Condé Nast Traveler – 2008
In Loon Latitudes
It was raining hard as we drove north on interstate 95 out of Bangor. We were headed for Grand Lake Stream, Maine, a dot on the map surrounded by lakes – a town that holds a general store, a salmon hatchery, and a few lodges for anglers drawn to the tall pines and the still, clear lakes carved by glaciers 20,000 years ago.
We were on our way to a two week vacation at Weatherby’s, a lodge selected for us by our son-in-law’s brother-in-law, who is a forest ranger in Maine. And so does kinship prove its worth even in those fragmented times. As we drove virtually alone through the towns that passed in the blink of an eye and by roadsigns that advertised live bait and campgrounds, I felt far away, perhaps too far away, and already nostalgic for the sounds of salsa that thumps through our New York City windows in the heat of summer. I regretted so easily giving up the comforts of city streets.
We were given a cabin with a fireplace and a stack of wood, bear pine walls, old vinyl rocking chairs, a screened porch against which the pine needles scratched and the wet leaves dripped. On the walls were written in faint pencil marks, the names of previous tenants and the numbers of fish they had caught….
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