast airports like Westchester, Tweed, Bradley, T.F. Green, and Logan—about three hours in the air and less than 30 minutes’ drive or ride to the beach—is less than it would take to get yourself from Boston to Acadia National Park, from Greenwich to Lake Champlain. And, a recent proliferation of inexpensive, flexible flights (such as Breeze Airways’ introductory $39 one-ways and

$0 change/cancellation fees) has placed the Bradenton Area within many more travelers’ reach.

This is vintage Florida, with the Caribbean’s carefree spirit and “Floribbean” cuisine, heavy on the local harvest of oysters, grouper, and shrimp. A place where you can hop on the free Anna Maria Island Trolley from 6 a.m. until 10:30 p.m. and explore this seven-mile, threetiny-city isle end-to-end, beach-tobeach. It’ll take you to Publix for groceries. To Ginny’s and Jane E’s for a mango-pineapple smoothie and an enormous cinnamon roll.

To Shiny Fish Emporium to paint a sand dollar. To Anna Maria City

Pier for fishing, heron and pelican watching, and glorious views across Tampa Bay from the end of the planked walk.

Partying means raising a beer with other refugees from the North at a tiki bar, while a guitarist strums a forgo en ’90s tune. Or sharing a bo le of wine on your vacation home’s lanai. Most visitors choose rentals, although inns and resorts, most with pools, welcome many guests, too.

Before your reprieve from the march of the seasons comes to an end, indulge in the ideal farewell tour: a seafood-loaded omelet or coconut-ba ered French toast at the Rod and Reel Pier; a stroll through a tunnel of tropical vegetation and across so sand dunes to secluded Bean Point Beach at Anna Maria Island’s northern tip; and a stop (bring cash) at Star Fish Co. in Cortez on the way to the airport. Celebrating a century in business, it’s your dockside destination to try luscious stone crab while this delicacy is in season. Served cold with mustard sauce or warm with bu er for dunking, it is, dare we say, sweeter than lobster.

Begin planning your Gulf Islands getaway at bradentongulfislands.com.

Real. Authentic. Escape.

Real. Authentic. Florida.™

Rediscover what matters most in a place that’s worlds away from the everyday. From secluded island beaches and breathtaking nature to original cafés, shops and art galleries, this is one of Florida’s most charming destinations. Plus, getting here is easy with many nonstop flights into the Sarasota Bradenton International Airport.

Plan your escape at BradentonGulfIslands.com.

Venturing beyond Acadia reveals a world unlike any other in New England. By Wayne Curtis

72 /// To Hear the Voice of Wood Wind and water speak through the driftwood creations of coastal artisan Michael Fleming. By Annie Graves

78 /// The Collector

“For the Love of Vermont” spotlights one man’s mission to preserve the art of a state he cherishes. By Mel Allen

86 /// The Headstone Brigade

By reclaiming nearly forgotten rural cemeteries, volunteers become “challengers of oblivion.” By Leath Tonino

90 /// “‘In Trouble. Can’t Move. Could Die.’”

When a June day suddenly turns to winter, a seasoned hiker finds himself at the mercy of the Whites. By Ian Aldrich

Seen from the Bold Coast Scenic Byway, a sunset lights up the sky over Passamaquoddy Bay where it meets the Pleasant Point Reservation in Down East Maine. Story, p. 58

MORE CONTENTS

home

24 /// The Summer Place

How casual, stripped-down luxury made Shingle Style the go-to for New England’s grand “cottages.”

32 /// House for Sale

With five historic inns on the market in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Connecticut, it’s safe to say that if you’ve ever dreamed of being an innkeeper, now’s your chance.

food

36 /// Tomato Joy

From a veggie-packed strata perfect for brunch to a quinoa salad with Southwest zest, you’ll savor these fresh new recipes from a tomato lover’s cookbook.

By Amy Traverso; recipes by Joy Howard

42 /// In Season

Welcome the sweetness of summer with two flavor-packed corn recipes. By Amy

Traverso

travel

48 /// Weekend Away

There’s no better time to plan an escape to Greenville, Maine, where you can answer the call of the wild along the shores of Moosehead Lake. By Ian

Aldrich

54 /// The Best 5

These antique merry-go-rounds still thrill riders of all ages. By Kim

Knox Beckius

56 /// Shore Winners

Dive into summer fun at more than 30 beloved New England beaches. Compiled by Bill Scheller

There’s no sweeter perfume

mansions as a backdrop. By Kevin Koczwara 22 UP

The sweet legacy of Table Talk pies. By Joe Bills

(LAKE)

Sunrise at West Quoddy Head Light in Lubec, Maine; photo by Cait Bourgault

Want more Yankee? Check out our new-and-improved website, NewEngland.com, and follow us on social media!

CONTRIBUTORS

JOY HOWARD

The delectable recipe feature “Tomato Joy” [p. 36] draws on Howard’s latest cookbook, Tomato Love, a project that she says was a boon during the isolation of the pandemic. “It gave me a much-needed outlet and also helped me stay focused on the type of food writing that’s always been my passion: recipes that are inspiring and practical for home cooks,” says Howard, who lives in Western Massachusetts with her husband and their two youngest daughters.

WAYNE CURTIS

A former longtime resident of Maine, Curtis still spends summers in the fabled region he brings to life in “Find Your Way Down East” [p. 58]. After two-plus decades of exploring the area by car, foot, bike, and kayak, “sometimes I find it hard to see what’s right in front of me,” he admits.

“But then I paddle out and the fog suddenly lifts, and my breath is taken away.” The author of two books, Curtis has written for The Atlantic, American Scholar, and many others.

COREY HENDRICKSON

“Living in Vermont, it’s easy to feel a bit jealous of Maine’s sheer size and rugged shoreline,” says Hendrickson, a freelance photographer and videographer who’s ranged across Maine, including while filming for Weekends with Yankee. For this issue’s “Weekend Away” [p. 48], he turned his camera on the beauty of Moosehead Lake, and says he found himself balancing a mix of “foreboding respect for the wild landscape and a desire to experience more of it.”

“That thrilling feeling encountered in childhood—seeing shapes in clouds, faces in trees, mysteries unexplained— that’s a piece of the magic captured in Michael Fleming’s driftwood art,” says Graves, a New Hampshire writer who has frequently profiled New England artisans in the pages [“To Hear the Voice of Wood,” p. 72]. “In over a decade of writing about craft,” she adds, “his is some of the most beautiful, startling work I’ve encountered.”

As a New Hampshire native, Yankee’s senior features editor has done a lot of hiking in the White Mountains—including the Presidential Traverse, the route that figures in his story about hiker Xi Chen [“‘In Trouble. Can’t Move. Could Die.’” p. 90]. “But as the veteran rescuers I talked to were careful to point out, trouble can happen to even those who’ve logged many hours on those trails,” he says. “I don’t think I appreciated that or understood that until I did this story.”

CAIT BOURGAULT

Born and raised “in the great state of Maine,” Bourgault fell in love with photography in high school and later attended the Salt Institute of Documentary Studies. Now an established freelancer who works for clients like L.L. Bean and The New York Times, she says photographing “Find Your Way Down East” [p. 58] left her “fascinated by the beauty and peace of Down East Maine. It feels untouched and filled with so much history and pride, and hard-working people.”

Yankee Publishing Inc.

1121 Main St., P.O. Box 520, Dublin, NH 03444 603-563-8111; editor@yankeepub.com

Publisher Brook Holmberg

EDITORIAL

Editor Mel Allen

Managing Editor Jenn Johnson

Senior Features Editor Ian Aldrich

Senior Food Editor Amy Traverso

Senior Digital/Home Editor Aimee Tucker

Travel Editor Kim Knox Beckius

Associate Editor Joe Bills

Associate Digital Editor Katherine Keenan

ART

Art Director Katharine Van Itallie

Photo Editor Heather Marcus

PRODUCTION

Director David Ziarnowski Manager Brian Johnson

Senior Artists Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka

DIGITAL

Vice President Paul Belliveau Jr.

Senior Designer Amy O’Brien

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Marketing Specialists Holly Sanderson, Jessica Garcia

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Vice President Judson D. Hale Jr.

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Director Kate Hathaway Weeks

Senior Manager Valerie Lithgow Specialist Holly Sloane

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Taking Care

ometimes, if we listen to the news or scroll through social media, we may be tempted to despair over whether people look out for each other in these fractious times. Recently I heard a researcher on NPR describe the toll on our bodies and spirits as we absorb the news of the day; he likened it to antelopes on an African plain unable to feel safe from lions. Heavy stuff. But inside these pages, we tell a different story: New Englanders who look out for each other, whether alive or deceased. And we take you to a place where thousands of acres of some of the wildest and most precious coastal lands in the country have been forever preserved for future generations.

Last year, on a day in mid-June, an experienced hiker named Xi Chen found himself in danger when the weather turned during his attempted White Mountains traverse. Yankee senior editor Ian Aldrich’s story about Chen [“‘In Trouble. Can’t Move. Could Die,’” p. 90] serves as a reminder that New England’s mountains, so alluring for their beauty and ease of access, demand both expertise and a healthy sense of caution. But at the heart of Aldrich’s writing are two very human stories: one about an adventurer who needed help, and the other about the Mountain Rescue Service volunteer climbers who set out in precarious terrain and fierce weather to find him.

In a far different setting, volunteers in Vermont devote hours to another kind of rescue mission: restoring small rural cemeteries and their time-battered memorials [“The Headstone Brigade,” p. 86]. Even though it is likely that few descendants of the departed still live nearby, and the lives of those buried on these grounds have long

been forgotten, the work is being done as if all these stones belong to loved ones.

And then there is our cover story, “Find Your Way Down East” [p. 58]. When my wife and I came to Maine in the winter of 1970, we did not own a car. We saved up, paid a few hundred dollars the next summer for a 1960s Rambler sedan, and set out to discover this place we now called home. We went north to Moosehead Lake, then over to the coast, stopping where Maine met Canada. I had grown up in a place where “coast” meant miles of sand meeting ocean waves, where boardwalks were lined with shops and restaurants and carnival-like rides. This was not that. This was boiling tides, lobster traps piled high outside modest wood-framed houses, fog, and daunting cliffs. And wild beauty that was unlike any I had seen. “Find Your Way Down East” will lure you to push on past Bar Harbor and Acadia, to find what I did 50 years ago. And because of the devoted efforts of so many conservation groups, what you see will be much like what I saw— something that can be said of few places in the country these days.

A final note: Over the past months, the Yankee digital team has transformed our website, NewEngland.com. If you have not poked around its pages lately, I urge you to come and explore. It’s a chance to turn off the news, give your inner antelope a rest, and browse lots of fun and inspiring things about this unique region we call home.

Mel Allen editor@yankeepub.com

Summer’s Scent

When I was growing up, my mother had a clothesline a good distance from the house, beside a grove of trees. This was a matter of modesty, as both my father and my mother seemed to agree that the business of hanging out one’s laundry exposed private items that one would just as soon not have the neighbors view. And so they positioned the clothesline discreetly.

When my mother’s front-loading Westinghouse finished its cycle, she and I would walk down to the clothesline together, carrying the basket between us, and hang the clean laundry out in the sun. My father had built the frame from cedar posts and pine boards with several lengths of clothesline strung between. My mother instructed as I pinned the clothes to the white roping: hang the blue jeans from their cuffs and pull the pockets inside out so they will dry too; hang the shirts from their collars; socks should

be hung from the toe end. I recall feeling connected to each piece of clothing, whether it was mine or someone else’s, as I hung it in the hot sun. It took both of us to hang the sheets, extending them tightly. And while we worked, my mother and I often talked in ways we did not at other times. When everything was hung, we would leave the laundry swaying gently in the summer air. At the end of the day, we would return to the dry and fragrant clothing, as good as any ripe harvest.

There was a special scent that came out of those clothes, especially the sheets. “Smells of the sun,” as my mother would say. I wondered how anything as invisible and intangible as sunlight could have an odor. Nothing else I could ever think of smelled like the sun. But I loved getting into bed at night with those clean sheets, and the scent of summer.

Back then, in the ’50s and ’60s, everyone had a clothesline, and when we were out in the car we enjoyed pointing

out particularly colorful or interesting displays. To us, clotheslines offered clues to the mystery of each house we passed. One old lady lived alone, and her bloomers often puffed out in the breeze in a sad, solitary sort of way. I had never seen her, but I had those bloomers to start my story about who she was and what her life was all about. Some women seemed to take pride in the way their clothes were arranged on the line, almost as if the clothing sent signals about order and thought. Especially admirable were the ones who hung the clothes in categories and ascending sizes, with the children’s socks gradually expanding to the adult sizes, and the underwear as well. This always amused my mother, who felt there were limits to how much time she would spend on such a task. And yet we enjoyed the precise, almost militaristic displays. Most of all, we enjoyed the colors, a palette like no other.

My mother, bless her soul, never owned a clothes dryer in her long life. I, in my modern life, have taken clothes dryers for granted. They are handy and convenient. But I’ve always maintained a clothesline, and use it when the weather is right.

When I moved to my rural farm, I noticed that the clothesline was in a place that was not, in fact, particularly sunny. But like my mother’s, it was hidden. I canvassed the property for a sunnier location. There was really only one place: beside the horse barn, in full view of the road. On good days, I carry the clothes basket out to the line and pin my laundry into the sun. By afternoon it is dry and scented with summer’s warmth. I sometimes think I see cars slow as they pass the house, checking out the clothes and seeing what they might have to say.

Editor’s Note: First published in July/ August 2001 and slightly abridged here, this is one of our favorite “Mary’s Farm” columns by Edie Clark. She still hopes to return to writing one day and welcomes notes from her fans c/o Yankee

There’s no sweeter perfume than that of fresh-washed clothes in the sun.

TAKE A MOMENT TO ENJOY MASSACHUSETTS MUSIC & FOOD FESTIVALS

Even before it officially became a state, Massachusetts had already proved it knew how to throw a party: On July 4, 1777, with the ink on the Declaration of Independence scarcely dry, the skies over Boston Common lit up with fireworks in honor of the nation’s founding. Today Boston’s multiday Fourth of July celebration, the largest in the nation, ushers in the Bay State’s peak festival season with a bang.

From the Berkshires to Cape Cod, visitors are invited to join in community events that make the most of summer’s breezy days and balmy nights and among the biggest crowd-pleasers are the state’s colorful array of music and food festivals. Drawing on local, national, and international influences, these summer highlights are worth planning a trip around, but there are so many options you can easily add on one or more to any vacation plan, including family getaways.

LET THE MUSIC PLAY

For fans of folk, roots, and rock, two of the hottest tickets in July can be found a mere 30 miles from Boston, starting with the South Shore’s Levitate Music & Arts Festival (July 7–9) at the Marshfield Fairgrounds: Now in its 10th year, this family-friendly event lets you dance to the music of top performers like Ziggy Marley and Brandi Carlile, peruse crafts by 60-plus artisans, and fuel up at more than two dozen food trucks. For the longestrunning, second-largest free folk festival in the U.S., head north to the Lowell Folk Festival (July 28–30) to hear everything from Chicago blues to rockabilly to music from Haiti, Afghanistan, and Ukraine and enjoy food and dance performances from around the world. The concert scene continues to sizzle into late summer with Beach Road Weekend (Aug. 25–27) on Martha’s Vineyard, featuring Mumford & Sons and Bon Iver among the headliners, and

the Wormtown Music Festival (Sep. 15–17), a weekend of camping and music in Greenfield that channels Woodstock vibes.

If you tend to frequent the classical end of the radio dial, look for the venerable Cape Cod Chamber Music Festival (July 25–Aug. 18), which in its 40-plus years has featured the likes of Yo-Yo Ma and Joshua Bell when they were still rising stars. Jazz aficionados, meanwhile, can get their fix in the hearts of two lively Massachusetts cities with the Springfield Jazz & Roots Festival (July 21–22) and the Salem Jazz & Soul Festival (Aug. 19).

No mention of Bay State music offerings, however, is complete without Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra: From June through August, this world-renowned festival delivers the best in jazz, opera, classical, and pop music plus drama and dance against the backdrop of the beautiful Berkshire Hills.

BRING YOUR APPETITE

Summer in Massachusetts transforms the great outdoors into our favorite dining room, with patios and picnic tables calling at every turn. And few things taste better alfresco than summer-ripe berries, crisp beers, and fresh seafood—all of which take starring roles in the Bay State’s food festivals. In Western Massachusetts, the Charlton Blueberry Festival (July 30) blends big berry flavor with small-town appeal for a day of kids’ activities, local crafts, and blueberry treats galore. Down in Stockbridge, art lovers get a heady double bill at the Norman Rockwell Museum’s Art of Brewing Festival (Aug. 12), pairing regional

craft brews and tasty food truck fare with a chance to explore the world’s largest collection of Rockwell’s art. As summer winds down, the oldest working fish pier in the U.S. welcomes thousands to the Boston Seafood Festival (Sep. 10), with a traditional lobster bake, oyster-shucking contests, chef demos, and seafood sampling galore.

If your palate craves international flavor, Massachusetts offers food from around the world as part of its vibrant cultural festivals. Live reggae provides the soundtrack for Boston JerkFest (July 8), serving up spicy delights from the Jamaican jerk cooking tradition, while lion dancers add joyful color

August Moon Festival in Quincy (Aug. 20), an Asian harvest celebration where you can sample such delicacies as fresh-baked mooncakes. In Raynham, the soaring golden spire of Wat Nawamintararachutis, the largest Thai Buddhist temple outside Thailand, marks the site of the fourth annual Thai Food and Culture Fair (Sep. 3). Want a bit of everything? Try Peabody’s International (Sep. 10), celebrating diversity through music, art, and great eats from more than 65 food vendors.

More globe-trotting feasts can be found statewide thanks to the churches and cultural clubs that help bring Massachusetts’s rich immigrant heritage to life, including an Oktoberfest in Walpole (Sep. 9–10) hosted by New England’s oldest German-American cultural club, and a food-and-music-filled Armenian Fest at St. Mark Armenian Church in Springfield (Sep. 3). But in terms of size and history, New Bedford’s Feast of the Blessed Sacrament (Aug. 3–6) is a league of its own: Founded by four Madeiran immigrants in 1915, it has grown into New England’s largest ethnic festival and the biggest Portuguese feast in the world.

PHOTO CREDITS: JEREMY DRIESEN, COURTESY OF BEACH ROAD WEEKEND (FESTIVAL CROWD); HENRY MARTE, COURTESY OF LOWELL FOLK FESTIVAL (MUSICIAN); BRIAN SAMUELS (SEAFOOD); LOVE_LIFEISTOCK (BERRIES)

CLOCKWISE FROM OPPOSITE: Beach Road Weekend on Martha’s Vineyard; Lowell Folk Festival; Boston Seafood Festival; Charlton Blueberry Festival

LIGHT

Sights to Behold

Newport’s famous Cliff Walk brings you to the edge of the sea with Gilded Age mansions as a backdrop.

BY KEVIN KOCZWARA | PHOTOS BY CATE BROWN

An old man sat on a bench and strummed a guitar, his case open in front of him for tips. A young boy’s mother coaxed him to go over to the man to get his picture taken. The man kept singing, kept strumming. Some of the crowd at the top of the 40 Steps, a landmark on the Cliff Walk in Newport, Rhode Island, walked past, their journey along this part of the 3½-mile path nearly finished as an exit point beckoned nearby. Parents held their children in the warm rays of summer. The little boy finally

got close enough. The man turned his head to look at him as he sang. The child’s mother took the picture and laughed. My wife and I were just beginning our walk when we sat next to the man and his guitar. I had miscalculated our directions and missed the start of the Cliff Walk. We found our way to the 40 Steps, which once led right down to the water, and walked down the steps onto the rocks at the end. Families congregated there, and selfie sticks came out for pictures. We ate our packed lunches while watching the waves lapping against the rocks. The steps make a natural end point for many people, a safe place to leave the walk before the footing turns dicey. After the 40 Steps, the lavish 19th-century mansion known as The Breakers is the next spot to leave before the Cliff Walk transforms from a leisurely stroll with a few challenging moments into more of a rock-climbing adventure.

The cliffs of Newport differ from other famous cliffs, though, like those of Dover or Moher. They don’t feel like the ends of the earth the way the others do. The Cliff Walk inspires a different kind of infatuation and sense of awe. It offers the ability to peer into the American dream of wealth and power—of owning a home so large that it could live only on a cliff’s edge.

Founded in 1639, Newport began its transformation into a vacation spot for the well-to-do in the 1800s. The wealthiest families from Boston, New York City, and Baltimore started building their summer “cottages” here in the 1850s. When the Gilded Age arrived, Newport became where the one-percenters built their second homes, secluding themselves from the busy beaches filled with the workers who lived closer to the factories.

As it took shape in the 1880s, the Cliff Walk—a public right-of-way over private property, including some of Newport’s oldest and grandest estates—gave people whose view of the ocean had been blocked by the mansions not only access to vistas of crashing waves, but also a way to peek into a hidden world.

Storms have taken their toll on the Cliff Walk, though. For more than a year there’s been a detour off Narragansett Avenue due to damage—and not for the first time. Hurricane Sandy in 2012 caused closures and cost some $5.2 million in repairs. Before that, the path needed rebuilding after the Hurricane of ’38 washed much of it away. The path now has more railings and a more family-friendly vibe to it, thanks to the improvements.

As we walked, the concrete path became a jetty for a time, and then just a direction along some large rocks. When we reached The Breakers, my wife climbed down

Winding between opulent homes and the ocean, the Newport Cliff Walk offers the same views that wealthy 19th-century homeowners paid a pretty penny to secure for themselves.

the side of the wall and onto the rocks below. She explored the pools. Waves crashed nearby. While the crowd above bustled past, we felt the ocean spray, the thing that brought vacationers to Newport in the first place.

We ventured farther along the trail and became more and more alone. The wind picked up and cooled us from the more strenuous climbs. The rocks became more interesting, more open and accessible. There were pools with algae and seaweed. As the landscape opened, we also saw more “Private Property” signs; the homes somehow felt bigger, and bolder, the farther we got from downtown.

Near the finale of our walk, the path lost its ocean view as vegetation on both sides connected, making it feel like a secret passage in a children’s story. We

came out near a beach with only a few people on it. A sign read “Private.” We had arrived at Bailey’s Beach, a private beach club founded in the 1890s to give the elite some distance from the working class at nearby Easton’s Beach. When the wealthy families built homes along the cliff, they were deeded passes.

Next to Bailey’s Beach there’s a small patch of sand called Rejects Beach. We walked onto it and took off our shoes. We dipped our feet into the ocean. The water, clear and blue, felt warmer than expected. We could see over to the private beach. We could dream, just as we can dream of living in the homes along the walk. It’s that perception that feeds us. We can’t have the homes, we won’t ever belong to the Bailey’s Beach club, but for generations the Cliff Walk, the easy and the hard, has been here for old men with guitars, young families, joggers, couples holding hands. Even as property owners at times have tried to put up obstacles, walkers continue striding by, inhaling the sea scent, listening to waves on rocks, a sound we hear better than anyone inside their palaces.

An ornate gateway marks the boundary of The Breakers, a 13-acre estate featuring a 70-room mansion built by Cornelius Vanderbilt II.

TUNE IN FOR MORE! Newport is famous for not just its Cliff Walk and grand mansions, but also its world-class sailing scene— which is featured on the newest season of Weekends with Yankee. To find out where to watch, go to weekendswithyankee.com.

While the crowd above bustled past, we felt the ocean spray, the thing that brought vacationers to Newport in the first place.

Snack in the Box

The first pie I ever tasted was a Table Talk pie. Well, I don’t really know that for certain, but the odds are good. After all, those iconic red-and-white pie boxes have been a ubiquitous presence in New England supermarkets—and on the tables of families like mine—for a century.

In 1924, a couple of Greek immigrants named Theodore Tonna and Angelo Cotsidas started a bakery in Worcester, Massachusetts. Their bread was a hit, but it was the pies they’d cook at night and sell the next day that got people buzzing.

Aluminum pie plates from those early days, stamped “New England Flaky Crust Pie – 10c Deposit,” have become popular collectibles. They’re fun to throw, too—in fact, Table Talk acquired the Frisbee Pie Company in 1958, just as Wham-O was borrowing the name to brand its famous pie pan–inspired flying disc.

As for the Table Talk name, it was inspired both by Tonna’s initials and by a cozy vision of American families gathering to eat and socialize. It struck a chord, and sales climbed. By the time the New York–based BeechNut Company bought Table Talk in 1965, it was the largest pie bakery in the country.

Two decades later, a series of corporate mergers and acquisitions relegated Table Talk to the scrap heap, seemingly for good. But former employee Christo Cocaine, who also happened to be Tonna’s sonin-law, bought the company out of bankruptcy and brought it home to Worcester, reopening it in 1986.

Today, under the leadership of Cocaine’s son Harry Kokkinis, the company employs more than 300 people and produces 250 million pies each year.

Table Talk pies come in dozens of flavors and several sizes, including a popular 4-inch mini pie, perfect for snacking on the go. While not quite the social centerpiece the founders imagined, perhaps, it does leave one hand free for holding your phone.

Joe Bills

The sweet legacy of Table Talk pies.

JEWELRY INSPIRED BY THE COAST OF MAINE

Twenty five years ago we began a truly serious exploration of the coast of Maine. Most spring and summer weekends my son and I would pack up and head out to some new destination, hiking some of the most remote and inaccessible portions of our coast and off shore islands.

With notebook, Nikon camera and a backpack we gathered ideas, took pictures and collected some truly lovely rocks along the way. The early explorations became the foundation for our jewelry inspired by the coast of Maine, an amazing collection of jewelry that captures the heart, soul, and spirit of Maine’s coast.

THE SUMMER PLACE

How casual, stripped-down luxury made Shingle Style the go-to for New England’s grand

he great Yale architectural historian Vincent Scully called the Shingle Style, which he coined in 1952, “the architecture of the American summer.” No wonder this born-in-New-England building type is so well loved. Relaxed, informal, wrapped in shingles with very little decorative trim, subtly rather than showily beautiful, and with names like “Breezyside by the Sea,” “Breakwater,” “Wave Crest,” and “Seacroft,” Shingle Style manses dotted the region’s rocky seacoast and its posh resort towns at the turn of the 19th century, capturing

the essence of the new leisure class and sending out a very American declaration of architectural independence.

At its heart, the style was a reaction against what was , a stripping away of the frippery and Europeanness of the Romantic and Victorian styles that preceded it, and an embrace of this country’s history. But it was a long time coming. Gothic Revival, Italianate, the French-derived Second Empire, the medieval-inspired Stick Style, and English Queen Anne— though wildly different, they shared DNA that led back to the Continent,

and they were, each in their turn over the mid- to late 1800s, wildly popular in the United States.

Two of the new style’s earliest practitioners, young Portland-based architects Albert Winslow Cobb and John Calvin Stevens, published a manifesto in 1888, seeking to bury all that old stuff, “that vast agglomeration of ornateness, imitated from everything vainglorious under the sun…. In truth there is little to commend in any of the Renaissance architecture of continent Europe; architecture inspired by the admiration for tyrants for the work of

their archetypes in the splendid, corrupt days of ancient Rome.”

So there.

As the centennial of the American Revolution arrived, there was a sense that, compared with the simpler times of 1776, the country was moving too fast, had turned urban and hard, had itself become corrupt and overly sophisticated. Magazines published articles that praised the honesty and ease of places like Cape Cod, Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Ann, and Newburyport. Copious illustrations concentrated on their

colonial architecture, and writers grew nostalgic as they discovered features that had become rare.

“The halls are wide and deep,” wrote T.B. Aldrich in an 1874 Harper’s article titled “An Old Town by the Sea,” about houses in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, “after a gone-by fashion, with handsome staircases, set at an easy angle, and not standing nearly upright, like those ladders by which one reaches the upper chambers of a modern house.”

By the time the Centennial Exhibition opened in Philadelphia in

1876, attended by 10 million visitors, the stage was set for a full-throated embrace of national roots. And make no mistake: Those roots were in New England, where hearty Englishmen— not recent immigrants from Eastern Europe or Ireland—had built their houses on the shores of a wild continent. It was the rugged simplicity of those structures, tightly shingled

The 1882 Shingle Style masterpiece called Kragsyde (FAR LEFT) no longer stands in Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts—but a gorgeous modern replica (ABOVE) can be found on Swans Island, Maine.

against the elements, that architects were looking at anew. As crucial inspiration, Scully points to the 1637 Fairbanks House in Dedham, Massachusetts, believed to be the oldest surviving wooden house in North America. “Picturesque, powerful in the expression of rough masonry and weathered shingles,” it was an assembly of familiar forms: a simple peaked roof, a saltbox addition, and gambrel wings. Now this was American.

Fueled by the money of the rising leisure class, designers gave their clients—many of them blueblood Yankees, or aspiring bluebloods—the kind of non-ostentatious luxury they cherished. It was a deft stylistic accomplishment: As Scully writes, “An antiquarian love of colonial things has been transformed by free imagination into an original architectural synthesis.”

The Shingle Style was a resort form; though some houses were built in established towns like Brookline, Massachusetts, and New Haven, Connecticut, they were more common in eastern Long Island, Newport, Cape Cod, the

North Shore of Massachusetts, and the Maine coast. Driving home the point that this was hardly an everyman’s architecture, many of the most beautiful Shingle Style buildings weren’t houses at all, but secondary structures like stables, gatehouses, coachmen’s and gardeners’ cottages, icehouses, and even bowling alleys—all on larger estates, of course. There were country clubs, yacht clubs, casinos, fishing and shooting clubs, chapels, and a few exclusive hotels as well.

High-style and beautiful, it was the first truly homegrown American archi-

tecture, and its creation coincided with the formation of the country’s first real class of professional architects. Most Shingle Style buildings were built between 1880 and 1910. In the 1890s there were only nine architectural schools in the U.S.; by 1912 there were 32, with triple the enrollments. Some of the greats were Stevens, Cobb, H.H. Richardson, William Ralph Emerson, and the firms of Peabody and Stearns and McKim, Mead and White.

Their buildings were nearly free of the fretwork and flourishes of their predecessors—“innocent of ornament,” as the historian Margaret Henderson Floyd put it. Dark-stained or untreated shingles stretched over irregular massing—often with a turret or two and a saltbox or gambrel roofline—the taut skin giving a snug, unified feeling. Rough stone foundations made the houses look as if they sprang naturally from the living rock, and interior layouts were open and flowing, unlike rigid Victorians with their receiving parlors and sitting rooms. Halls were wide and deep again, the staircases

Rough stone foundations made the houses look as if they sprang naturally from the living rock, and interior layouts were open and flowing.

Built in 1915, the landmark Stone House in Kennebunkport, Maine, can be yours for a week (starting at $21,000).

Can you hear what silence sounds like? Or sense what fresh air feels like? When distractions fade away, does contentment fill its space? See for yourself. Ease into the pace of Maine, where the sense of place is outdone only by the sense of belonging.

Scratch to release the scent

Acadia National Park

Peaks-Kenny State Park

of Maine.

handsome and easy. Porches were deep-set, roomy, and cool. Often floors would rise and fall from room to room, mirroring the irregular earth below. And since these summer houses were usually unheated, the shingles were able to accommodate the expansion and contraction of the wooden frames through the changing seasons.

Perhaps because relatively few Shingle Style houses were built (high style comes at a high price), they have developed a devoted following, especially among architects—Robert A. M. Stern has made a career out of resurrecting the style for a moneyed clientele. But it’s not just the pros. One of the most iconic Shingle Style houses of all, Peabody and Stearns’s 1882 masterpiece “Kragsyde” in Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts, was torn down in 1929. One hundred years after its construction, a couple began building, by themselves, a replica on Swans Island in Maine, using original plans they’d discovered in the Boston Public Library. Twenty years and 6,600 square feet later, “Kragsyde

II” was completed, an American original reborn.

And this year on the island of North Haven in Maine’s Penobscot Bay, final touches are being put on a brand-new six-bedroom home that sits firmly in the Shingle canon. Architect John Titt mann, of the Boston firm Albert, Righter & Tittmann, cites William Faulkner’s famous quotation when thinking about its design: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” “We’re singing the same songs as those earlier architects,” Tittmann says, “responding

to cultural and practical conditions in a similar way.” The house is sited carefully, out of view from the public road, with eaves pulled down to make its twostory mass read more like one. Porches and recesses yield deep shadows, while a blanket of unpainted shingles wraps the many facets of the building in a snug embrace, keeping it weathertight as a sou’wester coat does a sailor. “The construction crew is local—they fish and build year-round. They know how to work with shingles because they use them on their own houses,” he says.

A final, delightful connection to the past: It’s truly a summer house, with no air-conditioning and no central heat. “The porches will keep the summer sun out of the living areas, and the sea breeze will do the rest,” Tittmann reports. The architecture of the American summer indeed.

Bruce Irving is a Massachusetts-based renovation consultant and real estate agent who also served as the producer of This Old House for nearly two decades.

Fueled by the money of the rising leisure class, designers gave their clients the kind of nonostentatious luxury they cherished.

With careful edits to the original structure, architect Patrick Ahearn helped breathe new life into this 1888 Shingle Style mansion in Osterville, Massachusetts.

SIDING: Uniform, unpainted shingles, sometimes with stone on the lower level.

NEW ENGLAND ARCHITECTURE 101

SHINGLE STYLE

ROOF: Asymmetrical front facade with a multigabled roof.

WINDOWS: Plentiful and in a variety of shapes and sizes.

The Shingle Style home is like a Queen Anne Victorian (see below) that’s outgrown its colorful gingerbread youth and softened into a relaxed, rambling “coastal grandmother.” While still grand and asymmetrical with an assortment of gables and windows, its signature subdued wooden-shingle siding has

made it a natural top style for modern beach house builds.

Time Period: 1880–1900

Characteristics: Wooden-shingle siding and windows in all shapes and sizes

Famous Example: Kragsyde, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts

QUEEN ANNE

ROOF: Steep with cross gables or large dormers.

EXTERIOR: Asymmetrical; typically painted in three or more colors.

The final “Victorian” style and contemporary with the all-American Shingle, grand Queen Anne homes are like dreamy medieval dollhouses complete with turrets, vibrant paint jobs, ornamental trim, and wide front porches.

Time Period: 1880–1910

Characteristics: Bay windows, turrets, towers, and bold multicolored exteriors

Famous Example: The “Painted Ladies”

PORCH: Wide and expansive; often wraps around the side.

Where to Find Shingle Style Homes: Many remain in private hands, but a respectful visitor can enjoy exterior views by visiting Maine neighborhoods such as Delano Park in Cape Elizabeth, Ocean Avenue and its back streets in Kennebunkport, and Cushing Island in Portland.

TOWER: A round or polygonal front corner tower with a conical or domed roof.

WINDOWS: Large, single-pane windows and frequent projecting bay windows.

PORCH: Expansive and boasting decorative “gingerbread” spindlework wood trim.

of San Francisco, California

Where to Find Queen Annes: Throughout New England in every size, from wee cottages to grand mansions

Join the Inn Crowd

BY JOE BILLS

Cozy rooms. Fireplaces. Home-cooked meals. Guests from near and far. Knowledgeable, friendly hosts who love what they do. Whether your ideal New England experience is a view from a mountaintop or a stroll down a timeless Main Street, a classic inn stay is the seed from which so much can grow. In fact, an overnight in a historic inn is such a quintessential New England experience that we can think of only one thing even more quintessential: owning one!

If, like Bob Newhart’s famous TV character, you’d love welcoming guests to a New England inn of your very own, here are five real-life opportunities to make that dream a reality.

BOARDMAN HOUSE INN

8 Norwich Road, East Haddam, CT; boardmanhouse.com

Located on the Connecticut River close to the venerable Goodspeed Opera House, Boardman House Inn is a treasure of Connecticut’s Gilded Age. Built in 1860 as the home of silversmith Norman S. Boardman, the mansion was renovated in 2004 and features a wealth of modern conveniences alongside callbacks to its rich past (think: crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, hand-carved marble fireplaces). Boardman House has greeted guests since 2010 and was named to Yankee’s Best of New England Hall of Fame in 2020. Price: $1,250,000

• Square Feet: 5,450

• Acres: 0.49

• Bedrooms: 8

• Bathrooms: 7 (Derek Greene, Greene Realty Group, 860-560-1006, office@thegreenerealtygroup.com)

If you’ve ever dreamed of being an innkeeper, now’s your chance.

Boardman House Inn, East Haddam, Connecticut

ADAIR COUNTRY INN & RESTAURANT

80 Guilder Lane, Bethlehem, NH; adairinn.com

The first thing you’ll notice is the inn’s breathtaking views of the White Mountains’ Presidential Range. But the foreground isn’t too shabby either, with lush landscaping designed by the Olmsted brothers complementing the 1927 main building, which since 1992 has served as an inn with 11 guest rooms (plus three more in the guest cottage). With a full commercial kitchen and a formal dining room, the Adair is black-tie-ready, but when guests want something more laid-back, the speakeasy vibe of its downstairs Granite Room beckons. Price: $2,699,000 • Square Feet: 8,300 • Acres: 156.11 • Bedrooms: 14 • Bathrooms: 16 (Keegan Rice, Badger Peabody & Smith Realty, 603-823-5700, keeganr@badgerpeabodysmith.com)

THE OXFORD HOUSE INN & RESTAURANT

548 Main St., Fryeburg, ME; oxfordhouseinn.com

Just an hour from Portland, the Oxford House—which once earned Yankee’s “Best In-Town Country Inn” designation—is perched on the cusp of New Hampshire’s White Mountains and Maine’s western lakes. Built in 1913 as a private residence, the inn has welcomed the public since 1985. With a cozy, granite-walled pub on the lower level, a 50-seat restaurant with a fireplace, and exquisite woodwork throughout, the Oxford House checks all the boxes. In summer and fall, guests kick back on the porch, where grand views are punctuated by the scent of flowering vines. Price: $849,000 • Square Feet: 5,660 • Acres: 1.22 • Bedrooms: 5 • Bathrooms: 6 (Dana Moos, Swan Agency Real Estate, 207-266-5604, dana@danamoos.com)

THE HUNTINGTON HOUSE INN

19 Huntington Place, Rochester, VT; thehuntingtonhouseinn.com

On Vermont’s scenic Route 100, the beautifully restored 1806 Huntington House is the antidote to stressful city life. Located on the four-acre Rochester town green, the six-room inn and its accompanying restaurant and tavern are surrounded by small-town pleasures, from concerts in the nearby gazebo to a strollable downtown filled with galleries and shops. The Green Mountains are a glorious backdrop to it all. Just a bit farther afield, popular ski destinations await, as do backcountry trails perfect for hiking, mountain biking, and cross-country skiing. Price: $989,000 • Square Feet: 4,744 • Acres: 0.77 • Bedrooms: 6 • Bathrooms: 9 (Eric Johnston, Four Seasons Sotheby’s International Realty, 802-779-1903, eric.johnston@fourseasonsSIR.com)

MONADNOCK INN

379 Main St., Jaffrey, NH; monadnockinn.com

Located in Jaffrey Center, at the foot of Mount Monadnock, the inn boasts roots stretching back to 1870, when an earlier building here welcomed summer tourists. Since then, it has served as base camp for generations of hikers and a gathering spot for locals. The restaurant, pub, and porch combine to seat more than 90, and the guest rooms have been updated to keep things warm in winter and cool in summer. The pandemic slowdown may have roughened the edges a bit, but a little polish will return this gem to its former splendor. Price: $575,000 • Square Feet: 6,857 • Acres: 1.49 • Bedrooms: 11 • Bathrooms: 12 (Bill Goddard, Coldwell Banker Realty, 603-673-4000, bill.goddard@nemoves.com)

Beyond

the Obvious Blue Sapphire

Is it possible jewelry can make a difference? Is it possible that jewelry can possess powers beyond the obvious, powers to change a life? Powers to re-direct the course of your days in ways you might never have dreamed of, to surprise, delight and thrill you. We live on a blue planet. Blue sapphire channels Earth’s energy. The color blue collects Secret hopes, wishes, dreams and desires. The brilliance pushes forward all those possibilities. Those mysteries of gem power have been known for hundreds of years. Everyone feels it, which is why blue sapphire is the world’s most loved gem.

Do all sapphires hold this energy potential? Not really; only certain gems do. Some jewelers know how to select and choose gems, and they can feel the pulsing possibilities of the power within. There are a few jewelers in America who truly understand... we honor them.

This ability to hear the whispers of the mystical aspects of blue allows certain jewelers to know which gems are sleeping and which gems are singing. We are always listening for the tones and melodies that are alive in certain gems. Blue sapphire gems are not all equal; they each have powerful personalities. We sit with the cutters, and we sit with their gems; we listen to them for a while.

Taking time to hear gem stories gives us the opportunity to know them more intimately and helps us decide how we will design the bracelet, necklace, ring or earrings. We set gems whose color we most love into our favorite pieces because they have the power to transform lives. We absolutely know this to be true and we suspect you know this to be true too.

Tomato JOY

Recipes to savor from a tomato lover’s cookbook.

BY AMY TRAVERSO

RECIPES BY JOY HOWARD | PHOTOS BY JOE ST. PIERRE

Oven-Baked Cod with Dill and Sungold Cherry Tomatoes, recipe p. 105

quick story: My grandparents lived in a neighborhood of mostly Italian immigrants, on a block whose rear gardens backed up against each other. Seen from overhead, the center of the block looked like one continuous garden, a crazy quilt of grapevines, raspberry patches, sweet peas, and tomato vines.

One year, the men decided they’d have a competition to see whose tomatoes would ripen first. My grandfather took matters into his own hands, tying several ripe store-bought tomatoes onto his vines in the middle of the night. It was a practical joke, but I always think of that story when I’m longing for my own tomatoes to ripen.

Joy Howard knows that longing well. As a cookbook author and food stylist, she has a more finely tuned eye for ingredients than most of us. And when it comes to tomatoes, her appreciation runs deep. “I love their versatility,” she says. “They’re filled with this rich umami flavor, but they also work in recipes with a sweeter profile, like a jam or dressing. And they’re central to everyday cooking for so many people.”

In her latest book, Tomato Love , Howard serves up dozens of tomato recipes, from a veggie-packed tomato strata perfect for brunch to a simple creamy pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, ricotta, and spinach. “I like to use tomatoes

Creamy Garlic Pasta with Ricotta and Sun-Dried Tomatoes, recipe p. 40

Southwest Quinoa Salad, recipe p. 104

as a way to add depth of flavor in a dish like the strata or a stew, or as the main focus of a pasta or tart,” she says.

The book’s recipes make use of fresh, canned, and sun-dried tomatoes for year-round use. “With the exception of a few hydroponic varieties, only buy fresh tomatoes in season, always!” she says. And now that it’s peak tomato season, it’s time to get cooking.

MUSHROOM, KALE, AND TOMATO STRATA

Though it’s more eggy than a bread pudding, a strata starts with the same rich, carb-filled goodness. Far from a light dish, it’s not the kind of thing you’d want to eat every day, but it is the kind of thing that makes for a great brunch when you want to win over your friends with food. Bonus: You can assemble it a day ahead.

8 cups cubed whole-grain bread

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

2 garlic cloves, minced

8 ounces white mushrooms, sliced

1 small bunch green curly kale, ribs removed and leaves torn into bite-size pieces

1¼ teaspoons kosher salt, divided

¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, divided

1½ cups shredded Gruyère cheese

¾ cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, for greasing the pan

1 cup halved cherry or grape tomatoes

8 large eggs

2 cups whole milk

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Spread the bread onto a baking sheet and toast in the oven for about 8 minutes, or until dried out and lightly crisped. Reduce heat to 350°F.

Warm the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the mushrooms and cook until they begin to release their juices, about 3 minutes. Stir in the kale, ½ teaspoon salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until the kale is wilted, about 4 minutes. Remove from the heat. Toss together the Gruyère and cheddar in a small bowl.

Coat a 9-by-13-inch baking dish with the butter. Cover the bottom of the dish with ⅓ of the bread cubes. Sprinkle on ⅓ each of the mushroom mixture, tomatoes, and cheese. Repeat the layers twice more in this manner, starting with the bread cubes and ending with the cheese.

Whisk together the eggs, milk, and remaining ¾ teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper in a large bowl. Pour the mixture over the strata, making sure to moisten all the bread. Use a sheet of plastic wrap to gently press the bread into the egg mixture and cover the strata. Let sit for 30 minutes or up to overnight.

Bake the strata for about 40 minutes, or until it’s set in the center, rotating the pan halfway through. Serve right away. Yields 12 servings.

CREAMY GARLIC PASTA WITH RICOTTA AND SUN-DRIED TOMATOES

There’s a trick to making a good creamy sauce, and it’s not your choice of ingredients. Heat plays a big role in making or (literally) breaking a sauce’s silky texture. Enter ricotta! It holds up to heat, and its subtle flavor is a great vehicle for other ingredients (here, it’s lemon). Don’t forget to reserve some pasta water to add in the final step so the dish turns out creamy rather than clumpy.

(Continued on p. 104)

Mushroom, Kale, and Tomato Strata

Garlicky Parmesan Corn, recipe p. 44

past decade? e old adage that “you shouldn’t pick corn until the water’s boiling” simply doesn’t hold true anymore. e reason: Today’s most popular corn varieties take much longer to convert their sugars into starches. Yes, Silver Queen and Butter and Sugar— rst introduced in the 1950s and ’60s— are still beloved, but newer supersweet varieties o er the convenience of cobs that taste like candy days after they’re picked. And the newest synergistic varieties, such as Cameo, Kristine, and, ahem, Pro t, promise all the sweetness with more nuanced corn avor.

A Bite of Sunshine

Welcome the sweetness of summer with two flavor-packed corn recipes.

BY AMY TRAVERSO

STYLED AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY LIZ NEILY

With all that in mind, I developed two new recipes for you to enjoy. e rst, a corn tea cake, uses cornmeal instead of fresh corn. But I couldn’t resist getting some wild Maine blueberries into the mix. Fresh ones are just coming into season (and they’re available year-round in the frozen-foods aisle of most supermarkets). And if you’re determined to add some fresh corn kernels to the cake, just subtract an equal amount of blueberries. e lime glaze really makes it sing.

e second is an Italian-ish take on elote, also known as Mexican sweet corn. Here, freshly cooked cobs are doused in garlic butter and sprinkled with freshly grated Parmesan (or Romano) cheese and a shower of minced parsley or basil (or both). You’ll want to take the time to grate the cheese yourself. e pregrated stu is coated in starch and just

Amy Traverso is Yankee’s senior food editor and cohost of our TV show, Weekends with Yankee

“BRANT POINT LIGHT”

On Nantucket Island

Forrest Pirovano’s painting “Brant Point Light” shows a historical lighthouse

Brant Point Light Station is located on the north side of Nantucket Island. First erected in 1746, it is America’s 2nd oldest lighthouse. Standing 26 feet high, it is the shortest lighthouse in New England and the most often rebuilt lighthouse on the east coast. The station is still in operation flashing its red light every 4 seconds and can be seen 10 miles out to sea. With the large whaling industry in the 1740s, a light for the harbor was a necessity. For those who arrive in Nantucket by ferry, Brant Point Light welcomes visitors to the island. This beautiful limited-edition print of an original oil painting, is individually numbered and signed by the artist.

This exquisite print is bordered by a museum-quality white-on-white double mat, measuring 11x14 inches. Framed in either a black or white 1½ inch deep wood frame, this limited-edition print measures 12¼x15¼ inches and is priced at only $149. Matted but unframed the price for this print is $109. Prices include shipping and packaging.

Forrest Pirovano is a Cape Cod artist. His paintings capture the picturesque landscape and seascapes of the Cape which have a universal appeal. His paintings often include the many antique wooden sailboats and picturesque lighthouses that are home to Cape Cod.

FORREST PIROVANO, artist

P.O. Box 1011

• Mashpee, MA 02649

Visit our studio in Mashpee Commons, Cape Cod

All major credit cards are welcome. Please send card name, card number, expiration date, code number & billing ZIP code. Checks are also accepted.…Or you can call Forrest at 781-858-3691.…Or you can pay through our website

www.forrestcapecodpaintings.com

softened, plus more for greasing pan

½ cup granulated sugar

1 large egg, at room temperature

1 tablespoon freshly grated lime zest (about 1 lime’s worth)

2 cups (245 grams) all-purpose flour

¹⁄

Preheat the oven to 350°F and set a rack to the middle position. Butter a 9-by5-inch loaf pan and set aside.

3 cup (60 grams) medium-grind yellow cornmeal

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon table salt

In a large bowl, using a stand or handheld mixer, beat butter and sugar on medium-high speed for 3 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a spatula halfway through. After 3 minutes, scrape down the sides again and beat for 1 more minute. en add egg and lime zest, scrape the sides, and beat until u y.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the our, cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

Add half the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and beat on low speed to combine. Scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the yogurt and lime juice; beat until smooth. Add the last of the dry ingredients; beat until combined. Fold in half the berries. Pour into the loaf pan (batter will be thick) and sprinkle with the remaining berries.

Bake until the cake starts to pull away from the sides of the pan and the center is set, 50 to 60 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the glaze. In a small bowl, whisk together the lime juice and powdered sugar.

When the cake is done, use a skewer or toothpick to poke the top all over. Pour the glaze over the cake and let it sit for 10 minutes, then remove the cake from the pan and let it cool on a wire rack. Yields 8 servings.

GARLICKY PARMESAN CORN

For the right texture and avor, it’s vital that you grate the cheese fresh, using your box grater’s nest grade. It takes just a moment and gives a wonderful result.

4 ears corn, shucked

4 tablespoons (½ stick) salted butter

2 large garlic cloves, minced

1¼ cups finely, freshly grated Parmesan cheese (can substitute Romano)

¼ cup minced basil and/or parsley

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the corn and cook until crisp-tender, 6 to 10 minutes, depending on size.

Meanwhile, in a small saucepan over low heat, melt the butter with the garlic and cook until the garlic is just translucent, about 5 minutes.

When the corn is cooked, drain completely. Arrange the ears on a platter. Pour the garlic butter over the corn, turn it to coat, then sprinkle with the cheese. Sprinkle with herbs and serve hot. Yields 4 servings.

Blueberry-Corn Tea Cake with Lime Glaze

5 Perks of

From lower airfares and room rates to lighter crowds at favorite destinations, there are many rewards to booking a midweek getaway. It’s a great time to enjoy New England’s hotels and resorts, with more opportunities to spread out at the beach, have the trail to yourself on a beautiful walk, and in general make the most of all the activities the property and its surrounding region has to offer.

Get More Bang for Your Buck

When booking accommodations, savvy travelers know their dollars go further midweek, with discounts and promotions such as “stay three nights, get one free.”

Experience VIP Treatment

Thoughtful perks designed to entice midweek travelers—such as a complimentary breakfast or bottle of wine—will have you feeling like an insider.

Go to the Head of the Line

Avoid the crowds and wait lists, and secure the most coveted appointments at a hotel’s luxurious spa or nab a table with the best view at its restaurant.

Enjoy Undivided Attention

Enjoy greater access to the property’s staff, from the concierge to the culinary team. Having more time to connect and personalize your experience will make it a getaway to remember.

Improved Work-Life Balance

By taking a few days off in the middle of the week, you can break up your routine and give yourself a chance to recharge. You’ll return to work feeling refreshed and energized.

Laid-back luxury 30 miles north of Boston. Visit our spa, dine at our restaurant, Grove, and explore the North Shore. Mention Yankee Magazine and we’ll include a welcome gift!

A fresh take on New England hospitality, OneSixtyFive blends traditional furnishings and accessories with contemporary elements to create spaces with timeless style and a relaxed, casual atmosphere. Don’t miss the cozy pub and delicious breakfast.

BRUNSWICK, ME | (207) 729-4914

ONESIXTYFIVEMAINE.COM

YOUR LOGO

Vermont’s oldest continuously operating inn, updated with tasteful and modern amenities in a picturesque historic village. See our special rates for midweek Gourmet Getaways, combining a luxury room with a 3-course meal at our award-winning restaurant.

Brief description of property here. Approximately 35 words. Brief description of property here. Approximately 35 words.

Fuel up for summer in Newport! Escape to the iconic Hotel Viking. Stay three nights and save 30% and receive a $25 gas card. Stay four nights or more and save 40% and get a $50 gas card.

Experience this legendary White Mountain resort with abundant activities and inspiring amenities, acclaimed lodging and dining, and all the peace and adventure you’re looking for. Golf and Spa packages available; stay midweek and save.

A contemporary small resort in a historic village, with distinctive accommodations and modern restaurant serving Vermont Farm Table cuisine. Offering special rates for midweek Gourmet Getaways, combining a luxurious room with an elegant 3-course dinner.

Saybrook Point Resort & Marina is a luxurious boutique resort in Old Saybrook, CT. The property features a variety of guest rooms including a unique waterfront Lighthouse Suite, an on-site restaurant, and a full-service spa.

The ultimate weekday combination of golf and spa—18 holes at the prestigious Lake of Isles Golf Course at Mashantucket, an overnight stay at the Spa at Norwich Inn, breakfast at Kensington’s Restaurant, and full use of the spa facilities. Call or book online today!

GREENVILLE, MAINE

ANSWERING THE CALL OF THE WILD ALONG THE SHORES OF MOOSEHEAD LAKE.

BY IAN ALDRICH

Morning fog hangs over the 700-foot-plus sheer cliff face of Mount Kineo, a centerpiece of the Moosehead Lake landscape.

OPPOSITE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Answering the siren call of Greenville’s Dairy Bar on a summer night; Captain Rocky Rockwell in the pilothouse of the steamboat Katahdin; a Moosehead sunrise seen from The Birches in Rockwood; a 1964 Cessna 180 seaplane, part of the vintage fleet operated by Currier’s Flying Service.

When I was a kid, Moosehead Lake was an outsize presence in my summers. A family friend owned a former boys’ camp that sprawled across a quarter mile of shoreline, and each August we’d trek deep into Maine for a couple of lazy weeks on the water. The property was reachable only by a 20-minute boat ride from Greenville; it lacked electricity and running water. Our meals came courtesy of a big wood cookstove, and our evenings were spent reading or playing cards by kerosene light in the grand lodge.

And at the end of our stay, as we packed up the Boston Whaler for the ride back, my thoughts would inevitably turn to next summer.

Today the camp is gone, and a road now reaches deep into the woods to bring visitors to the homes that have been erected in its place. And yet this neck of the North Woods remains very much untamed, with the same sense of place that Henry David Thoreau evoked in 1858, describing Moosehead as “a suitably wild-looking sheet of water, sprinkled with low islands … covered with shaggy spruce and other wild wood.”

Moosehead packs enormous presence: 40 miles long, some 20 miles wide in certain spots, with more than 400 miles of shoreline. It’s also home to more than 80 islands.

Debate swirls as to what inspired the lake’s name: Was it for its shape, or its preponderance of actual moose? Maybe both. Regardless, locals and visitors alike know that Moosehead is a special place—no surprise that U.S. News & World Report recently named it as one of the top lake destinations in the country.

At the center of Moosehead life is Greenville. While the grand hotels that once attracted wealthy summer visitors from New York and Boston to these cool forest environs are long gone, the town’s welcoming vibe remains very much intact. Restaurants like the Dockside Inn & Tavern and the Stress Free Moose cluster near the water’s edge, and come summer, the nights are tailor-made for a cone of soft serve or Maine-made Gifford’s ice cream from the Dairy Bar, savored while relaxing on a bench and watching the harbor scene.

A siren call to shoppers emanates from Kamp Kamp, a modern incarnation of the much-loved Moosehead Lake Indian Store. That retail maze of wonder had so captured the childhood imaginations of siblings Randy Coulton and Cheri Goodspeed that after it closed in 1997, they bought the building and stocked it with prints, furniture, artwork, signage, toys, and rare collectibles, and Kamp Kamp was born.

Another local institution is Northwoods Outfitters, which got its start nearly 30 years ago when Mike Boutin began renting outdoor equipment out of a small downtown

LEFT: Fine weather brings out the alfresco crowd at the Dockside Inn & Tavern in Gre enville. OPPOSITE: Picnic tables and Adirondack chairs on the dock at The Birches invite kicking back, drinking in the expansive views, and contemplating moving to a lake in Maine.

EXPLORING THE MOOSEHEAD LAKE REGION

EAT & DRINK

Dockside Inn & Tavern, Greenville: Beefy “Handwiches”

(Reuben grilled cheeses, burgers, BLTs) play starring roles at the tavern, while the inn offers roomy suites on the water. dockside innandtavern.com

Kelly’s Landing, Greenville: Pub menu and a full-service bar with a large outdoor dining area that puts guests right on the lake. kellyslanding atmoosehead.com

Stress Free Moose, Greenville: Live music, local beer on tap, and a wide range of robust fare are all on the menu at this waterfront spot. stressfreemoose.com

STAY

The Birches Resort, Rockwood: Once a prominent sporting camp, this familyand pet-friendly destination offers lakeside cabins, a big lodge, and various guided adventures. birches.com

Blair Hill Inn, Greenville: A mansion set on 79 acres with a commanding view of Moosehead Lake, Blair Hill Inn is one of only two Maine lodging properties in the elite Relais & Châteaux group. Open for dinner Tuesday through Saturday. blairhill.com

Little Lyford Lodge & Cabins, Greenville: It’s definitely rustic at this Appalachian Mountain Club property—propane

retail space. Business grew, and so did Boutin’s ambitions. Today, Northwoods Outfitters offers easy entry to Moosehead’s wilder side with clothes, gear, and guided trips for adventure-minded types.

Just across the way floats perhaps the lake’s most revered icon, the Katahdin. This wooden steamboat has been plying the waters of Moosehead Lake since 1914; now converted to diesel, it’s operated by the Moosehead Marine Museum and hosts scenic tours ranging from a three-hour trip to a full-day cruise. In addition, the Kate (as it’s affectionately known) hosts R&B dance-party cruises throughout the summer.

Moosehead’s seaplane culture is likewise renowned, as adventurous pilots have long been called upon to ferry visitors to the lake’s most remote spots. Scenic flights now make up the bulk of the itineraries, with veteran outfits such as Currier’s Flying Service and its fleet of vintage seaplanes giving passengers unmatched views of not just Moosehead but also nearby Mount Katahdin.

Around the lake, old sporting camps have been transformed into intergenerational retreats that get their guests onto the water and into the woods. One of the best-known of these

can be found in the tiny town of Rockwood, where John Willard Jr. welcomes, guides, and even offers airplane service to guests at The Birches, which his family has owned for more than half a century. Cabins line the shore, meals are served in the camp’s grand lodge, and evening gatherings take place under some of the clearest night skies in New England.

The Birches is within easy distance of another Moosehead landmark, Mount Kineo. Sacred to the Wabanaki, the mountain boasts a dramatic cliff face and is composed of rare green flint-like rhyolite, prized by indigenous hunters as a material for arrowheads. The moderate, nearly two-mile hike to the top of Kineo concludes with a final scamper up the fire tower for 360-degree views of the lake and Kineo’s verdant golf course below.

There are many more facets of Moosehead to explore: the car camping scene at Lily Bay State Park; the backwoods allure of the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Little Lyford Lodge & Cabins; the elegance of the Blair Hill Inn, a Queen Anne Victorian mansion perched on a knoll above the lake. But whether your Moosehead experience is rural or refined, you can be sure of one thing: You’ll be dreaming of your next visit even before you start your journey home.

lights, woodstove, BYO sleeping bag— but canoes and kayaks are provided, as are three squares a day. It all adds up to an unforgettable woodsy adventure. outdoors.org

PLAY

Currier’s Flying Service, Greenville: Currier’s has been giving visitors jawdropping aerial views of the Moosehead region for more than 40 years. curriers flyingservice.com

Kamp Kamp, Greenville: This landmark store is split into two halves: In one, a treasure trove of curios; in the other, an equally vast collection of “cottage chic” style in the form of furniture, prints, and artwork.

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Katahdin Cruises & Moosehead Marine Museum, Greenville: Home base for the historic steamship Katahdin and a wide display of local nautical artifacts. katahdincruises.com

Moosehead Historical Society & Museums, Greenville: Area history, including one of the state’s largest displays of Native American tools, takes center stage. moosehead history.org

Northwoods Outfitters, Greenville: From clothing to gear rental, it’s all about the outdoors at this downtown shop. Need help exploring? They offer guided tours including moosewatching outings. maineoutfitter.com

Scenic beauty and local history converge during a cruise on the 1914 steamboat Katahdin, which once towed tons of timber across Moosehead during spring log drives.

adventure awaits

Just 1/2 hour from Boston in the heart of New England each of our 21 towns and cities has its own charm. Explore the expected and discover what’s new. Historic landmarks, homes and roads traveled by literary greats, vibrant art scenes, cultural events, recreational activities, farm-to-table and varied cuisines, small country inns and luxurious hotels - all set within spectacular surroundings.

Whatever the season, whatever your interests, you’ll be hard pressed to find a more perfect adventure!

For more information about adding us to your spring trip itinerary visit merrimackvalley.org.

To plan your perfect adventure and make your own history, visit merrimackvalley.org

GREATER MERRIMACK VALLEY Convention & Visitors Bureau

Historic Carousels

BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS

Hundreds of carousel lovers are New England–bound this September. Why? It’s the 50th anniversary of the National Carousel Association’s founding in Sandwich, Massachusetts. And, “You have a lot of great carousels there,” says Patrick Wentzel, president of this preservation organization. We absolutely do. The best carousels are all a centuryplus old; they are museum-worthy works of art, yet still spinning for our amusement.

Bushnell Park Carousel

Hartford, CT

Since 1914, 36 jumper and 12 stander horses with wild, teeth-bared expressions; imperial adornments; and real horsehair tails have entertained riders

of this carousel, one of only three hand-carved by Russian immigrants Solomon Stein and Harry Goldstein that remain intact. A pavilion protects these restored masterworks and allows for a 10-month season of $2 rides; a second pavilion is available for parties. bushnellpark.org

Crescent Park Carousel

East Providence, RI

The grandest of German immigrant Charles I.D. Looff’s carousels, this 1895 creation enchants with its onion-domed hippodrome that shelters 61 expertly carved horses, a camel, and four chariots, plus the original band organ that spurs them along. Your ride this summer helps support restoration work in progress. crescentparkcarousel.org

Flying Horses Carousel

Oak Bluffs, MA

Take the reins of a National Historic Landmark. America’s oldest operating platform carousel has whirled since 1876, and it’s been a Martha’s Vineyard “must” since it arrived from Coney Island in 1884. The glass-eyed horses, with genuine horsehair tails and shaggy manes, may be stationary, but this ride is speedy enough that grabbing a brass ring is never a sure thing. vineyardtrust.org

Herschell-Spillman Carousel

at Shelburne Museum

Shelburne, VT

A gallop—or a glide, in one of two hand-whittled chariots—is the perfect breezy break from exploring Shelburne Museum’s eclectic exhibits. Last summer, 28,000 visitors rode the c. 1920 Herschell-Spillman carnival-model carousel, built during western New York’s ride-manufacturing heyday. When your horse slows and locks, head inside the Circus Building to see the 1902 Dentzel Carousel’s 40 horses, giraffes, goats, and big cats, all still with their original paint. This motionless menagerie remains a moving work of art. shelburnemuseum.org

Heyn German Carousel at Story Land

Glen, NH

The three dozen hand-carved horses on this wheelchair-accessible carousel have gone ’round in the same spot since the summer of ’67. But these unique rocking ponies are world travelers, touring Bavaria in the late 1800s and delighting Canadian National Exhibition visitors in the early 1960s before Story Land founder Bob Morrell gave them a forever home at New England’s storybook multigenerational amusement park. storylandnh.com

LEFT: A trip on the Flying Horses Carousel of Martha’s Vineyard offers a shot at that fabled brass ring. INSET: A hand-carved c. 1902 carousel lion from the collection of Vermont’s Shelburne Museum.

These antique New England merry-go-rounds still thrill riders of all ages.

Shore Winners

Dive into summertime fun at these beloved New England beaches.

COMPILED BY BILL SCHELLER

CONNECTICUT

DUBOIS BEACH, Stonington. Poking into Fishers Island Sound at the tip of Stonington Point, duBois has been called a “secret beach,” though it’s received plenty of attention from the beach-ranking media. Owned by a local improvement association, it’s a tidy little beach with placid surf, lifeguards, a wee gazebo, lovely views, a modest day fee, and—rare for town beaches—free parking. stoningtonboroughct.com

HAMMONASSET BEACH STATE PARK, Madison. Extending along a

peninsula for two miles into Long Island Sound, Hammonasset is Connecticut’s biggest beach and its most popular. A boardwalk runs for three-quarters of a mile along the sands, and along with lifeguards, bathhouses, and concessions including bicycle rentals, the park

o ers more than 500 campsites and eight rustic cabins for rent. It’s also popular with surf casters. portal.ct.gov/ DEEP/State-Parks

OCEAN BEACH PARK, New London

Sand and surf not enough? New London has a beach with all the family-fun xings: a water slide, a carousel, and other rides; oldfashioned arcade games; miniature golf; an Olympic pool; and a fullservice restaurant. Special events include movies and classic-car “cruise nights.” visitnewlondon.org

(Continued on p. 96)

Wingaersheek Beach, Gloucester, Massachusetts

TRAVEL NOTE: Facilities, admission fees, and on-site parking availability (especially for nonresidents) can vary widely. To ensure your best possible day at the beach, check the details before making any travel plans.

family fun

IS ALL AROUND

CENTRAL MASSACHUSETTS

the perfect weekend away

Fly, drive or take the train to Central MA this summer for a weekend away your whole family will enjoy. The City of Worcester has lots of family-friendly experiences, plus great local dining. Explore the surrounding towns to discover a zoo, botanic garden, living history museum, farms and excellent hiking trails. For upcoming events, visitor tips, & so much more, consider us your local guide to the heart of Massachusetts.

DISCOVERCENTRALMA.ORG start planning at on social media and on our app

Pow! Wow! Worcester Murals

Brookfield Orchards

Ecotarium

New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill

Worcester Art Museum

WooSox at Polar Park Old Sturbridge Village

YOUR WAY DOWN EAST

Venturing beyond Acadia reveals a world unlike any other in New England.

BY WAYNE CURTIS | PHOTOS BY CAIT BOURGAULT

Two hours northeast of Acadia National Park, outdoors lovers can find a quieter but no less stunning destination for kayaking, hiking, biking, and camping at Cobscook Shores, a collection of 20 privately owned parklands clustered on the southern and western shores of Cobscook Bay.

ar Down East Maine is surprisingly hard to reach for an area that contains much of Maine, a state that contains nearly half of New England.

Some of that difficulty is geographic—it’s a pretty far piece from most metro areas. But part of the challenge is also psychological. Because when you drive as far northeast as Ellsworth—about five hours from Boston if poking along coastal Route 1—you’ll be drawn as if by a magnetic force southward to Acadia National Park. That’s not unexpected. It’s one of the most visited national parks in the country, highly Instagrammable, and spectacular. You should go sometime.

But it’s also crowded. There’s almost always a conga line of summer traffic that snakes through Ellsworth and down Route 3 toward Bar Harbor. Focused on the car bumpers in front of them, travelers may not even notice the sign pointing left toward “Scenic Downeast,” even though the sign has a stylized logo depicting the sea, a pine-clad point, and a rising sun. In a state as famously understated as Maine, this sign is the equivalent of an inflatable arm-flailing tube man at a car dealership.

Few make the turn. Yet when you do so, you’ll find the crowds fall off and the terrain opens up. An hour east of Ellsworth is the historic village of Columbia Falls. A prominent family here—successful makers and sellers of holiday wreaths—have come up with an audacious scheme to lure travelers beyond the Acadia turnoff. They’ve proposed building the world’s tallest flagpole—called the “Flagpole of Freedom”—amid the rolling evergreen woods where they source their fir tips.

As envisioned, the flagpole will rise nearly 1,500 feet, or taller than the Empire State Building. Atop it will flutter “the largest American flag flown in the world,” about the size of a football field and a half, and large enough to be tauntingly visible from Acadia’s mountaintops. At the apex of the pole, like a finial, will be a multistory World’s Fair–like glass sphere/observatory, which visitors will reach by one of three elevators. From here they can enjoy views 100 miles in every direction, from Mount Katahdin to Nova Scotia.

The proposed project actually involves more than a flagpole. Around its base would be a 2,500-acre Flagpole

CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT: The last U.S. smokehouse of its kind when it closed in 1991, McCurdy Herring Smokehouse is preserved as a reminder of Lubec’s fish processing heyday, when sardine canneries and herring smokehouses crowded the waterfront; Jasper Beach in Machiasport, whose blanket of sea-tossed cobbles makes “music” when the waves go in and out; within the 12,234-acre Cutler Coast Public Reserved Land, the rugged Coastal Trail leads visitors to sheer rocky cliffs overlooking the Bay of Fundy; biking through downtown Eastport (population 1,280), just about as far Down East as you can get.

of Freedom Park. Here, visitors would be able to take scenic drives through dense forests, ride six miles of gondolas across the rolling hills of balsam fir and spruce, stay at a hotel, visit a theater, dine in restaurants, and explore a series of exhibits honoring our nation’s veterans. Also, there would be a full-scale re-creation of a historic village where “every day will feel like the Fourth of July.” The project’s founders estimate that the park will cost $1 billion to build, require 5,000 employees to run, and attract 6 million visitors each year, or about twice as many as venture to Acadia. The concept is essentially to create Branson, Maine, from almost nothing.

It’s unclear whether this ambitious project will ever be built. The project has already raised flags, mostly red. Construction had already started on log cabins for travelers (“Flagpole View Cabins”), but state officials cited it for environmental violations soon after it opened. Some vexing questions of local oversight and jurisdiction have yet to be ironed out. And local residents have wondered aloud where those 5,000 employees would reside in their village, which has a population of 500.

None of this lofty activity is actually much of a surprise. Maine’s easternmost region has a long history of folks proposing transformative, largescale projects that fail to see the light of day—from the Roosevelt-era plan to dam Cobscook Bay’s inlets and harvest the tides for electricity (1930s), to a massive oil refinery in Eastport (1973), to a liquid natural gas facility with a three-quartermile pier south of Calais (2014).

Washington County—which makes up much of far Down East Maine—has long been regarded as a problem that needs to be solved. It needs more economic development, it’s said; it needs more people, it needs to become unstuck from its ways. The towns are small, with fewer than half a dozen boasting more than 1,000 residents. There are no major resorts for travelers, nor even much in the way of motels. Dining out tends to involve picnic tables. It’s been stuck in the 1950s, and seemingly unable to find its way out.

“I mean, everyone is looking for the single magic bullet,” says Hugh French, who grew up in Eastport, where he is now director of the Tides Institute & Museum of Art. “Perhaps in an ideal world that might be possible, but I think that’s more often not the case. And I think a lot of smaller, more diverse projects can be more successful. They can also be more suited to an area like this.”

Indeed, if there’s been any trend over the past couple of decades, it’s been the abundance of smaller, low-profile

projects, many involving land conservation. While largescale land acquisitions may command attention elsewhere in the state—such as the 87,500-acre Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument, created in 2016—local nonprofits, the state, and even individuals have been acquiring and preserving tens of thousands of acres of land hereabouts, opening much of it for public use.

Washington County, it turns out, isn’t so much a monolith as a mosaic—a vast array of small attractions. It’s more about landscapes than landmarks, and part of the allure of exploring here is making these small discoveries. It’s an excellent place to develop your knack for finding where you need to be, even if you didn’t realize it.

”I’ve always had people who were adventurous,” says Bonnie Dunn, who’s owned and operated Micmac Farm Guest Cottages in Machias for the past four decades. “They like the outdoors. And most people are grateful—they’re looking for a place to get away from the crowds.”

Which is all a way of saying that the region may be gradually finding its way out of the 1950s, but doing so at its own pace, and at its own scale.

To explore this part of Maine you will certainly need a car. Yet it is equally certain that if you remain in your car, you will miss the entire region. It’s good to remember the great travel writer Eric Newby’s observation from the 1950s: “If there is any way of seeing less of a country than from a motor-car I have yet to experience it.”

Jasper Beach is a 20-minute drive south of Machias, the county seat, reached via a narrow road with sandy shoulders that snakes along Machias Bay and past open fields and small settlements. Like many beaches, Jasper Beach has dunes, except these dunes are composed of rocks, all round, some quite large and deeply hued. Walking down the beach, I was occasionally distracted by the remarkable views toward the Gulf of Maine, but generally my thoughts were of the complicated biomechanics of ankles, which needed to act like gimbals to keep me upright as the rounded rocks slid and resettled beneath me.

At the far end of the half-mile beach, hard up against flinty bluffs, water flows in a crystal stream past seaweed-

SMALL DISCOVERIES ABOUND ALONG THE COAST. AS SUCH, A JOURNEY HERE CAN FEEL MORE LIKE A SCAVENGER HUNT THAN A TOUR.

With its alternating narrow bands of red and white, West Quoddy Head Light is the only lighthouse in the country with true “candy cane” striping. Overlooking the Quoddy Narrows, a strait that separates the Maine coast from Canada’s Campobello Island, West Quoddy Head is famed as the easternmost point in the U.S.

covered rocks from a tidal pond ringed with marshes impounded behind the stone dunes. The remarkable sights command attention, but the sounds are the most memorable. The sea surges in and then pulls away, leaving the beach to mumble and mutter as the rocks agitate against one another, becoming ever more round.

At many rocky coastal areas, visitors give in to some primeval urge to stack rocks atop one another into tottering towers. Not here. Enterprising visitors have collected black rocks and white rocks and made surprisingly detailed mosaics of them—hearts, mermaids, and one grand lobster 10 feet by 12 set on a white tabletop—all awaiting erasure by high winter waves.

Small discoveries such as this abound along the coast. As such, a journey here can feel more like a scavenger hunt than a tour.

Among the nonprofit groups that have collectively acquired and preserved thousands of acres of land hereabouts are the Nature Conservancy, the Downeast Salmon Federation, Downeast Coastal Conservancy, and, further inland, the Downeast Lakes Land Trust. And there are national wildlife refuges, including Moosehorn and the Maine Coast Islands National Wildlife Refuge Complex, along with state-owned lands. Among the state’s jewels here are Cobscook Bay State Park, with its surfeit of waterfront campsites overlooking the bay’s 20-foot tides, and the Cutler Coast Public Reserved Land, which draws serious hikers who trek along a 10-mile loop that runs atop craggy coastal cliffs and then plunges down to expansive ledges and hidden pebbly beaches.

The Maine Coast Heritage Trust was founded in 1970 in response to increasing shoreline development, and today it owns some 180,000 acres statewide. Twenty of its preserves are located Down East, and these often take some sleuthing to find. Among the more alluring is the Boot Head Preserve, located between Cutler and Lubec. It’s epic Maine coast, distilled to accessible size. Trails on this aptly named “Bold Coast” pass through loamy, mossy forests that drip as steadily as a metronome when the fog blows in, and then twist down to broad cobblestone beaches and across high, open bluffs. A small wooden platform with a bench overlooks one cleft in the cliffs, inviting hikers to sit and think about every book they’ve ever read involving pirates and the places they hid.

Among the newest conserved lands is a constellation of 20 privately owned and publicly accessible parklands near

Lubec called Cobscook Shores. This project was launched in 2021 by Butler Conservation Inc., a foundation created by equity pioneer and avid sea kayaker Gilbert Butler. Aiming to preserve lands in the far Down East region (the family foundation also has projects in northern Maine, South Carolina, and elsewhere), the group has cobbled together a patchwork of waterfront lands totaling 500 acres and 12 miles of shorefront.

These are “fun-size wildlands,” offering easy access to woodlands and waterfront so quiet you can hear the slurping of the tides coursing in and out. At Denbow Point I walked along a mossy pathway through dense pines to a tidal cove and rocky point. Not far away, a 10-minute hike at Pike Lands took me across a log-slab walkway to nearly a mile of shore, with a lagoon, marshland, and a 1,700-foot gravel beach—a world near yet apart from the ancient apple orchard where the walk begins.

“I love the landscape of Washington County,” says Susan Hand Shetterly, a longtime Maine author who often writes about the region. “I love its roughness and its beauty. And the light is different—it changes the further east you go.”

For reasons unknown, the light seems especially lambent across the blueberry barrens. You’ll find these throughout the region, where they open up in the coastal forest like hidden rooms. Further inland, they cover vast swaths of the uplands, especially near Columbia Falls and Cherryfield. Washington County is the heart of Maine’s blueberry empire—in the 19th century, canneries were commonplace, bringing Maine’s small, delicate berries to the world. Larger, plumper berries from New Jersey and beyond displaced Maine’s supremacy in the 20th century. But few in Maine are seduced by size; many boast of the smallness of their blueberry, and note with some pride that compactness comes with an outsize, distinctly fresh taste. Once again, small prevails.

Well, except at Wild Blueberry Land, an incongruously eye-catching geodesic dome right off Route 1. It’s painted to look like a giant blueberry come crashing to earth, and inside visitors find all things blueberries. It’s been a restaurant and gift shop since it opened in 2001, but owners Dell and Marie Emerson, who are also committed blueberry growers, converted it to a heritage center this year. Their goal is to tell the story of the Maine blueberry, and how the soil and climate and plants have converged to provide an unrivaled natural treat.

WHEN EXPLORING THESE COASTAL LANDS, I SOMETIMES FEEL AS IF I’M TRESPASSING ON THE SEA, COMING THROUGH THE BACKYARD AND ARRIVING UNANNOUNCED AT THE BACK DOOR.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: The popular Columbia Falls roadside attraction Wild Blueberry Land, run by blueberry farmers Dell and Marie Emerson; fields at the Emersons’ nearby farm, Wild Wescogus Berries; from-scratch piemaking at Wild Blueberry Land; a restful scene at Cobscook Shores; the entrance to Cobscook Bay State Park, part of the nearly 30,000-acre Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge; Romana Vazquez, owner of Vazquez Mexican Takeout in Milbridge; the headquarters of Lubec Landmarks, which works to preserve the town’s historical waterfront; a feast from the sea at the Happy Crab in Eastport.

A hike to the water at Cutler Coast Public Reserved Land reveals the wild beauty of Maine’s Bold Coast.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Located just south of Dennysville, Cobscook Bay State Park is a magnet for campers, with 100-plus well-spaced sites tucked into the woods or bordering a sheltered inlet; sea kayakers take to the waters of Cobscook Bay; night skies over Cobscook Bay State Park, which hosts the Downeast Amateur Astronomers’ Maine State Star Party every summer; cheers and beers on the patio at Horn Run Brewing in Eastport; morning light surrounds fishing boats moored in Cutler Harbor.

When exploring these coastal lands, I sometimes feel as if I’m trespassing on the sea, coming through the backyard and arriving unannounced at the back door. Route 1 offers connection and convenience, for sure, but the sea is how the region was first settled by Europeans, and the names on the charts suggest not what you see when walking on trails and across the headlands, but when approaching by boat: Fairy Head, Pot Head, Eastern Knubble, Sea Wall Point, Crumple Island. At other coastal areas, you often find prominences named after the first people or the early settlers; here, it’s as if the land hasn’t yet wrested free from its post-glacier geography.

Getting on the water can be a daunting proposition— not a lot of services exist—but a little effort pays dividends. Butch Harris runs tours on a fishing boat out of Eastport, where you can witness the fearsome tides of Passamaquoddy and Cobscook bays up close. Sunrise Canoe and Kayak in Machias offers day trips by kayak on Machias Bay, or you can rent a kayak by the day or week. Bold Coast Charter Tours runs passengers to Machias Seal Island with its colorful colony of puffins. Capacity is extremely limited (and tours sell out early), but when the seas allow passengers to disembark on the island, they spend a memorable time at one of four blinds that offer photographers and birders close-ups of puffins—which, let’s be honest, are basically penguins with poor makeup skills.

I had read of ancient petroglyphs left by generations of Passamaquoddy on islands and headlands in Machias Bay and written up in academic journals. I went out on two separate days in my own kayak. One day in late summer it was windy with the tang of autumn in the air and the gray seas were steep. I didn’t linger long.

Another day, calmer and warmer, I skirted islands and headlands and poked around rock ledges for hours, but still failed to find petroglyphs. Or rather, I found only petroglyphs—every glacial scraping and rock fissure and Rorschach of seagull guano seemed to carry a message, all of which said, You are a fool to even venture here looking for petroglyphs. A patio-size, flat-topped boulder provided the perfect place to stop and enjoy lunch, as well as horizon-tohorizon views of sky and evergreen and stone.

As is often the case in this part of Maine, when you look for one thing, you find something you didn’t expect that’s even grander.

A bit to the east, Cutler Harbor is improbably picturesque, deeply set amid gentle hills scattered with homes more than a century old, and dotted with lobster boats. Not much is going on here—no motels, no restaurants, just a lobster pound that offers lobsters to cook at campsite or cabin—but that’s part of the appeal. From the boat launch it’s a 10-minute paddle out to Little River Island, a 15-acre gem with a lighthouse built in 1876 that stands sentry over the mouth of the harbor. The island is owned

by the American Lighthouse Foundation, which welcomes respectful visitors. A half-mile wooden boardwalk runs through forest dense enough to cast perpetual twilight, and ends at layered ledges with endless views up an unpopulated coast. The keeper’s cottage is open in summers for overnight accommodations, and provides fertile ground for idle reveries about cutting one’s ties, living on an island accompanied only by seals and the mournful bleat of a foghorn.

Eastport is the easternmost city in America, although the “city” designation can seem more aspirational than actual. It has a population of around 1,300, which is down from its peak of 5,300 in the 19th century. Then, it was indisputably a city and filled with the constant hum of activity and fishermen and merchants arriving and departing from all around Passamaquoddy Bay, which the U.S. shares with Canada. “From the wharf you get the impression that the sole occupation of Eastporters is either fishing for or canning sardines,” noted a 1906 visitor. Another in 1918 reported that “at times there have been so many Canadian craft tied up in some docks that a person would walk from dock to dock by stepping across these boats.”

Eastport has seen more economic valleys than summits since then. Maine comedian Tim Sample once got laughs with his riff on Eastport’s ”Vacant Building Festival.” But new life has been flowing back into the uncommonly attractive brick downtown.

“I grew up here and came back 22 years ago,” says resident Hugh French. “I thought there was a chance to make a difference here.”

French founded the Tides Institute & Museum of Art, and started by acquiring an imposing 1887 brick building that once housed a bank and acts as an impressive bookend to one end of downtown. The institute has expanded to include a variety of programs, filling gaps in cultural offerings, ranging from artist residencies (it hosted 17 artists in 2022), to conserving and maintaining historic documents concerning the region, to fostering cross-border cultural cooperation with Canada. It’s also a preservation group: Since its founding, the institute has acquired nine local buildings, eight of which French says would have been demolished had they not intervened.

French says visitors tend to be surprised if not stunned that Washington County still exists in modern America—it’s almost wholly unblemished by strip malls or

traffic, has plenty of open and forested space and lakes, and a stock of historic buildings. The most notable efforts hereabouts—from cultural protection to historic preservation to land conservation—invariably arise from smaller, grassroots efforts, as if a community barn-raising. “You add all those things up, and they do begin to amount to something,” French says. “And they help keep some of the character here.”

That’s evident in Columbia Falls, home to the proposed flagpole. It’s had one low-key attraction for decades: the home of prominent lumberman and jurist Thomas Ruggles, who had hired talented Massachusetts architect-builder Aaron Simmons Sherman to design and build a compact yet elegant house fitting for a person of his stature in 1818. It was deeded to the Ruggles House Society in 1950, and has welcomed a steady stream of visitors since.

The house is a symmetrical bit of Federal dourness, at once grand and modest (it’s only one room deep). It is best known for its detailed interior woodwork, including mahogany paneling, delicate inlays, and a gravity-defying flying staircase. One story is that a British woodcarver spent three years on the mansion, largely using a humble penknife. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York apparently once had an eye to acquire it—one can picture it in an austere and muffled wing off Central Park, wowing urban gawkers—but local preservationists banded together in the late 1940s to keep it here and keep it open to the public.

Ultimately, this may be the most fitting emblem for the region: small-scale, locally cherished, largely unappreciated unless you pause to notice the details.

I stopped by for a visit to the house late last summer and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, despite the “Open” sign. It turned out a tour was under way, and I was left to idle outside for a spell until it finished. Across the street was the Worcester Wreath Company—the headquarters of the family behind the world’s largest flagpole project, the landmark that could reshape the county. I walked over and knocked, but nobody was around.

This seemed a fitting juxtaposition—tourism built around tiny, intricate carvings by a penknife, and tourism built around a mega-project that could change the region for generations.

The tides of history remain uniquely powerful in far Down East Maine. Yet it’s still unclear whether ebb or flow will prevail.

ULTIMATELY, THE RUGGLES HOUSE MAY BE THE MOST FITTING EMBLEM FOR THE REGION: SMALLSCALE, LOCALLY CHERISHED, LARGELY UNAPPRECIATED UNLESS YOU PAUSE TO NOTICE THE DETAILS.

Exploring Way Down East

Micmac Farm Guest

Cottages, Machiasport: Three housekeeping cabins and a room in a restored 18th-century farmhouse sit on 50 dog-friendly acres along the tidal Machias River. micmacfarm.com

soon forgotten. maine.gov/ cobscookbay

Kilby House Inn and B&B, Eastport: A restored 19thcentury in-town Victorian with numerous antiques from original owners, four bedrooms, and a lavish breakfast. kilbyhouseinn.com

EAT & DRINK

The Meadow’s TakeOut, Steuben: One of those small places with a big local following, known for its seafood and stonebaked pizza. Facebook

▲ Vazquez Mexican Takeout, Milbridge: As you drive through the village of Milbridge, expect to see lines outside this takeout stand that began as a food truck for hungry blueberry pickers. Facebook

The Bluebird Ranch Family Restaurant, Machias: Fish chowder, fresh fried fish, and all-American diner food come with dog-friendly patio seating. Look for the scratchmade doughnuts on Sundays. bluebirdranchrestaurant.com

Helen’s Restaurant, Machias: Since 1950, Down East travelers have known that the fame of Helen’s berry pies is richly deserved. But the tasty fish chowder gives the pie a run for its money. helensrestaurantmachias.com

Waco Diner, Eastport:

oldest diner in Maine, with a timeless view of bay and boats, serves what’s been called the best blueberry pie in the state.

Facebook

Lubec Brewing Company, Lubec: taproom with live music on Saturdays and an outdoor patio with water views and good pub grub.

Machias River Inn, Machias: Each of the 39 rooms at this throwback to Route 1 motor inns has a river-view deck where you can watch for eagles and seals. Next door is Helen’s Restaurant, and just across the road is the Down East Sunrise Trail that runs nearly 90 off-road miles. machiasriverinn.com

The Inn on the Wharf, Lubec: You can’t get closer to the water than this restored century-old former sardine factory with its own wharf. Book a whale-watching tour in the inn’s 26-seat boat. theinnonthewharf.com

Eastland Motel, Lubec: One of the few classic motels in the Lubec area, modestly priced, with rooms equipped with refrigerators and microwaves, plus fresh-baked muffins and coffee to start the day. eastlandmotel.com

▼ Cobscook Bay State Park, Dennysville: Camping beside the tremendous tides of Cobscook Bay, with more than 800 acres of wild coast all around, is an experience not

PLAY

Wild Blueberry Land, Columbia Falls: Yes, the giant blueberry-shaped building is roadside kitschy, but you’ll find anything and everything blueberry for sale inside, and a museum to give you an appreciation of the fruit and those who harvest it. wildblueberryland.com

The Ruggles House, Columbia Falls: The grand flying staircase in this early19th-century home is the big draw on home tours. ruggleshouse.org

Cutler Coast Public Reserved

Land, Cutler: One of the most beautiful and dramatic walks in Maine is along the 10 miles of trails that overlook the Bay of Fundy. It will show you why the region from Cutler to Lubec wears the mantle “Bold Coast.” maine.gov/cutlercoast

Bold Coast Charter Company, Cutler: Small guided tours that (weather and tides permitting) land on Machias Seal Island, giving lucky birders a unique view of nesting Atlantic puffins. Tours sell out soon after their January website posting. boldcoast.com

Boot Head Preserve, Lubec: A stunning gem of the Maine Coast Heritage Trust, which manages numerous coastal lands in the Down East region. mcht.org/preserve/boot-head Cobscook Shores, Lubec: Ecotourism at its finest. A unique conservation project protected 15 parklands along Cobscook Bay that offer beaches, cliff walks, coves, and islands, free from crowds, cars, and

most vestiges of modern life. cobscookshores.org

▲ Quoddy Head State Park, Lubec: One of the most photographed lighthouses in the country comes with spellbinding views and miles of waterside hiking trails. maine.gov/quoddyhead

Campobello Island: From Lubec, the toll-free Roosevelt International Bridge takes visitors across the Canadian border to Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s beloved summer estate. visitcampobello.com

Eastport Windjammers, Eastport: Lobsterman and boat captain Butch Harris leads daily nature and sightseeing trips to the Old Sow Whirlpool and whale feeding grounds. eastportwindjammers.com

Raye’s Mustard, Eastport: Since 1900, stone-ground mustard seeds have been used here to create flavors unequalled in the country. Mustard lovers, you’ve found the yellow stone road. rayesmustard.com

The Commons, Eastport: A much-touted landmark for Down East home decor, jewelry, and artisanal crafts, including tribal Passamaquoddy work; also home to a destination gallery. thecommonseastport.com

TO HEAR THE of voice wood

Wind and water speak through the driftwood creations of Maine artisan Michael

Fleming.

BY ANNIE GRAVES

PHOTOS BY GRETA RYBUS

Michael Fleming sizes up an ocean-weathered log at a beach not far from his home on the Phippsburg Peninsula. Since finding the perfect driftwood for his work is no easy task, he keeps his favorite foraging locations a secret.

wood. Smoothed out by the rhythms of time and water, twisted and rubbed clean by the wind, stripped to bare essence, these are the Rorschachs of nature. Forms that speak to a deeper part of our psyche. More primal. More imaginative. Definitely more elemental. They are, after all, literally sculpted by the elements.

Which is why it makes such sense that Michael Fleming calls his work at Designs Adrift “a collaboration with nature.” What else would you call this massive, bleachedbone, perfect tangle of roots sitting on a platform in his barn studio; this hunk of silvery beauty that he hauled from the northern reaches of Maine, then aged for months, smoothed and leveled, and cajoled into bearing a slab of glass, like some windblown Atlas?

This is a table equally at home on a stretch of beach or in a city loft. He is, Fleming explains, “sculpting with the wind and sea, sun and sky.” And while many driftwood artists concentrate on smaller pieces—mirrors and such—Fleming works on a grand scale, crafting high-end furniture with an artistry that has gained him a following around the world.

It’s a beautiful, sunny day. A steady breeze is blowing on the Phippsburg Peninsula, one of a cluster of dangly peninsulas that grace the midcoast of Maine, and Fleming is delighted that it’s keeping the mosquitos—apparently insatiable gluttons—at bay. It allows a chance to really take in the strangeness and peace of the immediate surroundings. A gray-shingled Cape Cod–style house from the early 1800s melts harmoniously into an open clearing surrounded by conservation land that continues on to Popham Beach. An ell off the back joins the house to the barn, where Fleming dreams and shapes and hones his contemporary driftwood furniture and art in a workshop cloaked in old barn boards. Wood harboring wood.

Which is all quite lovely, but I still haven’t gotten my mind around the heaps of driftwood in the yard, mountains

of it, rising up through the grass and wildflowers. It’s staggering to see so many intricate, perfect pieces of driftwood all gathered in one place. A kind of outdoors workshop annex, where the wood continues to age and weather, except it’s really more like an elephant boneyard, wild and mythic.

“Now this one,” Fleming points to a long, sloping chunk of wood, “will be a bench, with a resin inlay and brushed steel legs, can’t you just see it?” And I can, as his excitement conveys a picture of something that already exists in his mind. Then he hefts a different piece of driftwood, about half the length of a telephone pole, as casually as a 10-pound hand weight. When I ask about his chiropractic bill, he chuckles. “Well, two trips ago, I blew out my back,” he confesses. “I’m getting older now—55, I can’t believe it. I’m very strong, but I’m like, OK, now I have to start

stretching.” He grins. “So I stretched, and you know what? My back straightened right out!”

Fleming is rangy, as you’d expect from someone who routinely wrestles large, heavy pieces of wood. (How heavy? We’ll get to that in a minute.) He looks a little like Hal Holbrook, gray hair curling out from under a ventilated baseball cap, with a dash of Crocodile Dundee. And that actually seems about right: amiable, with an underlying restlessness, and a skill set that includes years of experience as a fine woodworker and furniture maker, while the rest is a Tom Mix combo of explorer, treasure seeker, wood wrangler.

Fleming and his wife, Jennifer, met 25 years ago, in Tortola, where she was vacationing and he was surfing, after delivering a boat from Rye, New Hampshire. They’ve been in this setting for 19 years, together with their son, Finn,

12, and rescue dog, Dee Dee, but before that they spent years traveling—sailing and surfing around the world— while they both worked, he as a carpenter for hire. Later, after settling in Maine, they continued to surf the world: Australia, all through the South Pacific to South Africa. His wanderlust and observations of other cultures began to influence the carpentry skills he carried with him. “All these other countries had this type of furniture that used natural materials,” he says. “And I’m like, wait a minute. I live in the most beautiful state in the world, with the most beautiful material. And nobody’s really refining it.”

Make a bed, said Jenn.

That’s how it began. Fleming crafted a beautiful queensize bed, with columns of driftwood at the four corners.

Fleming in his workshop, crowded with chunks of driftwood and works in progress. He admits to wishing for more space to accommodate his larger designs, saying, “It gets tight in there when I’m doing a few pieces at a time.”

They still have it in their home. And as he tells it, the response to his new work was practically instantaneous. First, it was friends. Then his first show, in East Boothbay, where he exhibited chairs, lamps, mirrors, a few tables. Everything sold. They set up a website around 2010, and from there it just grew. Jenn takes care of the business; he does the rest. “We don’t come from money,” Fleming says. “We did it all with hard work and Yankee ingenuity. I got out of building houses, doing fine furniture. I knew this was what I wanted to do.”

The other takeaway from his years as a traveling carpenter? Travel light. With a minimum of tools. This, too, translated well into Fleming’s new passion. “When I did fine furniture, I had every tool under the sun,” he remembers. “But when I traveled with my carpentry in developing countries, I had two tools, and sometimes I even had to make the tool. That really resonated with me.” He shows me the two most essential tools he uses now: a hand grinder that helps him shape the wood, and a small Japanese handsaw, about the size of a boomerang, that opens to reveal a row of hungry teeth. “I can cut a massive tree with that,” he says, admiringly. I have no doubt.

And now, to the treasure hunt.

“It’s so private where I get the wood,” Fleming says. His voice grows quiet. “I was just up at the lakes, way up north of here, for a week. I call it ‘the field,’ where I have wood that’s drying. I camp on a teeny island; it’s completely pristine.” Traveling within a 200-mile radius of home, always in Maine, he haunts the lakes and ocean shores, often camping for a week at a time. It is where he gets much of his inspiration, where he recharges from his studio work. “It helps me connect back to nature, and gives me so many ideas of what’s coming next.”

He tells me about the reality-TV show that wanted to follow him on one of his treasure hunts. Fleming refused. He’s protective of his resources, the way a truffle hunter might be. “People would just come in and grab it all up,” he says. “And the thing is, everybody thinks when I get wood, I just pick whatever. But it doesn’t work that way. It’s a slow process. I don’t just go in and grab, grab, grab. It’s a little piece here, a little piece there. I ride for days. I row for miles. I drag it out.” Always with permission. Always doing everything by hand.

It’s very clear why a reality-TV show would want to tag along. There’s drama in driftwood. Fleming points to a small metal boat sitting off to one side in his yard, so unobtrusive it’s nearly invisible. The battered little aluminum skiff is his workhorse, a 1957 Crestliner, that he even takes out to sea, to the offshore islands. “It’s very small,” he admits. “I could use something bigger, with pulleys, but I have to tread lightly. I’ve gotten stuck. This boat, I can handle by myself.” That’s important when you go out into

,” he says. “If I get stuck, nobody

“How did you haul this one out?” I point to a large mass that looks like a tangle of moose antlers. Fleming grimaces. “Oh God, on my back. Even the guys that deliver my firewood are like, ‘How do you do it?’ I have a backpack that I modified that I can strap on a piece and haul it out.” He adds, as an afterthought, “It’s grueling.”

Fleming goes out in all seasons, but the best time to pick up driftwood is the end of summer, because everything is dry and water levels are low. Out among the islands, or exploring Maine lakes, he will carefully plant a vertical stick to flag the driftwood he’s considering, then come back to revisit. Some of these pieces weigh 400 to 500 pounds when wet, and he has to wait. “I had pieces I tried to get in the boat a few weeks ago, and I couldn’t get them out. They’ll have to dry for a while longer and then I’ll go back.”

He camps under the stars, gathers more driftwood, watches moose stroll by. Gradually he fills his truck, a small Toyota. Then his boat. Hitches them together like train cars, and begins the drive home. It’s easy to imagine the surprised look on people’s faces when they pass him on a Maine highway, trailing this romantic cargo behind him, a tumble of majestic ocean flotsam.

And then he’s home, confronting the possibilities.

Because finding driftwood is just a beginning. “There’s no way I can include all the time that goes into making

a piece—finding the wood, bringing it back, cleaning it, weathering it,” he says. He’ll sand for days, mostly working with hardwood, like oak and maple. His favorite for tables is cedar, because of how it weathers from the minerals in the water and the sun. He points out a piece of spruce, also destined to be a table. And here is “a gorgeous piece of ocean sumac.”

It’s such a Maine material, he says more than once. “And the colors—there’s no other color like it, it’s so pleasing to the eye.” As if to demonstrate, his eyes skim over the wood. “The natural forms complement any room. That’s what I love—the curves and the color.” It’s so different, he says, from when he was doing fine furniture, and would go to a mill yard to pick out conventional wood. “I like enhancing what’s been done by nature, and continuing that into its final piece.”

Which might end up being anything, from an elongated lamp topped with a drum shade, to an installation, to artwork that incorporates rippling strands of found lobster warp. But one thing is certain: It will be clean and sleek; it will emphasize the wild beauty of this wood, and then some. “When it’s finished it will look nothing like this,” he says, pointing to a weathered stump. “I might add a piece in here that you won’t even notice, and then a piece of metal, because I like incorporating metal-glass-wood. It all marries together.”

So successfully does he blend these elements that his appeal runs the gamut of clients. Fleming has fashioned a 15-foot “tree” to hide a metal post in the Rolls-Royce showroom in Virginia. Installed a huge bald eagle on the exterior of L.L. Bean’s flagship store in Freeport, Maine. Created three loggerhead sea turtles for the town of Marco Island in Florida. His glass-topped tables are coveted from Portland to Paris to Saudi Arabia.

Up in the hayloft, over the barn, he’s got a stash of smaller, exquisite driftwood, all carefully chosen, a reserve of raw material. Perfect little trees, columns, shapes that resemble antlers, horns, flames, and tusks. Faces peer out of knotholes. Eyes stare off to the sea. Softened and smoothed, this one looks like a heron. This one could be a gull. There’s a dancer, and a whale, and an acrobat. The loft feels alive with motion. And this, in the corner—a wind-knotted twist of beauty. It’s just waiting.

To see more of Michael Fleming’s driftwood creations, go to designsadrift.com.

LEFT: Fleming with his dog, Dee Dee, a faithful workshop companion with an uncanny knack for getting underfoot, he jokes, right when he’s moving heavy pieces. OPPOSITE: A selection of Fleming’s artisan creations, each built around the unique colors and contours of driftwood collected on the Maine coast.

THE COLLECTOR

“For the Love of Vermont” opens a window onto Lyman Orton’s lifetime mission to find and save the art from a place he cherishes.

By Mel Allen

Lyman Orton, pictured at the Vermont Country Store offices in Manchester, Vermont. The artworks that he researched, hunted, found, bought, and still owns are largely from the early 20th century, although some date as far back as the 1850s.

“This is the collection of Vermont art,” says Bennington Museum curator Jamie Franklin. “There isn’t anyone else doing it.”

PHOTO BY KEN BURRIS

For nearly half a century I have written about people and places I have known in New England, and I’ve never met anyone whose life has been defined by a place—and who has defined a place—as much as Lyman Orton. That place is Vermont. Or rather, the Vermont he grew up in during the 1940s and ’50s, as well as the Vermont that his parents and grandparents might have known.

I meet him in the Vermont Country Store corporate offices in Manchester, Vermont. Along with his three sons, Orton owns this multimillion-dollar business that has for decades sold nostalgia and homespun goods via its catalogs, website, and two actual country stores—but that is a story for another day. I am visiting because Orton has amassed the largest private collection of 20th-century Vermont art in the world, and this year, from early July to early November, anyone who visits the Bennington Museum or the Southern Vermont Arts Center can view more than 200 of his favorite and most notable pieces. The exhibits are called “For the Love of Vermont: The Lyman Orton Collection,” and there is a companion book with the same title, written by Orton and Anita Rafael and filled with the stories of both the artists and the scenes they painted.

Orton is an energetic and fit 81 now, and as he gives a tour of the art-filled offices with Rafael, he often pauses to explain what a particular painting says to him. This takes time because there is barely a foot of wall anywhere that does not hold a framed canvas. As he talks, his hands are in motion, and it’s as if he is speaking of two things at once: art and memory. They seem inseparable. We hear about how art speaks to the viewer—and it is clear, as we look, that Orton listens.

He is a seventh-generation Vermonter, raised on stories about his ancestors and the certainty that there is no place on earth like Vermont. He tells of growing up in the 1940s in Weston, one of the most beautiful small villages in the Green Mountain State. The West River and Cold Spring Brook meet here and flow through the town, and modest mountains rise in the near distance. There are farms and orchards. His family’s handsome brick home sat beside the town green. Fewer than 500 people lived there, and everyone knew the Ortons. A young Lyman played in the woods, fished the streams, skied and skated in winter. Across the green, his parents, Vrest and Mildred, ran the Vermont Country Store, which they founded in 1946. From the beginning, he worked there, too, and saw the deep

ABOVE: Clouds Over Manchester by Jay Connaway (1893–1970). The first director of the Southern Vermont Arts Center school and a longtime art teacher in Manchester schools, Connaway was once so poor he used his shirts for canvases.

OPPOSITE: The Nestled Barn by Luigi Lucioni (1900–1988). Around 30 major museums across the nation have Lucioni’s work in their permanent collections, including the National Gallery of Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

ABOVE: Adjusting the Plow by Leo Blake (1887–1976). Like many other painters of Vermont at the time, Blake—who taught art at Williams College as well as at the Berkshire Museum in Massachusetts— was drawn to scenes of farmers and their workhorses and oxen.

LEFT: Mount Equinox, Summer by Rockwell Kent (1882–1971). Hanging in the secondfloor landing of the Vermont Country Store’s offices, this striking work by an American master is a favorite of employees who “visit” it every day.

OPPOSITE: Covered Bridge, West Arlington, Fall by C.H. DeWitt. Orton says he especially loves artwork that speaks of places he knows. This bridge leads to where Norman Rockwell once lived, in Arlington.

pull of nostalgia for customers from across the country.

In his 20s, now married, he went to auctions, looking for antiques. He befriended Barbara Melhado, an antiques dealer and art appraiser who always arrived early, just as he did. She became his mentor. They looked for the work of homegrown Vermont artists as well as painters who made their living elsewhere but who gravitated to the Vermont landscape. Orton and Melhado focused mostly on the half century from 1920 to 1970. “You should buy that,” she would say, and he always listened. They saw paintings that depicted a vanishing way of life being bought by dealers and collectors, who moved them to distant places. To Orton he was not a collector; he did not seek art to enhance his estate. He was a hunter pursuing what he calls “escaped art.” He speaks of “repatriating” the artworks, as if they were friends who had been sent away from their homeland.

A few years ago, he was in an art gallery in Carmel, California, and found himself standing in front of a dramatic painting of a horse-drawing contest at a Vermont country fair titled Good Boys. “It was painted in 1957 by Cecil Crosley Bell—how that painting got all the way from Vermont to Carmel, I have no idea,” he says. “There is nothing bet-

ter than walking into a gallery in some other part of the country and suddenly recognizing a painting of Vermont. So I paid what I judged was a fair price and brought the local scene that Bell had captured back home, 3,000 miles, to Vermont.”

Orton is private about how many pieces of Vermont art he owns, and what he has paid over the years; it is safe to say hundreds and many thousands, respectively. He knows that people who have made their fortune may spend it on yachts and cars and castle-like estates, but, “What would I do with a yacht?” he asks, in a tone that seems to say, You do know I am a Vermonter?

Vermont was a poor state during the Depression, and for decades after. But artists found emotion and beauty in the birches, the country traditions, the resilient and solid people. When Orton shows me paintings of country fairs and horse racing and draft horse pulls, he is back there, he is in the painting. He stops at a Harry Shokler painting of a small church in the village of Peru. Shokler bartered his works for nearly everything he needed, Orton says, then adds, “My parents were married in that church.” And here is another by Shokler: Heavy snow has fallen on Weston. A

Swimming Hole by Cecil Crosley Bell (1906–1970). Orton once discovered another painting by Bell, who summered and painted in Vermont for 30 years, for sale in a California gallery. He bought it, and returned the “escaped” bit of Vermont art back home.

teenage boy on skis glides past the green and, beside it, the very house where Orton grew up.

Anita Rafael, who for months worked closely with Orton on the book For the Love of Vermont, turns to me and says, “The collection is really his autobiography. It is his memoir.”

In the book she writes, “[B]y being the highest bidder on the dozens of artworks of Vermont that Lyman Orton saw go up for sale at local country auctions … he made himself every Vermonter’s heir. By keeping the art of Vermont in Vermont, it is tacitly being passed down to all Vermonters.”

As we end the tour, Orton tells me, “My next collection will be art that is not yet painted.” He has bestowed $25,000 apiece on 10 contemporary artists to depict Vermont in a way that speaks to the future of the state. “I want to put Vermont on the map for Vermonters,” he says. “Vermont needs a buzz that will speak to people anywhere. I want people to say, ‘Look what they are doing in Vermont.’”

For details on the “For the Love of Vermont” exhibits as well as the companion book, go to fortheloveofvermont.com.

6 MORE SHOWS WORTH THE DRIVE

“María Berrío: The Children’s Crusade”

ICA/Boston, MA

Large-scale magical-realism collages by the Colombianborn Berrío star in one of Artnet News’s 12 must-see exhibits in the U.S. this year. Inspired by the 13th-century Children’s Crusade, the images reflect the lives of the displaced children today who cross hundreds of miles on their own. “As the children embark on this arduous journey, they infuse the ordinary with the mythic, as their innocent and imagined interpretation of the world bumps against stark realities,” Berrío says. Now through 8/6; icaboston.org

“Edward Hopper & Cape Ann: Illuminating an American Landscape”

Cape Ann Museum, Gloucester, MA This show celebrates the centennial of Hopper’s first arrival in Gloucester, a turning point for an obscure 41-yearold painter who would rise to become one of America’s most beloved artists. Though his fame rests largely on his realistic urban scenes, here you see his renderings of a working fishing culture among the 60-plus pieces, which include many loaned from New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art. Bonus: the chance to take a walking tour of sites that Hopper embraced in his work. 7/22–10/16; capeannmuseum.org

“Edward Hopper & Andrew Wyeth: Rockland, Maine” Farnsworth Art Museum, Rockland, ME

Can’t make it to Gloucester? One of Maine’s foremost art museums celebrates its 75th anniversary by bringing Hopper together with an equally honored painter of the 20th century. Both were drawn to Rockland’s fishing and quarrying culture: Hopper spent the summer of 1926 here, while Wyeth roamed Midcoast Maine and its islands for years. Visitors will be given a map depicting the sites the artists painted. Now through 8/27; farnsworthmuseum.org

“The Red Dress”

Southern Vermont Arts Center, Manchester, VT

SVAC is the first U.S. venue to host The Red Dress project, envisioned by British artist Kirstie Macleod as both a work of art and a deeply affecting social and cultural statement. On display is one magnificent red dress adorned with millions of embroidered stitches by 374 women from 50 countries; the women, many of whom live in poverty, tell their stories with their hands. Macleod describes the project in an audio accompaniment, which includes the voices of those who helped create the one-ofa-kind work. 7/1–9/24; svac.org

“Drawn to the Light: 50 Years of Photography and Maine Media Workshops”

Portland Museum of Art, Portland, ME

In 1973 a small group of photographers in Rockport founded what was then called Maine Photographic Workshops, which in the years since has attracted some of the world’s most acclaimed photo artists and photojournalists as instructors. This exhibit of about 100 works shows the range and depth produced when a school devoted to art and images flourishes for half a century. Now through 9/10; portlandmuseum.org

“Object Lessons in American Art”

Florence Griswold Museum, Old Lyme, CT Old Lyme’s idyllic riverside art museum hosts this touring exhibit spanning four centuries of works from the Princeton University Art Museum. The 70-plus “objects”— representing Euro-American, African American, and Native American art—challenge viewers to find new ways to consider the intersection of American history and culture. Highlights include pottery by David Drake, an enslaved Black man in South Carolina, and paintings by famed women artists Mary Cassatt and Georgia O’Keeffe. Now through 9/10; florencegriswoldmuseum.org

Here is another painting by Shokler: Heavy snow has fallen on Weston. A teenage boy on skis glides past the green and, beside it, the very house where Orton grew up.

Orton House, Weston by Harry Shokler (1896–1978)

THE HEADSTONE BRIGADE

In rescuing Vermont’s rural cemeteries from the ravages of time, these volunteers become “challengers of oblivion.”

BY LEATH TONINO | PHOTOS BY BILL MCDOWELL

A member of the Vermont Old Cemetery Association for more than two decades, Barry Trutor rests a work-gloved hand on a 19th-century tombstone in West Haven, Vermont, population 285.

EARLY ON A DRIZZLY GRAY

Saturday at the close of summer, a cemetery I had driven past countless times over the years and noticed only peripherally became something else entirely, something vivid and intriguing. As I strolled its slick grass, it wasn’t just the dead who greeted me, inviting me in and sparking my curiosity. Among the Lussiers and Gauthiers and Gravells and Graces and Harveys and Milos and Goulets and Renauds and Beauchamps and Borias—in addition to Patrick Butler (d. 1860, 15 months old) and the sister Nellie he never met (d. 1876, nine months old)—a dozen flesh-and-blood volunteers were busy among the headstones, commencing a long morning’s labor.

One guy shoveled sure-pack gravel mix into his wheelbarrow. A second guy, carrying a heavy rock bar, said to a third guy, carrying a carpenter’s level, “What’ve we got for straps? We’re in big trouble without straps.” John Deere was present, as was a Bobcat track loader loaned by a local landscaper. There were wisecracks about hernias; chitchat about clay soil and poor drainage and frost heaves toppling 700-pound angels; laments about families that moved west, vanished a century ago, left nobody behind to yank weeds and plant plastic flowers. The volunteers ranged in age from teen to septuagenarian, in occupation from farm wife to real estate developer, in footwear from flimsy sandals to beefy hiking boots. Two were cousins. A couple were church ladies. The majority were strangers.

OK, but here’s the image that really did it. Kneeling beside a listing mini obelisk, a young woman was scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing at a grimy, lichen-splotched epitaph with what appeared to be a standard-issue toothbrush, pausing occasionally to fire a spray bottle filled with the biological solution D/2 (the same product that keeps Arlington National Cemetery spiffy). She had no family ties to the person buried below her, yet nevertheless she held her awkward, hunched position—a position that, to my eye, resembled a kind of bow, a kind of earnest, elbow-grease prayer. She was seemingly oblivious to the increasing precipitation, sheltered by her own private umbrella of quiet focus. She was smiling.

Headstone righting, repair, and cleaning. St. Peter’s Cemetery. Vergennes, Vermont. 8:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. That was the posting on the Vermont Old Cemetery Association website that had caught my attention and led me to this niche community. Since VOCA was established in 1958, history buffs and genealogy freaks and dutiful descendants and nature lovers and plenty of helpful civic-minded folk have crisscrossed the Green Mountains, their truck beds heaped with tubes of two-part epoxy and pruning shears, in order to (as Article II of the outfit’s official constitution puts it) “encourage the restoration and preservation of neglected and abandoned cemeteries in the State of Vermont.”

Encouragement takes primarily the form of hands-on

CLOCKWISE FROM BELOW: Jamey Greenough, a volunteer from New York state, gets busy scrubbing in West Haven’s tiny Humiston Cemetery, named for the family interred there (in the background is West Haven town cemetery commissioner Harold Book); a trailer filled with tools for bringing overgrown cemeteries back to life; Caitlin Abrams, a Vermonter whose headstonerestoration videos have been a surprising hit on TikTok.

assistance, though it also manifests as shared technical expertise (how does one reassemble a time-shattered slate grave marker?) and cash grants ($330 for five large stones repaired in Glover’s Westlook Cemetery, $750 for tree removal and trimming in Granville’s South Hollow Cemetery). According to VOCA’s autumn calendar, members would tackle Pawlet, Rutland, and Shaftsbury, then round out the year with a biannual meeting that doubles as a chicken-and-biscuits luncheon. But first, five miles down the road from my home in Ferrisburgh, St. Peter’s was scheduled to receive some TLC. For reasons I couldn’t name, I wanted to attend.

Maybe it had to do with a yellowy newspaper clipping I’d recently stumbled on, a 1973 interview with VOCA’s founder that anticipated, in a way, the toothbrush woman’s smile. A professor of English at UVM and an author passionately engaged with folklore, Leon Dean, born in Bristol, Vermont, in 1889, told the reporter, “I’ve done quite a number of things in my life, but this has given me just about the most satisfaction of anything.” He was referring to “saving” cemeteries that had suffered the “atrocity” of neglect, a pastime that doesn’t jibe with the usual self-interested, utilitarian calculus of modern America. Lavish your energy on the off-plumb, the overgrown, the forgotten? Kneel in the rain when you could be staying dry or taking care of your own land? Clouds scudding low, the weather coming and going and coming, I wandered with my hood up, asking everyone why they were here.

Jeanne Jackson, pink blouse, black rubber galoshes, woke at 5 a.m. to make sandwiches for the group: “This cemetery was in horrible shape, not mowed, water pooling on my parents’ grave. Today’s our third session in five years, and it looks 100 percent better than before, but each spring there are more stones that need to be treated. It’s not cheap to hire a contractor to bring in a machine and right a stone. VOCA

saved us tens of thousands of dollars by showing us how to do the fixes ourselves, and now I volunteer at cemeteries around the county out of gratitude.”

Jeff Bostwick, sunburned and muddy, his fifth VOCA outing of the year: “My first time was in Milton, graves dating to the late 1700s, the Revolutionary War era. That was a powerful experience. I’m a seventh-generation Vermonter and consider all these people my family. It’s tangible, honoring them. You can see your progress. And by evening, I’m exhausted, barely able to get off the couch. Seriously, I wish I’d discovered this 20 years ago.”

David Austin, floppy-brimmed hat, serves on the Vergennes City Council, lives across the street from his childhood house and routinely walks through St. Peter’s at night: “Do you know James Kunstler’s book The Geography of Nowhere, about suburbia and sprawl? You can’t wave a magic wand and create a sense of place. I’ve travelled a lot overseas and there’s always somebody doing this type of maintenance, even at the tiniest cemetery. It has to do with integrity of place, demonstrating that this is a specific place, not a generic place, and it’s worth valuing. I guess it’s my turn?”

After an hour of talking and feeling rather ashamed of a sweatless brow and dirtless fingernails, I decided it was my turn. Austin, Bostwick, and three others were preparing to lift a headstone with the Bobcat and reset it on the granite base (previously tilted, freshly leveled) from which it had fallen. The stone was a behemoth, and without the precious tow straps, the job would have been big trouble indeed. Fifteen minutes of tinkering and strategizing delivered us to the moment of don’t-botch-it teamwork, a blue-collar ballet. The Bobcat operator gingerly elevated his forks. Four of us circled the dangling, swaying stone and guided it toward the base with 40 sensitive fingertips. A voice said, “Gentle, gentle.” A voice said, “Left, left, left a titch.” A voice said, “Eeeeasy.” And then—an inch from landing, half an inch, less—the stone was freestanding, anchored by gravity, secure.

At that precise instant of contact, Whoa! The overcast sky broke, the sun emerged, and an electric tingle raced the length of my spine. I had been thinking in terms of a fun engineering problem, like dragging a Prius from a winter ditch, and the sudden notion that we had hoisted the deceased back up into the light was an unexpected shock.

Did we hoist the deceased, via a granite proxy, up into the light? Is that what happened? Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps I’d merely pinched a nerve in my lumbar. I recalled a favorite quote from the novelist Vladimir Nabokov: “Let us worship the spine and its tingle.”

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I EMAILED BARRY TRUTOR, A VOCA VETERAN in the process of “rescuing” five derelict cemeteries on a 3,800-acre Nature Conservancy preserve in a particularly

(Continued on p. 113)

Xi “Jesse” Chen in a selfie he took on Mount Madison on June 18, 2022, the first day of his planned Presidential Traverse hike in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. That same evening, the elite Mountain Rescue Service would head out into the teeth of a wintery squall to find Chen; a photo from their mission (OPPOSITE, BELOW) shows them carrying Chen on a stretcher near the summit of Mount Washington.

‘IN TROUBLE.

With freezing rain and snow closing in on the White Mountains last June, a hiker’s grim texts

CAN’T MOVE. COULD DIE.’

set in motion a desperate rescue effort.

BY IAN ALDRICH

n June 17 of last year, a Friday, at a little before 9 in the morning, Xi “Jesse” Chen texted his neighbor and longtime friend Dennis Gu about his weekend plans. A quiet, reserved man, Chen wasn’t one for bragging, but the 53-year-old industrial engineer had reason to feel excited about the upcoming three days. An experienced hiker who’d done extensive wilderness treks in Iceland and parts of Europe, Chen was most at home in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, which he’d begun exploring after moving to Massachusetts in the late 1990s.

Over the previous decade, especially, Chen had devoted many weekends to venturing north from his family’s home in Andover. Sometimes it was with his wife and three children in tow, but most often just with his teenage son, Kaiwen, who had the vim and vigor needed to complete the strenuous multiday climbs his father preferred. A patient observer who hiked with his camera always at the ready, Chen relished the chance to find secluded spots of beauty

that he could share with others. As he did, Chen gave himself permission to let the work pressures that often draped over him fall away.

“He definitely seemed lighter when he was on those hikes,” says Kaiwen. “Even just waking up and having a cup of instant coffee, he’d really appreciate it. It was only instant coffee, but it was where he was. He was away from these other worries he might have had.”

Hiking became central to Chen’s life even when he wasn’t on the trail. A devoted follower of the popular outdoor YouTuber Kraig Adams, he obsessed over finding the newest, lightest camping gear and kept a rolling list on his phone of the hikes he wanted to accomplish, including Mount Kilimanjaro. He also set a personal goal of climbing all 48 of the White Mountains’ 4,000-footers by 2025. On a wall in his kitchen, Chen even hung a map of those peaks, with color-coded pins for the ones he’d completed and the people he’d climbed with. By last June, he had already ticked off 21 of the climbs. Now, as he geared up for another trip to New Hampshire, he planned to knock off a few more.

Chen had set his sights on the Presidential Traverse, a rugged 20-mile journey that crosses seven 4,000-foot

peaks, all named after U.S. presidents: Madison, Adams, Jefferson, Washington, Monroe, Eisenhower, and Pierce. One of the more storied routes in the Whites, the Presidential Traverse courses from peak to peak, taking hikers high above the treeline and rewarding them with views that extend deep across far northern New England. But that same terrain offers no relief from the elements, and the weather can turn ugly in an instant. Among serious White Mountain hikers, conquering the traverse is a true badge of honor.

Chen had scheduled his climb for Father’s Day weekend with the hopes that his son, a junior at Worcester Polytechnic Institute , could join him. But when Kaiwen couldn’t free up his schedule, Chen decided to go solo. About an hour before he left Andover, he texted a photo of his pack to his friend Gu.

I booked one year ago, supposed to go with Kaiwen, but he took summer classes and quite busy, Chen wrote. So I have to go by myself. He then added: Anyway this is a Loner Sport.

Awesome , Gu messaged back. Be careful when you are hiking by yourself

No problem , came the reply. Still more relax [sic] than work

By that evening, Chen had set up camp at the Madison Tent Site, a serene little spot enclosed by a grove of hardwoods off the Valley Way Trail at the base of Mount Madison. With his drone he made a 10-second video of the area, the camera rising above a proud-looking Chen to reveal the surrounding landscape. Chen did a quick edit of the footage, adding some music to the shot, then posted it on YouTube and sent the link to his family and Gu.

The following day, Chen rose early and set out on a 10-mile course to his base for the night: the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Lake of the Clouds Hut, just south of the highest mountain in the Northeast, Mount Washington . But a gray, wet start soon gave way to torrential downpours and eventually winter-like weather. With just a mile left in his trek, Chen—hammered by freezing rain,

(Continued on p. 106)

FROM FAR LEFT: A selfie taken June 17, 2022, shows Chen on the afternoon before his Presidential Traverse amid weather that was bright and mild—but would soon turn wet and bone-chilling; a detail of the map of Chen’s completed 4,000-footers that hangs in his family’s Andover, Massachusetts, home; Chen with his wife, Lian Liu, and their three children (from left, Kaiwen, Meiling, and Megan) on a 2012 vacation in Franconia, New Hampshire.

PROMOTION YANKEE EDITORS’ CHOICE

BEST OF NEW ENGLAND

THE LODGE AT SPRUCE PEAK STOWE, VT

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CHRISTMAS FARM INN JACKSON, NH

The Christmas Farm Inn offers top-notch lodging, traditional New England dishes, a home base for North Conway shopping, and even wedding services in the White Mountains for couples and families looking to make the most of picturesque Jackson, New Hampshire.

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TOPSIDE INN BOOTHBAY HARBOR, ME

Discover world-class hospitality and comfort from the acclaimed Topside Inn in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. Perched atop the hillside and with sweeping panoramic views of an idyllic New England harbor, Topside Inn’s warm Maine welcome awaits your next getaway.

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The Boston Globe describes Fat Sheep Farm as “a magical place” offering amazing views from modern cabins. Soak in the sunset by the firepit, taste the farm’s bounty, try your hand at milking sheep, or attend a cheese-making or sourdough workshop.

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AMES FARM INN GILFORD, NH

Enjoy a quarter mile of sandy beach and docks on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee. Lakeside cottages, apartments, and rooms available. Great location for fishing, hiking, kayaking, boating, and more. Family owned and operated since 1890.

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MT. WASHINGTON AUTO ROAD

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Climb this historic 7.6-mile road to the summit of the Northeast’s highest peak— drive yourself, or take a guided tour. This must-do drive is America’s oldest man-made attraction.

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Reconnect with past Editors’ Choice winners and see for yourself why they received Yankee Magazine’s highest accolade.

THE

HARRASEEKET INN FREEPORT, ME

The Harraseeket Inn is a 94-room luxury inn located in the heart of Freeport. The hotel features two great restaurants, an indoor heated pool, and comfortable accommodations. All rooms include a hot breakfast each morning and our daily afternoon tea.

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MUSEUMS

PLYMOUTH, MA

A must-see New England destination that tells the shared history of Plymouth Colony and the Indigenous Peoples of the region in the early 1600s. Visit the 17thCentury English Village, Historic Patuxet Homesite, Plimoth Grist Mill, and Mayflower II.

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Named “New Hampshire’s Leading Boutique Hotel” by World Travel Awards 2022, the Inn at Thorn Hill offers a bespoke vacation destination. Historic and romantic with fine dining, wine cellar and lounge, Aveda Spa, and stunning views of the White Mountains.

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BEDFORD VILLAGE INN

BEDFORD, NH

Nestled in the beautiful green hills of New England, the Bedford Village Inn & Grand is a four-diamond property that perfectly blends historical character with a luxury boutique ambiance. Its 64 gorgeously designed rooms retain the rustic charm of days gone by, while simultaneously offering everyday modern comfort and amenities.

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900 DEGREES NEAPOLITAN PIZZERIA MANCHESTER, NH

Inspired by the mouthwatering, wood-fired pizza native to Naples, Italy, 900 Degrees Neapolitan Pizzeria is an authentic curator of fine Italian house-made gourmet pizza, pasta, and salads. Our pizza is expertly crafted and baked in a woodburning oven.

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HOTEL THAXTER PORTSMOUTH, NH

Hotel Thaxter is a fullservice upscale hotel and restaurant, Nichinan, located in the heart of downtown Portsmouth. The recent restoration converted this historic building into 15 guest rooms featuring luxurious accommodations, wet bars, and local art.

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HAMPTON BEACH VILLAGE DISTRICT

HAMPTON, NH

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WADSWORTH ATHENEUM MUSEUM OF ART HARTFORD, CT

Experience world-class art and special exhibitions close to home at the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art. Home of The Amistad Center for Art & Culture. On view now: I Am Seen, Therefore

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BEST OF NEW ENGLAND

BEST OF NEW ENGLAND

ECOTARIUM WORCESTER, MA

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GIFTS AT 136 DAMARISCOTTA, ME

SOLEIL & SUNS BAKERY WOODSTOCK, CT

Our full-service bakery turns out a tempting array of pies and pastries, as well as grab and go cakes. Bread lovers will find artisan loaves that range from classics like sourdough and rye to specialty breads such as Asiago cheese, cinnamon raison, and more. Give us a try—you won’t be disappointed!

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Gifts at 136 offers a large selection of fine crafts and art from Maine, including furniture, paintings, sculpture, jewelry, pottery, glassware, lighting, and more. Gifts at 136 has won multiple awards for its well-curated collection of accessible art. Open all year.

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EDITOR

Reconnect with past Editors’ Choice winners and see for yourself why they received Yankee Magazine’ s highest accolade.

(Continued from p. 56)

Reconnect with past they received Yankee

Reconnect with past Editors’ Choice they received Yankee Magazine’s highest

SHERWOOD ISLAND STATE PARK, Westport. Encompassing New England’s westernmost Long Island Sound beaches, Sherwood is Connecticut’s oldest state park. Twin swimming areas, whose sands get their color from garnet (red) and magnetite (black), ank a point designated for surf casting; inland, there are hiking trails, a nature center, and even a model airplane eld. Picnic tables, a food concession, and showers round out the facilities. portal.ct.gov/DEEP/State-Parks

SILVER SANDS STATE PARK, Milford

Nestled along Long Island Sound between Bridgeport and New Haven, Silver Sands o ers calm, warm water; a boardwalk running nearly the length of the beach; and footpaths that wind through a restored salt marsh. Charles Island, where Captain Kidd allegedly buried treasure (where didn’t he?), lies a half mile o shore; access via low-tide sandbar is permitted only o -season, when birds aren’t nesting. portal.ct.gov/DEEP/State-Parks

MAINE

CRESCENT BEACH STATE PARK, Cape Elizabeth. is sandy break in Maine’s famous “rockbound coast” is a mile-long gem just south of Portland. Sheltered from the open Atlantic by Cape Elizabeth (that’s the cape’s famous Two Lights to the east), the surf here is gentle and warmer than most Maine ocean waters, making Crescent Beach attractive to swimmers and sea kayakers. Add in picnic tables, grills, and a playground, and you’ve got a popular family beach, too. maine.gov/crescentbeach

FERRY BEACH STATE PARK, Saco

Only two miles from the heart of bustling Old Orchard Beach lies a 117-acre beach park ideal for families. Along with picnicking beneath a covered shelter and swimming o the white sand beach (accessible through an underpass from the picnic spot), the park is notable for its inviting walking paths, nearly two miles of trails that cut through forest, and a rare tupelo

swamp over a raised boardwalk. maine.gov/ferrybeach

FOOTBRIDGE BEACH, Ogunquit. Ogunquit’s cli top Marginal Way gets most of the attention, but just to the north, the barrier sands of Footbridge Beach are right on the water. Accessible by a footbridge from town, the beach lies at the quiet northern end of a three-mile swatch of sand. Facilities include a snack stand and restrooms; for restaurants and chair rentals, stroll south to busier Ogunquit Beach. ogunquit.org

OLD ORCHARD BEACH, Old Orchard Beach. Approaching its 200th year as a resort destination, Old Orchard Beach holds its place as Maine’s liveliest seaside draw. Its seven-mile strand, embracing Saco Bay just south of Portland (and accessible via Amtrak’s Downeaster), fronts a busy mélange of motels, restaurants, snack bars, shops, and the Palace Playland amusement park with its recently built roller coaster and Ferris wheel; a 500-foot pier carries the fun out to sea. oldorchardbeachmaine.com

POPHAM BEACH STATE PARK, Phippsburg. ere’s nothing manicured about this rare spit of sand sandwiched between rocky shores. Pieces of driftwood lie on the beach, backed by dwarf pines and uprooted trees. When the water rolls in, kids swim in the warm (yes, warm) waters of the tidal pool as parents take long beach walks, watching three-masted schooners and lobstermen cruise past pinestudded islands and lighthouses. Let the cool breeze blow through your hair and breathe in the salty air. is is the raw, genuine Maine coast you’ve yearned for. maine.gov/pophambeach

ROQUE BLUFFS STATE PARK, Roque Blu s. Few coastal parks o er as much variety of terrain as Roque Blu s—and hardly any give visitors a choice of salt- or fresh-water beaches. e pebbly shore along Englishman Bay is the place for a typically bracing Maine dip, while shallow Simpson Pond is a hot tub by comparison. On dry land, enjoy six miles of trails that weave through nearly 300 acres of woodland and meadows and along the rocky blu s. maine.gov/roqueblu s

SAND BEACH, Acadia National Park

Sand is in short supply along Acadia’s rocky shores, but this 300-yard beach on Mount Desert Island’s east side has its share, largely composed of pulverized shells. It’s a great spot for an invigorating swim in water that struggles to reach 55°F, and the starting place of scenic trails, but beach glass collectors come here for the translucent jewels (even pink shows up on occasion) tossed and polished over decades in the ocean. nps.gov/acad

MASSACHUSETTS

COAST GUARD BEACH, Eastham

A regular honoree on national “best beaches” lists, Coast Guard Beach marks the beginning of what oreau called “the Great Beach.” Part of Cape Cod National Seashore, Coast Guard Beach is wide, with sand dunes, marshland, and pounding waves. Parking in summer is reserved for residents and

vehicles with handicapped placards, but free transportation is provided via a shuttle bus at the Little Creek parking area in Eastham. e beach itself is handicapped accessible and also rents out beach wheelchairs. nps.gov/caco

CORN HILL BEACH, Truro. A pleasant bayside alternative to the colder, heavier surf on Cape Cod’s Atlantic shores, Corn Hill (named for the spot where the Pilgrims were said to have found a stash of Wampanoag corn) is a narrow, dune-backed stretch of sand just north of Pamet Harbor. e calm, shallow waters are ideal for kids, though there are no lifeguards. Facilities are limited to porta-potties. truro-ma.gov

CRANE BEACH, Ipswich. Considered a crown jewel among the Trustees of Reservations’ 100-plus properties, Crane is a spectacular white-sand beach … and then some. e 2,100 acres donated by plumbing- xture magnate Richard Crane and his family comprise dunes, salt marsh,

and a maritime scrub forest laced with trails. In summer, there are lifeguards, bathhouses, refreshments, and outdoor showers; year-round, naturalists guide birding walks (snowy owls are regular visitors, and piping plovers nest here) and other outdoor adventures. thetrustees.org

JETTIES BEACH, Nantucket. An easy bike ride from the center of town brings you to a seashell-strewn north-shore beach notable for a sandbar where bathers can hang out in ankle-deep water. A family favorite with lifeguards, restrooms, playground, and gentle surf, Jetties is also known for its beach-friendly wheelchairs as well as a long plastic mat along the beach to help with going to and fro. e seagulls here will thieve your lunch in a second, so come prepared with a covered basket when you swim. nantucket-ma.gov/2426/jetties-beach NANTASKET BEACH RESERVATION, Hull. A 1928 carousel is all that remains of Nantasket’s amusement

park heyday, but the mile-long beach is still there and o ers one of the Boston area’s best places to swim in clean ocean water while enjoying a skyline view of the Hub. Perhaps because of its urban location, Nantasket is one of Massachusetts’s prime spots for collecting sea glass, especially as high tide recedes. mass.gov/visitmassachusetts-state-parks

RACE POINT BEACH, Provincetown is sizable beach at Cape Cod National Seashore’s northern extreme has it all: miles of ne tawny sand, ocean waves, lifeguards and bathhouses, and spectacular sunsets. Race Point Light is a two-mile walk from the beach, and bike trails weaving through the dunes from Provincetown are an alternative to parking fees. e Old Harbor LifeSaving Station opens as a museum in summer; the Province Lands Visitor Center is also nearby. Evening camp re permits are available. nps.gov/caco

(L) Lt. John F. Kennedy and

(R) Lt. Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr.

He lost his brother during World War 2.

He never lost his vision for democracy.

SOUTH BEACH

(KATAMA

BEACH),

Edgartown. Located on Martha’s Vineyard, an island famous for its beaches, this three-mile-long dune-backed beauty has long, rolling waves for those who love the exhilaration of body sur ng, as well as a protected saltwater pond for the surf-averse. Located a few miles from downtown, in the residential area of Katama, the beach is one of the few on the island with restrooms. Beach driving is allowed with permits, too. mvy.com/beachesmarthas-vineyard

WINGAERSHEEK BEACH, Gloucester. A favorite among Gloucester’s public beaches, Wingaersheek embraces the calm waters at the meeting of the Annisquam River and Ipswich Bay. Tides in the bay are substantial; at low tide, the beach reaches out to a sandbar hundreds of yards from the high-tide line, which makes for a great wet-sand walk and a gradual drop-o when the tide is in. Lifeguards in season. Parking is limited; nonresidents must reserve online. gloucester-ma.gov

NEW HAMPSHIRE

CARRY BEACH, Wolfeboro. ere are better-known beaches on Lake Winnipesaukee, but they’re bigger and busier. Carry Beach, on Winter Harbor, is as low-key as they come, with shallow, kid-friendly water; a small sandy beach set in parklike surroundings; and lifeguards in season. It’s also home to a water aerobics program and the swim portion of the annual Granite Man Triathlon. e beach’s name? is was once a canoe portage spot. wolfeboronh.us/parks-recreation

HAMPTON BEACH STATE PARK, Hampton. New Hampshire’s only slightly more sedate answer to the rollicking shore towns of New Jersey features a boardwalk; a full complement of lodgings, restaurants, and snack bars; and the pop-androck venue of the Hampton Beach Casino. All these attractions stand behind a miles-long state park, with a pristine white-sand beach (rated one of America’s cleanest), ve bathhouses, RV camping sites, and a special section for surfers. nhstateparks.org/visit/state-parks

ODIORNE POINT STATE PARK, Rye.

Odiorne is a top alternative to sandy swimmers’ beaches, with a rocky shore peppered with the remains of the WWII gun emplacements, trails threading through dense brush, and the Seacoast Science Center with its ne exhibits focusing on the area’s human and natural history. e park is popular with sea kayakers, and with birders life-listing redthroated loons, broad-winged hawks, and many other species. Limited parking can be booked in advance. nhstateparks.org/visit/state-parks

WALLIS SANDS STATE PARK, Rye. For a state with an 18-mile seacoast, New Hampshire does more than all right. Facing the Gulf of Maine between Rye and Odiorne Point, with views of the Isles of Shoals, Wallis is an aptly named arc of sand ranging the length of a small state park. Facilities at the north end include a picnic area, shop, and bathhouse; 500 parking spaces sound like a lot, but you’d best reserve a spot in advance. nhstateparks.org/ visit/state-parks

RHODE ISLAND

EAST BEACH STATE BEACH, Charlestown. While Charlestown’s Blue Shutters Beach draws a family crowd with its full facilities, the community’s Ninigret Conservation Area o ers a quieter, more remote setting. With three miles of sandy shoreline, a scant 20 campsites, and limited parking, this barrier beach at the east end of Quonochontaug Neck provides an away-from-itall experience—though seasonal lifeguards in one section make it great for kids. riparks.com

EAST MATUNUCK STATE BEACH, South Kingstown. Broad sands and vigorous surf combine with ample facilities at this popular state beach near Rhode Island’s southeastern corner. Amenities include indoor and outdoor showers, restrooms and changing areas, lifeguards, and Salty’s Burgers & Seafood. Get there early for parking, especially on weekends; during o -hours (the beach closes for swimming at 6 p.m.), it’s a prime surf-casting spot. riparks.com

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MOHEGAN BLUFFS, New Shoreham (Block Island). Towering up to 200 feet above the ocean, the blu ’s clay cli s are aproned by one of Block Island’s nest and most remote beaches, well worth the 141-step descent on a wooden staircase (just remember, you have to climb back up!). It’s a popular spot for surfers, so expect some serious waves—this isn’t Block Island Sound, but the open Atlantic. blockislandinfo.com

NAPATREE POINT, Westerly. is mile-and-a-half swath of sand arcs out from Westerly’s Watch Hill village and past a private club as it separates Little Narragansett Bay from Long Island Sound. Napatree is known as a walker’s beach, but swimming is ne in the gentle waters of the Sound. Protected by the Watch Hill Conservancy, the point is without facilities (including lifeguards); wardens occasionally patrolling the beach are there to protect piping plovers. thewatchhillconservancy.org

NARRAGANSETT TOWN BEACH, Narragansett. e smooth curve of sand near the mouth of Narragansett Bay sets the standard for town beaches. Look for full facilities, with lifeguards all summer, a rst-aid o ce, plenty of parking, two pavilions, a boardwalk, an observation tower, and 19 acres of beachfront that accommodate the crowds—without overcrowding. And while this isn’t Maui, beginning and intermediate surfers nd decent waves in a set-aside zone. narragansettri.gov

SACHUEST (SECOND) BEACH, Middletown. Everyone rides the waves at Second Beach, located just outside the Newport town line. Surfers can be found to the west, near Purgatory Chasm, a deep cleft in the bedrock rising above Sachuest Bay; atop the rise is the campus of St. George’s School, its limestone chapel tower a dramatic backdrop to the powdery sand. Families, meanwhile, grab their boogie boards and head to the center of the scenic mile-long beach to try their luck. Board rentals and lessons are available during the season, as well as a Del’s Lemonade truck and concession stand. middletownri.com

VERMONT

ALBURGH DUNES STATE PARK, Alburgh. A beach isn’t a beach without sand dunes, so freshwater beaches are out … right? Wrong. One of Vermont’s newest state parks was established to preserve an incongruous feature of northern Lake Champlain, a duneland left behind by retreating glaciers. Along with the dunes, erosion and winds have created one of the lake’s longest beaches, enclosed within a day-use park that features a picnic area with grills, and restroom/ changing facilities in a rustic setting. vtstateparks.com/alburgh.html

BOULDER BEACH STATE PARK, Groton. One of seven state parks in 26,000-acre Groton State Forest, Boulder Beach may sound rocky, but the eponymous boulders merely dot a stretch of sandy shoreline along Lake Groton. ere’s a de nite wilderness feel to the terrain in this southern threshold of the Northeast Kingdom, but the park is well equipped with changing facilities, boat rentals, a concession stand, and a broad lawn dotted with picnic sites behind the beach. vtstateparks.com/boulder.html

CRYSTAL LAKE STATE PARK, Barton. One of the glacially carved jewels of northern Vermont’s lake country lies just outside the town of Barton and features a sandy swimming beach with a spectacular view. Located at the northern end of three-mile-long Crystal Lake, the park o ers canoe and paddleboard rentals, tables and grills, and concession facilities housed in a distinctive, Civilian Conservation Corps–built changing station. ere’s also a kitchen-equipped cottage for rent. vtstateparks.com/crystal.html

SAND BAR STATE PARK, Milton Vermont’s most popular day-use state park is home to its nest stretch of Lake Champlain beachfront, a 2,000-foot strand with a dropo so gradual that it seems you could wade from the mainland to the Champlain Islands. e shallow waters make this an ideal beach for kids, who’ll also enjoy the play area and ice cream stand. Get there early to snag a table and grill. vtstateparks.com/sandbar.html

Tickle your puzzler!

Tomato Joy

(Continued from p. 40)

12 ounces dried rigatoni

1 cup whole-milk ricotta

½ teaspoon lemon zest

1¼ teaspoons kosher salt, divided, plus more for the pasta water

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

6 garlic cloves, sliced

½ cup sun-dried tomatoes in oil, drained, rinsed, and finely chopped

Red pepper flakes

6 cups fresh baby spinach

Grated Parmesan, for serving

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the rigatoni and cook according to the package directions. Drain, reserving ½ cup of the pasta water. While the pasta cooks, stir together the ricotta, lemon zest, 1 teaspoon salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Set aside. Warm the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, 1 minute. Stir in the tomatoes, 2 generous pinches of red pepper flakes, the spinach, and the remaining ¼ teaspoon salt. Cook until the spinach is wilted, about 3 minutes. Add the cooked pasta and toss for 2 minutes to warm through.

Transfer the pasta to a serving bowl and add the ricotta mixture, along with 2 tablespoons of the reserved pasta water. Toss until the pasta is well coated. If the sauce is too thick, add more water, 1 tablespoon at a time. Serve immediately, with grated Parmesan on the side. Yields 4 to 6 servings.

SOUTHWEST QUINOA SALAD

To make a really good vinaigrette, you need an emulsifier—something that keeps the oil and vinegar (or in this case, lime juice) from separating and gives the dressing a smooth, almost creamy texture. Here, tomato paste does the trick. In addition to making the dressing for this recipe extra tomatoey, it helps bring together all the other flavors. Don’t skip letting the quinoa

cool completely before you dress the salad, or it will end up less luscious than intended.

FOR THE DRESSING

Juice of 1 lime

1 tablespoon tomato paste

1 garlic clove, grated

¾ teaspoon kosher salt

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

¹⁄ 8 teaspoon chipotle chili powder

¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

FOR THE SALAD

1 cup canned black beans, rinsed and drained

1 cup halved cherry or grape tomatoes

¾ cup frozen corn, thawed

¼ cup finely chopped red onion

½ small red bell pepper, chopped

½ small yellow bell pepper, chopped

3 cups cooked quinoa, chilled

1 avocado, diced

¼ cup crumbled queso fresco (or feta)

¼ cup roughly chopped fresh cilantro

To make the dressing, whisk together the lime juice, tomato paste, garlic, salt, paprika, and chili powder in a small bowl. Add the oil in a slow, steady stream, while whisking vigorously until emulsified.

To assemble the salad, combine the beans, tomatoes, corn, onion, and bell peppers in a large bowl. Add

the quinoa and dressing, then stir to evenly coat. Spread onto a platter and top with the avocado, queso fresco, and cilantro. Keep refrigerated until ready to serve. Yields 6 to 8 servings.

OVEN-BAKED COD WITH DILL AND SUNGOLD CHERRY TOMATOES

The classic French cooking method called en papillote—a fancy way of saying putting food in a packet and baking it with steam—is a quick, incredibly easy, and nearly foolproof technique for preparing fish. To do it, you season the fish and layer it with aromatics, then wrap it in parchment paper and place into the oven. You can make it into a meal by adding quick-cooking vegetables like (surprise!) the tomatoes in this recipe. For the best results, portion your ingredients evenly so all the packets are ready at the same time.

3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

1 garlic clove, grated

1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill, plus more for garnish

¾ teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for seasoning fish

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more for seasoning fish

4 cod filets, 4–6 ounces apiece

1½ cups halved Sungold cherry tomatoes

1 small lemon, thinly sliced

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Cut four 12-inch squares of parchment paper. Stir together the butter, garlic, dill, ¾ teaspoon salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper in a small bowl.

Center a filet on each parchment sheet and season with salt and pepper. Dot each filet with one-quarter of the compound butter. Divide the tomatoes evenly among the packets and top each with 1 or 2 lemon slices.

Fold or twist each sheet of parchment to seal in the ingredients. Arrange on a baking sheet. Bake the fish for about 12 minutes, or until it is no longer opaque. Garnish with more dill before serving. Yields 4 servings.

Recipes by Joy Howard; reprinted with permission from Storey Publishing.

‘In Trouble. Can’t Move. Could Die.’

(Continued from p. 93)

snow, and a minus-zero windchill— stopped moving near the summit of Mount Clay, the northern shoulder of Mount Washington. He wouldn’t get below treeline again until after midnight, when an elite mountain rescue team went to find him in conditions that, even by the standards of Mount Washington, were extreme for late June.

“These [Presidential] mountains are weird, because they’re tame most of the time,” says rescuer and veteran ice climber Michael Wejchert. “Something like Mount Washington, it’s unique because people try to climb it 365 days a year. It doesn’t have the worst weather, it’s not the tallest, and it’s not the steepest. But it has a version of all three of those things. And sometimes that mountain can fight back.”

Gu might not have shared Chen’s love of the outdoors, but he understood his friend’s ambitions. The two men’s bond went back to the mid1980s, when both were physics students at the University of Shanghai for Science and Technology. Gu says his friend then was much like the person he later knew in Andover: hard-working

with an appreciation for solitude.

The oldest of two boys born to archaeologist parents, Chen spent his formative years in Fuzhou, the capital of southeastern China’s Fujian province, but it was his early childhood in the countryside that he would recall most glowingly to his wife and children. He had loved to ramble around the fields that radiated out from his grandmother’s house, looking for wildlife, and watched with awe as older boys jumped fearlessly into a nearby river.

While Chen was at the University of Shanghai, his mother died suddenly of liver cancer. Until then, Chen had never imagined leaving his home country. Yet as China began to open up to the world, and he saw friends leave for the United States, he began to wonder what might be next for him.

He found it in an unlikely place: Kansas. Chen arrived at Wichita State University in January 1994 with $5,000 in savings to pursue a master’s in industrial engineering. As it happened, Wichita was also where his future wife, Lian Liu, had arrived nearly four years before from Sichuan province in southwestern China. A nursing student in her final year at tiny Bethel College,

Liu met Chin at a house party hosted by the Chinese Student Association at Wichita State. Two weeks later, they began dating. Six months after that, the two married.

“I had friends who thought I was crazy—‘Why are you getting married so fast?’ they asked me,” says Liu. “But it felt right.”

In Wichita, Liu worked at a local hospital while Chen finished his degree. In 1996 Chen graduated and accepted a job with a flute manufacturer in Waltham, Massachusetts. The young couple found a small apartment in nearby Framingham, and Chen kept life in perpetual motion.

“He never wanted to just stay home,” Liu says. “We went to the Cape, we’d go up to Maine. He liked going to the movies, going out to eat, and he liked shopping, much more than me. We’d be out and he’d see something and say, ‘Why don’t you try that on? You’d look pretty in it.’ We’d get home with all this stuff and he hadn’t bought himself anything.”

In 2000 their first child was born, a daughter named Megan. Two years later Liu gave birth to Kaiwen, and in 2005 the couple’s second daughter, Meiling, arrived. Soon after, the Chen family moved to a five-bedroom colonial just a few doors down from his old friend, Dennis Gu, in Andover.

Even as the kids grew older and schedules became more complicated, Chen and Liu, a cardiac nurse at Boston’s Brigham and Women’s Hospital, made time for family travel. There were camping trips to Maine, weekends on Cape Cod, more adventurous sojourns to the Grand Canyon and other national parks, and holiday treks through Europe. But even on family trips, Chen was always looking for extra adventure—when the family visited Iceland a few years ago, for example, he and Kaiwen arrived there a week early so they could hike and camp along the 34-mile Laugavegur trail.

“He was always looking for ways to challenge himself,” says Kaiwen. “Whether it was his work or the kind of hikes he wanted to do, he never wanted to feel like he was

Taken the morning after the rescue mission, this photo from the Mount Washington summit shows the extreme contrast between the season—less than a week before the start of summer—and the actual weather that was pummeling the White Mountains.

stagnating. And once he set his mind on something, he did everything in his power to actually do it.”

At 9:44 on the morning of June 18, Xi Chen took a series of short selfie videos atop Mount Madison, the first of the four presidential peaks he planned to traverse that day. In several of them he beams widely from beneath the hood of his jacket. The scene around him, however, is a stark contrast. The morning is gray, the peak shrouded in fog, the wind snapping Chen’s outer shell.

Over the next several hours, as Chen made his way up and over the boulder-strewn tops of Adams and Jefferson, a steady rain fell. At 2:50 p.m., Chen stopped briefly to text his wife: Got wet, three miles from any civilization. A bit concerned [about] hypothermia. Chen, who’d set his phone so Liu could track his general progress, then added, Keep an eye on my location

At 4:26 p.m. Chen texted again. Heading [to] Mt. Washington or Lake in the Clouds hut.

Liu, who had recently returned from picking up Kaiwen in Worcester, felt her worry turn to fear. It’ll get dark early with the weather, she texted back. Let me know when u get there

Chen replied: If I stop moving then in trouble.

Another hour passed before Liu heard from her husband again. By then, the weather had taken a turn for the extreme. On the summit of Mount Washington, gusts of up to 80 mph were driving the windchill down to 5 below. Sleet and snow had descended across the Presidential Range. Not even the best rain gear could have kept Chen dry, much less warm.

In all probability Chen was already suffering from hypothermia, which strikes when your core temperature drops below 95°F. As it attacks the body—forcing it to shiver excessively and reduce blood flow to the skin and extremities, to protect vital organs—it also attacks the mind. Causing memory loss, incoherence, disorientation, and sheer exhaustion, it can complicate a person’s ability

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to get help or find safety. At its most extreme, hypothermia can even trick the victim into feeling overheated, causing them to shed clothing.

It’s unclear exactly when Chen stopped walking, but at 5:30 p.m., just a mile from the Lake of the Clouds Hut, he sent out a desperate text to Liu. In trouble. Can’t move.

Do I need to call rescue? she asked.

Yes, he replied at 5:47. Could die.

Liu immediately dialed 911, but she was told that without her husband’s exact location, no rescue could be mobilized. As Liu urged her husband to message or call 911, Kaiwen sprang into action, taking the general location that his father’s phone had shared and using Google Maps’ satellite view to get a fix on his father’s approximate longitude and latitude. Liu relayed that information to a 911 dispatcher, who told her an officer with New Hampshire Fish and Game would call her back.

As Liu waited for the call, she tried again to reach Chen. When he didn’t pick up, she texted, pleading with him again to message 911 to solidify his location. Called 911, she wrote. They want you to call, or text 911 though I told them latitudes/longitudes . She waited a few minutes more, then: Are you awake?

Several minutes passed before Chen messaged his wife for the last time: I am lost. Need help.

When Lieutenant Mark Ober of New Hampshire Fish and Game received a report at 6:34 p.m. of a missing hiker near Mount Washington, it had already been a long evening. A few hours earlier, he’d coordinated the rescue of a group of hikers who were experiencing hypothermia near Mount Madison. Now, Ober was stationed in his truck in Shelburne, overseeing the rescue of an injured hiker on Mount Hayes by three of his department’s conservation officers.

For nearly two decades, Ober has been in charge of the state’s rescue operations in the northern White Mountains. It’s the heart of a busy

region for hikers: Just a day’s drive from places like Boston, New York City, and Portland, Maine, the White Mountain National Forest attracts more than 6 million visitors a year. In a given year Ober fields some 80 emergency calls, though not all require a rescue effort.

“You get people here in the summer who are literally just tired and want to be carried down,” says Ober. “Or they’ve lost a shoe, or a sole has come off a sneaker, and can we hike some new boots up to them? Or they didn’t bring a headlamp or flashlight and they’ve underestimated the time it’s going to take them to make it down. If it’s summer and the weather is nice, I’ll tell them, ‘You’re going to spend the night, because we’re not coming to get you.’”

For true emergencies, though, Ober has a choice of different teams to deploy. In the summer and early fall he leans on his department’s own specialized group of conservation officers or the region’s two main volunteer outfits, the Androscoggin Valley and Pemigewasset Valley searchand-rescue squads. But when the situation calls for navigating harsh winter weather above treeline— where both conditions and terrain can be especially treacherous—he turns to the “special forces” of the Whites: Mountain Rescue Service, or MRS.

Composed of some of the world’s most elite guides and climbers, MRS was born in 1972 as a response to

the region’s growing popularity and the increasing number of dangerous backcountry rescues that came with it. Fatalities in the Whites were nothing new—the first reported hiking death on Mount Washington happened in 1849, and 77 additional lives had been lost on the mountain by the time MRS was founded—but pressure to prevent them had reached a tipping point. A coalition of officials from the Appalachian Mountain Club, Fish and Game, and the U.S. Forest Service came up with an innovative plan: Build a dedicated rescue operation with the growing number of young, expert climbers who had moved to the White Mountains. It was just a matter of months before the newly formed MRS proved its worth.

“There was a guy in just his bathing suit who had decided it would be a good idea to hike Whitehorse Ledge,” says Rick Wilcox, a worldrenowned ice climber and MRS cofounder who led the organization from 1976 to 2016. “A few of us went over there, and there were these firemen standing around at the bottom, looking at each other and this climbing rope they had. I went over to the chief—‘Hey look, we are a part of this rescue team that can help you.’ He kind of brushed us off. ‘Nah, we got this.’ Then an hour passed and nothing had happened. I went back up to him and said, ‘Give us 15 minutes and we can get that guy down.’ That’s what we did, and that really started things off for us.”

In the half century since, MRS— whose 40-member team spans generations of climbers—has led more than 350 missions. There’s nothing glamorous about being a part of the crew. You’re on call 24 hours; many rescues, especially the most complicated ones, happen at night; and outside of a free ski pass to the local mountains, there’s no compensation.

“Climbers take care of other climbers, and that means anybody who goes into the mountains,” says Joe Lentini, a member of MRS since 1976. “I’m still a climber and I love the mountains, and as long as I’m able to help, why wouldn’t I do this work?”

“You feel like you’ll never be that person [who needs to be rescued],” says Wejchert. “But we’ve all been around the block a few times. We know it either has been us, or it could easily be one of us.”

Shortly after receiving the 911 dispatch, Ober called Lian Liu. He told her that a team would be assembled to find her husband, but that it might take a few hours before the rescue could begin. MRS crew members were scattered around the White Mountains region, equipment needed to be gathered, and it would take time to reach the most viable trailhead— which happened to be just below the summit of Mount Washington. And given the conditions, he couldn’t guarantee they’d even reach Chen. “We’ll do our best to rescue your husband, but not at the cost of the rescuers’ lives,” Ober said.

Ober then contacted Jeff Fongemie, vice president of MRS and lead snow ranger on Mount Washington. At 7:26 p.m. Fongemie sent out a rescue request to all MRS members through a WhatsApp text:

We’ve been asked by Fish and Game to get a hypothermic hiker off the summit of Mt. Clay to the Auto Road . It’s currently 32 degrees [with] freezing rain and northwest winds 50 to 60 miles per hour, with rain turning to snow. We are needed for this non-technical but nonetheless challenging rescue.

One of the first to respond was MRS president Michael Wejchert. A 35-year-old writer and climber who lives in North Conway with his wife, Alexa Siegel, a nurse and MRS team leader, Wejchert had just returned home from the grocery store when Fongemie’s text appeared on his phone. He immediately began pulling together supplies—stocking a couple of thermoses with hot Gatorade, stuffing extra clothes, including a dry suit, into a pack. Then he met up with three other MRS volunteers at International Mountain Equipment, an outdoor gear retailer that Wilcox owns in North Conway, where MRS keeps a cache of essential rescue gear such as sleeping bags, wilderness stretchers, and makeshift tents.

By 9:25 p.m. Wejchert was at the base of the Mount Washington Auto Road with his five-man team: Ryan Driscoll, Tim Doyle, Joe Klementovich, Charlie Townsend, and Steve Lar-

son. Because freezing rain coated the upper reaches of the auto road, Ober had phoned for a truck with chains from the Mount Washington State Park crew to ferry the rescuers to just south of the summit. Klementovich and Townsend climbed into the cab while Driscoll, Wejchert, and Larson lay down in the bed and covered themselves with a tarp to fend off the rain.

“We’re bouncing around with no idea where we were,” Driscoll recalls. “Then the truck stopped and I remember hearing, ‘OK, this is where you guys get out.’ We pulled that tarp off and the rain was just pouring down. I looked around for a second and thought, This is going to be pretty bad.”

Waiting in Andover for word about the rescue seemed excruciating to Lian Liu, who wanted to be as close as possible to her husband. So she told Kaiwen and her younger daughter, Meiling, that they would drive to North Conway and find a hotel room. She phoned Dennis Gu to tell him the news and asked him to pick up her other daughter, Megan, after she finished work in Boston, and

bring her home, where Liu’s sister would eventually meet her.

Meanwhile, Kaiwen pulled out his winter hiking gear. If the rescue team couldn’t get to his father, then he would. Maybe he didn’t have the strength to get him back down, he reasoned, but he could at least bring his temperature back up by getting him inside a sleeping bag with dry clothes on and pocket warmers stuffed around him. Kaiwen showed Liu a map. “If we go up the Mount Washington Auto Road, we can pick up a trail that’s a mile from where Dad is,” he told her. “You can stay in the car while Meiling and I go find him.”

Liu stayed quiet. She understood her son’s desperation but knew she couldn’t allow her children to put their own lives in danger. As Kaiwen continued gathering his equipment, she decided to not talk about the idea until they reached North Conway.

Shortly after Liu and her children left Andover, she received a call from Ober letting her know a rescue team had been mobilized. Relief washed over her. A plan was in place to find her husband. She wouldn’t need to talk Kaiwen out of a search. She told herself her husband would be OK. Maybe he was injured, she thought, but he was going to get off that mountain, and perhaps in a day or two he would be home. She repeated this hope inwardly as she drove. Kaiwen stared stoically ahead; his sister cried softly in the back seat.

Shortly after 10 p.m., they arrived in a rainy North Conway. Liu pulled into the parking lot of the first hotel she found and reached for her phone. Are u awake? she texted her husband. We arrived in North Conway now.

Then she called Ober. He had more good news: The MRS team was hiking to her husband’s location.

Wejchert and the others moved briskly in single file. Their course was a quick descent along the Gulfside Trail, the northern Presidentials’ main hiking artery and the route Chen had seemingly tracked since leaving the top of Madison. From the

Like many others on the team he leads as president of Mountain Rescue Service, Michael Wejchert (shown here on a climbing trip in Alaska) has hard-earned experience in dealing with danger at high elevations. COURTESY OF MICHAEL WEJCHERT

moment he stepped out of the truck, however, Wejchert was cursing himself for wearing glasses instead of contacts. With freezing rain pelting the lenses, he took them off and positioned himself in the back of the line, allowing his headlamp and the lights of those in front of him to guide him over the ice- and snow-covered terrain. The group moved largely in silence so they could concentrate on their footing.

At about the one-mile mark, Doyle and Driscoll, who had taken the lead and were tracking the group’s position by GPS, saw that they were coming up on Chen’s approximate location. They motioned to the others to begin looking for signs of him—a flickering headlamp, perhaps, or a stray piece of gear. Seconds turned to minutes as they pushed farther north on the Gulfside before circling back to where it junctions with the Jewell Trail. It was there that the men finally spotted Chen, about 15 feet off the path. He lay on his back, unconscious, his bare hands clenched on his chest. He was wearing his puffer jacket, an outer shell, rain paints, and boots. He did not have a hat on. Nearby were the scattered contents of his pack, including his tent, which he may have tried to set up for shelter.

After Doyle, a trained EMT, did a quick assessment of the unresponsive Chen, the crew worked quickly to get him into a sleeping bag, wrap him tightly with a tarp, and strap him down on the rescue stretcher. At 11:03 p.m. the squad began to carry Chen to the Mount Washington summit. Minutes later, they were joined by a second team of six Fish and Game conservation officers and three more MRS members.

The expanded team hiked uphill through 80 mph winds and steady freezing rain. Crews of six carried Chen for short stretches, switching off to conserve energy. For the final push to the summit, the team followed the tracks of the Cog Railway. At 12:45 a.m. they reached a waiting state park truck. Just over a half hour later, Chen was loaded onto an

ambulance at the base of the Mount Washington Auto Road and sped 19 miles to the Androscoggin Valley Hospital in Berlin.

Lian Liu was already at the hospital when her husband arrived shortly before 2 a.m. Concerned about Covid and still not allowing herself to even consider that her husband might not survive,

she had come alone, leaving Kaiwen and Meiling at the hotel. In the ER, Chen was settled onto a bed, his arms strapped down, a CPR machine on his chest. At the same time, a respirator machine worked to get oxygen into his body, as he wasn’t breathing on his own. His core temperature hovered in the 60s. Liu waited outside his room for a few long minutes before the doctor invited her in. “It doesn’t look good,” he warned her.

Over the next two hours the ER team worked frantically to revive Chen. Heat lamps surrounded his bed, and he was hooked to an IV that circulated warm saline solution through his body. As the doctor and nurses labored, Liu sat quietly by her husband’s left side, her hands clutching his, her head bowed and pressed down against them, as though in prayer. Increasingly desperate to get Chen breathing, the team tried to intubate him but couldn’t unlock his jaw. As a last-ditch effort, they performed a tracheostomy, but his condition never

The doctor approached Liu. “Do you want us to continue?”

Liu told him she needed more time. “I can’t do anything until my kids are here,” she said.

improved. He didn’t even have a viable pulse by then.

Shortly before dawn, the doctor approached Liu. “Do you want us to continue?”

Liu told him she needed more time. “I can’t do anything until my kids are here,” she said. Liu called her sister and asked her to drive Megan north and then bring all three of her children to the hospital.

As a nurse, Liu understood what she was seeing and knew what it meant, but as she waited for her family to arrive, she veered between hope and despair. She made calls to the major hospitals in Boston to see if she could have her husband transferred—though without a stable pulse, Chen couldn’t be moved. But she also thought about what survival might look like for Chen, a man who prided himself on his physical fitness. He had told his family that if he were in an accident that left him dependent on others, he didn’t wish to be kept alive. Liu began to realize that even her husband’s best-case scenario wouldn’t be what he wanted, and that she would have to carry out his last wishes. “I needed to advocate for him,” she later said.

It was a little before 9 on Sunday morning when an exhausted Liu greeted her children in the ER lobby. Then she led them to Chen’s bedside, where they all held his hands and said their good-byes.

By the end of the day, most of the MRS team had learned of Chen’s death. He was one of 21 hiking fatalities in the White Mountains in 2022, including three right at the end of the year. For rescuers like Wejchert, their work can immerse them in a person’s worst moment—maybe even the final moments—and the impact of that can linger long after the exhaustion and adrenalin have disappeared.

“Many people that next day just go to work at their jobs, whether it’s guiding or banging nails,” says Wejchert. “But it doesn’t mean they’re not thinking about it. They’re just trying to keep going. When you’re [on the rescue] you kick into this gear where you don’t humanize the situation, in a way. You’re in this mode of doing what you

have to do. It’s only afterward where you start to feel sad. You read a news story about who they were, the family they had.

“It’s hard, but we do this for a reason. There are people who need our help. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a situation where somebody on the team was like, ‘I’m sick of these people.’ I think when you first start climbing or hiking you think, Oh, that person’s an idiot for [making that mistake]. You feel like you’ll never be that person. But we’ve all been around the block a few times. We know it either has been us, or it could easily be one of us.”

Aweek after Xi Chen’s death, a local hiking group of Chinese-Americans completed the entire Presidential Traverse in their late friend’s honor. Over the course of the 16-hour trek, the hikers placed a framed photo of Chen at different cairns and took pictures of it to share with Liu and her children.

Liu showed me a few of the snapshots when I met her last November at the family home in Andover. It was the first of several meetings, including interviews with her two oldest children. Like their mom, Kaiwen and Megan often spoke in the present

tense when discussing their father. “It still doesn’t feel real,” Liu said at one point, quietly.

Chen’s presence in the house was impossible to ignore. His vast collection of hiking gear was still clustered in the basement. Framed pictures from hikes and family trips hung on many of the walls. On a coffee table were photo albums he’d meticulously constructed. One had a cover photo of his three young children, smiling and piled on top of each other, at a rest stop just off New Hampshire’s Kancamagus Highway. “Foliage camping trip on Columbus Weekend is a new family tradition,” read one of the captions inside. In the kitchen there still hung the map of Chen’s completed 4,000-footers. “You can see he only did two of those with me,” Liu said with a small laugh.

Over the course of our conversations, Liu returned to the questions she kept asking herself. How had a man who was so meticulous gotten himself into such a dangerous situation? Why had he waited so long to ask for help? What else could have been done to save his life? There are no answers, of course. No easy ones, anyway.

And yet, there have been some moments of comfort. Discovering photos from a favorite family trip. Remembering how her husband loved to watch American Idol and how he playfully insisted on cueing up the song “Home” by contestant Phillip Phillips whenever the family returned from a vacation. Recalling how a food-obsessed Chen would keep his family waiting no matter how hungry they might be so he could find the perfect restaurant.

Or this:

A few years ago, Chen told Megan that when he died he hoped to be buried by a tree. Last fall, as the family visited a nearby cemetery, they came across a pretty little spot that sits a bit off on its own and is slightly shaded by a red maple. It was as though the plot found them, says Liu. Later this year it will become Xi Chen’s resting place. A pretty little spot that’s drenched in sunshine and fresh air. The kind of place he always relished finding.

Chen’s memorial picture sits atop a cairn on Mount Eisenhower. It was placed and photographed by friends hiking the Presidential Traverse in his memory last summer.

The Headstone Brigade

(Continued from p. 89)

overgrown nook of West Haven, Vermont. Three of the cemeteries were complete—notably Galick, “the gem”—and the remaining two would be dealt with before the ground froze in November. If righting a lone wronged stone at St. Peter’s produced a distinct albeit mysterious buzz, what might it feel like to draw a whole pioneer neighborhood back from the thickety brink, the green-smothered beyond?

We met on Sunday morning at the end of a narrow, potholed road tracing the undeveloped southeastern shoreline of Lake Champlain. “A team of us put in 10 days last spring,” Trutor said, pointing to a short, steep slope of jumbled rocks and dense vegetation atop which sat our destination, a clearing that glowed faintly golden inside the murky woods. “We had to rig a cable zipline between a tree up there and a vehicle down here to haul 75-pound buckets of sure-pack, saws and picks and plywood, tons of supplies, and now, you’ll see, it’s the most beautiful cemetery in Vermont, and no, that’s not an unbiased assessment.” He chuckled, shaking his bald head, rubbing his white beard. “I’ll praise the next one we work on the same, but with Galick, oh, I’m having withdrawals.”

In my humble opinion, Trutor, an engineer from Burlington, missed his calling. He struck me as a natural teacher, breathlessly enthusiastic, hugely dedicated (four-hour round-trip commute to West Haven), detail-oriented, armed with handouts, miscellaneous pages photocopied from Rutland County Cemetery Inscriptions. In the ’80s and ’90s, the legendary Margaret Jenks documented 200plus cemeteries in 27 towns, including Galick, where she found just a pair of stones standing. That pair was still erect—well, leaning at opposing 45-degree angles—when Trutor and company, wearing jeans and leather gloves, arrived 20ish years later with the West Haven Cemetery Commission’s blessing. (Note that VOCA’s Nicole Vecchi, from Wilder, Vermont, has

uploaded photographs of a whopping 45,000 headstones and monuments to the popular website findagrave.com, rivaling Jenks’s fanaticism.)

“Galick was gone ,” Trutor said, launching into a sketch of invasive honeysuckle tangles, eight-inch-diameter ashes clutching scattered chunks of marble with their roots, stones that slid 15 feet from the original placement, stones in 10 pieces, stones lost deep underground that had to be located by probing with a metal rod. He shook his head and rubbed his beard again— without the chuckle. “It was a disaster.”

Trutor had notified Team Galick that we’d be visiting, and several of the key players awaited us in the cemetery: Jamey Greenough (VOCA member from Queensbury, New York), Elaine and Dave McDevitt (Nature Conservancy caretakers), and Paul Laramie (Trutor’s brother-in-law). Though the team’s bond was the result of this single project, the atmosphere was jovial, chummy, like a reunion of college buddies, jokes and reminiscences galore. Seven weeks earlier they had finished Galick. Today’s gathering was a victory lap, the task to relax and enjoy.

That task was easily accomplished because, as advertised, the cemetery was beautiful, a pocket-size park with a giant black walnut growing in the middle, leaf shadows patterning rows of intricately engraved headstones, cardinals flashing red in the canopy. The Nature Conservancy preserve was genuinely wild, a patchwork of swamps and cliffs and creased hills, prime habitat for falcons, rattlesnakes, bobcats, and ticks, and it would have been wilder yet in the late 18th century when Elnathan Benjamin settled the land after marching in the French and Indian War. His headstone was the oldest in Galick (d. 1813) and, oddly, one of the two that wasn’t destabilized by burrowing rodents, trampled by a cow, tossed by wind, busted by expanding ice, or otherwise disturbed.

Starting with Elnathan, I counted outward, tallying 26 proper carved tablets and more than 100 anonymous fieldstones, the uncut, unadorned grave markers of the indigent, presumably sourced from a nearby erod-

ing crag. Small mossy cobbles and small rough-edged shards, they commemorated Irish immigrants who succumbed to “ship’s fever” while traveling south from Quebec. I consulted Margaret Jenks’s write-up: “Unable to pay for funerals (many lived in makeshift shelters among piles of lumber in the lumberyards at Whitehall Harbor), to say nothing of headstones, they were often buried unceremoniously in this graveyard.”

So Galick was a potter’s field, too? In Vergennes, Jeff Bostwick and I had discussed “homework assignments”— how a cemetery begets a stone, a stone begets an Internet search, an Internet search begets a jaunt to the library, a jaunt to the library begets a cemetery, onward and onward, forever. I was suddenly surrounded by enigmas, by possibilities, by imagined stories. “Each of these was a life,” Trutor said with a sweeping gesture, expressing my thought aloud. “That’s a pyramid to me, and that’s a pyramid to me, and that’s a pyramid to me,” he continued, extending the thought in a surprising direction. “Pharaohs had money is all.”

The morning passed quickly with debates on the merits of D/2 versus Wet & Forget, speculation about Emily Shovah and Hannah Phippennee and Emerson Soles and the rest of the Benjamin clan, and silences when the epitaphs softly spoke ( As you are now so wonce was i / As i am now so you must be). Finally, I posed the unavoidable question: Why this blister-inducing hobby, this painstaking rehabilitation? The answers were sincere and predictable—exercise, friendship, exploration, studying a dynamic landscape, confronting time, facing mortality, “straightening the crooked picture frame,” learning, respect—and as they stacked up in my notebook, I realized that they were, to borrow the philosopher’s phrase, necessary but insufficient. They were explanations subsequent to action, language imposed on an inarticulate urge. I realized that, basically, there was no answer. Shadows trembled. Cardinals sang. Bellies grumbled for lunch. Little left to say, but Trutor said it perfectly: “I’m unsure why we’re

here. We’re trying to make a contribution in this way, but what the contribution amounts to—I dunno.”

The honesty of I dunno , the unabashed absurdity of it, brought to mind the great poem by Robinson Jeffers, “To the Stone-cutters,” which begins, “Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated / Challengers of oblivion….” Jeffers argues that despite the inevitable erasure, the ultimate amnesia, the nonnegotiable fact that humans are minuscule and fleeting (and ditto our creations), “fighting time with marble”—or with chainsaw and two-part epoxy and toothbrush?—is simply our lot. We balance meaning and meaninglessness. We construct stuff and maintain stuff. Noses to the grindstone of futility, we persist. Caitlin Abrams, a millennial from West Rupert, Vermont, has amassed 2.7 million fans on TikTok not by sharing videos of silly dances, but by sharing videos of cleaning headstones. VOCA members reside in 35 states, and similar organizations exist in Maine, New Hampshire, and Wisconsin. “Challengers of oblivion” are widespread, evidently. The appeal, the allure, is real, indisputable. I suspect Robinson Jeffers and Leon Dean would have hit it off.

As I drove north from West Haven on familiar Route 22A that afternoon, my brain was spinning—nay, tingling —senses pricked, alert to churches whizzing by the windows and, moreover, to soggy gulches, rolling meadows, piney ridges. Vermont has approximately 2,000 cemeteries on the books, but there are innumerable five-stone plots tucked in the hollows, in the brush, in the duff— obscure memorials frequented only by squirrels and chickadees, rowdy snowstorms and muted sunrises. Repeatedly, I was tempted to pull to the shoulder, tighten my shoelaces, and bushwhack, walk and walk and walk, until I tripped on something hidden, something vivid and intriguing.

Why the temptation, the urge, the fantasy to unearth a piece of oblivion?

I heard Barry Trutor’s voice, and for now that will do: I dunno

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Life in the Kingdom

(Continued from p. 120)

conifer forest outside a small town not far from my home. Ted agreed to instruct me in the finer points of lifting, and so one evening I followed him down a narrow flight of stairs to his basement gym, which consisted mostly of homemade apparatuses he’d welded together from scrap metal. On the walls, he’d hung photos of himself in his prime, deadlifting and squatting hundreds upon hundreds of pounds. In some of the photos, an entire cow’s worth of weight hung from thick steel bars that were so bent, they looked on the verge of folding in half. I didn’t have much desire to lift an entire cow’s worth of weight, but I knew that one doesn’t successfully lift that much without knowing a thing or two about technique. I also knew that in my already-susceptible state, I’d be wise to establish good form early on, even if I’d never lift more than the equivalent of a hindquarter.

Ted didn’t talk much, but he spoke enough to correct my technique across the three major lifts that compose the core of any strength program worth its salt: the squat (with the barbell resting atop the upper back, lower yourself to a squatting position and then stand), the deadlift (starting with the barbell on the floor, stand forcefully until your legs are straight and the weight hangs from your arms), and the bench press (lying on a bench, press the barbell from your chest until your arms are straight above you). Forget all the superfluous “accessory” exercises, Ted told me. Those are for people with the misguided impression that big biceps make you strong. “Do you want to look strong, or be strong?” he asked me. “Be strong,” I answered, perhaps a little too quickly to be convincing.

That was nearly five years ago, which seems almost unfathomable to me. Not merely for the rapid passage of that time, but also because I’m frankly a little amazed that I’ve stuck with it so long. At least three times each week for every one of those five years, I’ve lifted. When Covid struck, and

my gym closed, I bought a set of used weights and fashioned my own homemade squat rack in the hay mow of our barn. I missed the accoutrements of the gym—the bright lights, the diversity of equipment, the locker room, even the heat—but there were compensations. In the barn, I breathed in the scent of hay and spilled chainsaw bar oil with each labored repetition, and I could hear the soft noises of cows as they went about their business on a square of pasture only a few feet from where I hoisted and grunted. In winter, I lifted in a puffy jacket and wool pants; in summer, I wore old work shorts and a tattered tee, and opened the big sliding door along the north wall so I could watch the cows graze as I did deadlifts. I came to love the routine of it, the discipline it required, and the way it made me feel. I’d leave the barn on legs gone wobbly from effort, but also with an intoxicating sense of levity in my body, as if the temporary burden of the weights was a reminder of just how good it can feel to be unburdened.

Over time and very slowly, I have gotten stronger. There’s really no other way to get stronger in your late 40s and beyond, and I’m OK with that. In fact, that’s another part of lifting that I’ve come to love: There is no easy road, no immediate gratification, at least not for me. But this only makes the improvement, however marginal and achingly slow it may be, more satisfying. I might add only 10 pounds to a lift in an entire year. Objectively speaking, that’s not a lot of weight. Subjectively, it feels like the better part of a cow.

But for me, the best thing about lifting is that it’s allowed me to further cultivate my wood-cutting fantasy. Now, with my newly resilient body (I’m knocking loudly on wood, but my back hasn’t gone out even once since my visit with Ted), I’m inclined to think I was selling myself short. I mean, sure, it’d be pretty cool to still be cutting and splitting our firewood when I’m 80, no doubt about it. But you know what would be even cooler? To be doing it when I’m 90.

Heavy Lifting

As time passes, staying fit for farm chores can be a job unto itself.

ILLUSTRATION BY TOM HAUGOMAT

n December 2018, I was teaching as an adjunct at Sterling College in Craftsbury, Vermont. This arrangement granted me access to the school’s facilities, which included a small subterranean space crowded with iron plates and dumbbells, along with an assortment of complicated-looking machines that to me seemed like an invitation I did not wish to accept.

What compelled me to first enter that room? I can’t say precisely, but I suspect it had something to do with the simple fact of December, with its long nights and short, brutish, dark days. December is a cooped-up-feeling month—everything seems a little too close and a little too slow for my tastes—and I suppose the notion of pushing weights around felt like an antidote, albeit an unlikely one.

The other thing is that I had long struggled with an iffy lower back. I’d always chalked it up to being tall and gangly (because surely it couldn’t be for lack of strength, right?), and I’d just sort of lived with it. But every six months or so, my back would go out, usually while working in the woods, and I’d spend a few days hobbling around or (as was becoming more frequently the case) flat-out in bed, waiting for my

spasming muscles to relax themselves while loudly bemoaning my circumstances. This did not seem like a promising trajectory, and it was very much at odds with perhaps my foremost fantasy as it relates to aging, which is that I’ll still be cutting and splitting our firewood when I’m 80. I couldn’t be sure that lifting weights would make this possible, but I was pretty certain it wouldn’t hurt.

Along one wall of Sterling’s weight room, there was a row of large windows right above ground level; on one of the sills, someone had left a bottle of smelling salts, which serious lifters like to inhale immediately before extreme efforts. I guess the way it works is that the ammonia provokes a surge of adrenaline, which makes lifting heavy weights just a bit easier. I never cracked that bottle, but I like the idea of the salts; they spoke to me of a purity of purpose and intent that felt like the answer to a question I didn’t even know I was asking.

Shortly after I started lifting, I asked my friend Annie to introduce me to her friend Ted, an ex-national-class powerlifter in his 70s who was living out his retirement deep in a

(Continued on p. 119)

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