What I Learned from Visiting Maine
Part of a Series on Travel in Each of the 50 States
For me, Maine is a place where dreams come true. By the time we crossed the border into Kittery, I had been to all 48 contiguous states. Something was immediately clear: I had saved one of the best for last.
When I was seven, I convinced my father to drive from the California side of Lake Tahoe all the way to Reno, Nevada, for no other reason than for the thrill of visiting another state. This was the beginning of a calculated set of domestic adventures that spans almost twenty years.
At the time of this writing, I have visited every state except for Alaska and Hawaii. This is by no means an exclusive club, as many others have documented their quest to visit every state. What varies among 50-staters, however, is the exact criteria used to define ‘visiting’ a state.
According to my definition, visiting an airport does not count as visiting a state. Neither does merely driving through. One must have their feet on the ground on at least one occasion and complete at least one activity of personal significance. Unlike some definitions, significance to me does not require spending money, although commerce is often involved.
We spent several days in Maine, and as such had an easy time meeting these requirements. Soon after crossing the border into Maine, we arrived in Portland. While there are certainly differences between the Portlands of Oregon and Maine, they both have excellent beer. Right away we had the opportunity to visit a brewery of some renown.
Portland also has the advantage of being near the ocean, as is implied by its name. After enjoying a local beer, we took a ferry to local Peaks Island in Casco Bay. The island is composed of a variety of landscapes including suburbs, forest, and beaches. Visitors primarily get around via golf carts. I felt deep nostalgia despite never having visited before and simultaneously excited for the days to come.
The next day we went to Acadia National Park. The park is smaller than some, but larger than many in significance. While the mountains are not as tall as those in my native California, they have a distinctly New England charm. The beaches of Acadia are gorgeous and unlike beaches anywhere else. They are partially rocky, partially sandy, and the deep blue waves crash like thunder.
There is a circular road that travels all the way around the park. Even when one travels endlessly, they can return right back where they started from. Perhaps the entire point of travel is less about getting to the destination than it is about returning home, temporarily exhausted but undeniably changed.
On our last day in Maine we went to the West Quoddy Head Light, the easternmost building in the contiguous United States. I can’t remember when I last felt so isolated from the rest of the world. At the same time, the call of the lighthouse beckons. Even when one is at their furthest point there is the unyielding call of home.
I believe the secret of Maine is the otherworldly beauty of the lighthouse.
The lighthouse is perhaps the clearest remaining symbol of America as a beacon of hope. For all its problems, the United States is a place where scientists, writers, and artists can find — if not panacea — a home. The lighthouse is a humble reminder of comfort when darkness surrounds us.
I think today we are rightfully afraid of the dark. Maine is not aiming to be a gaudy tropical paradise or a playground for the elite. She is a way forward, a light where all else is abyss.
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