Just found the second tick on Norah thus far.  Thus far, since I left Oregon last august.  I worry about the dog way to much, but’s she’s my only buddy on the road.  She doesn’t care which direction we’re headed, wether we stay in a walmart parking lot or bluff on the atlantic, norah’s my always happy rider.  I’m learning that the northeast has the largest US populations for ticks, and lyme disease is our enemy.  How do I make the transistion from Lyme Disease to the beautiful state of Maine?  There is none.  This state is incredible.  It sits sticking out from a firm plantation in the northeast corner of the United States.  Far enough away from the throbbing sore of New York, and the surrounding metropolitan areas.  The biggest town is Portland, strikingly and ironicly like Portland Oregon.  I’m trying to write like a travel guide, and it’s not working.  It’s sunday morning and I’m tired, thanks to the rain clouds hanging outside.  I’ve been experiencing about 5 days a week of sunshine and 2 of rain since entering Maine.  The sunny days are amazing.  Mixed with the ocean air and beach bum pine trees the atmosphere is exhilarating.  Thus when it rains I find myself feeling a bit exhausted.  So I’ll drink some more earl grey and try to give you more.

I had my first Maine Lobster yesterday.  An old man brought it in to me on a medium sized white trawler, aka a lobster boat.  He didn’t personally hand me the lobster put are paths did cross later that day.  The location was south deer isle.  Norah and I spent the day hanging around the fishing docks.  Across a very small cove sat the Isle a Haut(i think), a small waterfront town.  There are short steep hills covered in pine and leave trees huddled in so close it’s a wonder they don’t bother eachother.  The trees display the brightest and limyest of greens, it’s very early spring still. They work their way down through tiny bright houses to meet the oceans edge.  For the entire visit the ocean was calm as a mountian lake in august.  I’m guessing this is due to the thousands of islands and barrier penisulas that edge out maine’s coastline.  Where the ocean meets this small town sits giant rock formations, some climbing 10 or 20 feet out at high tide, others making there appearance as the water retreats.  These rocks are not jagged but smooth and warn, imagine petrified sand dunes.  That could be what they actually are, who knows.  They’re shaded in soft ambers, browns, and yellows.  Plenty hard for the seagulls to drop and split clams on.  The tide comes in and out quickly during the day, providing a new scene every time I look.  This is what I watched all day long.

About a hundred feet from a our spot is a small lobster dock.  Two guys stand around going through cigarettes, caffiene, and classic rock.  In between standing around they work as hard and as fast as Americans use to know how.  Each boat brings a quick break from the cigarettes and caffeine, and before the catch knows what’s happened it’s out of the salt water and lying on ice.  One of the two guys on the docks brings his black lab named blue to work.  Blues a male, and norahs a female, the rest is history.  Both incapable of mating, they spent the entire day running across the rocky waters edge with the pine trees above.  Blues owner and I talked the most.  He was real friendly.  Not the “real friendly” you hear someone say in a slow southern draw.  I’m mean the guy really approached me as a friend, it was comforting.  We talked mostly about our dogs, he had questions about my road trip and I had questions about his work.  This was good conversation.

I watched as the two guys unloaded the old mans lobsters and then asked for one myself.  Blue’s owner handed me a dark red and black, very cold, slightly subdued, rock hard crustaceans with rubber bands on it’s claws.  From his hand to mine, not sure what I was dealing with I set the lobster on my lap.  I asked Blues owner how much, he said free, my response was a smile filled thanks.   I believe this moment was the first I had ever held a lobster and probably the third or fourth that I had eaten one.  Earlier in the day a youtube video instructed me on how to cut and fry a lobster.  No pots in the van so frying was my only option.

With my knife pointed down between, what would be the equivalent of, the lobsters shoulder blades, I thrust.  In a matter of seconds, very noisy seconds, my lobster was split down the middle.  I sat in front of the cove, my two part lobster lying on a rock, staring out over the water happy to be.  Both halves went into the frying pan and came out tasting as golden meat should, as good as gold.

I like Maine.  People here are as real as they get on the east coast.  I find myself carrying my camera around and not finding a thing to shoot all day.  Not due to the lack of picturesque surroundings, it’s just so overwhelming.

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