Scorched summer mornings, hazy dreams, balmy, humid evenings filled with expectation and anticipation. Perfection in a nutshell. Well, almost perfect, because something was missing. Or, rather, something needed to change.
Early mornings were my favourite, with the first pot of black coffee all for myself. A stillness in the air, just on the cusp of breaking. The sun tentatively peeking through the clouds, wondering when it’s time to truly wake everything up. Still waters on a calm lake revealing nothing below the surface, only reflecting back a glorious summer sky.
This was the perfect time to see nature begin its day; walking through its stillness, listening to it wake up almost like an invasion of its privacy. Like I had access to something I wasn’t meant to see, but before I could even truly enjoy or appreciate it, time was up, as though I’d hit the expiration date on something I didn’t know had a limit. “It’s okay though, there’s always tomorrow,” and with that I went back to the cabin to reintegrate back with my group. I’d have tomorrow morning to myself again.
We chose Maine for a few reasons. It was far enough from New York without being too far, and we wanted someplace that was scenic, somewhat touristy, not chaotic, and easy to seclude in. We needed to get away from New York City, even if it was just for a few days, but needed someplace that was welcoming New Yorkers (because most of New England and the Atlantic coast were still shut down due to COVID-19).
We didn’t have a purpose, really, besides to escape for a few days and enjoy nature. Hiking up the Rumford Whitecap Preserve was the perfect way to get some nature, and we chose a great day for a hike. Warm and cloudy, not too hot and, in keeping with the theme of East Coast summers, a smidge humid. What started off as a lovely trail quickly turned into too steep a climb. No one told me I’d be straining my knees. It was steep. Why did no one tell me the trail was so steep? Was it worth it though? I mean, the views were.
I felt like I was holding up the group because I was taking my time, but halfway up the trail I realised that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to enjoy the views, and I wanted to stop and take it all in and let nature be its all-encompassing self. Getting up to the top and coming back down didn’t feel like my goal. My goal was to climb, converse with my friends, and let myself get caught up in the green. A borderline-lackadaisical pace meant that I nearly got lost more than once (DON‘T tell my friends) but half a ham-and-cheese sandwich later, we were making our way down and trying desperately not to roll our ankles on the loose gravel.
Back at our (humid, but very cute) cabin, we spent the rest of the day lounging and doing nothing, and I found myself up at the crack of dawn the next day, again, for my date with the dawn.
The agenda for today was simple: sit out in the sun, slather on too much sunscreen and pray to the gods that no one gets burnt, eat all the watermelon, and read. And, harkening back to summer vacations growing up in Canada, running back to our porch for the best chilli and nachos and dip. Sorry, mom, Wini made it better.
We’d be remiss to not take a trip to Portland, but saved that for the next day. Taking a day to recuperate proved to be wise, because we spent too much time walking around Portland, and eating lobster rolls that I was too hungry to document, before coming back to our retreat and taking our kayaks out. Having long, early morning walks by the lake were incredibly peaceful and relaxing, but there was something entirely different about being in a kayak in the middle of Embden Pond (I later found out it was a pond and not a lake; could’ve fooled me because of how big it was).
Driving back to New York with our potato doughnuts in tow, I suddenly realised. Why did I not want to be with the people I was most excited to be getting away with? What, in my quest to get away from it all, made me want to be alone while we’d fled for our mini reprieve? Was it no longer enough to simply get away? I was craving solitude in the hopes that I’d find something to connect me to my surroundings and embed a sense of appreciation for a place I’d probably have otherwise overlooked. A moment of privacy and intimacy that I could keep to myself and not share.
