Camden, ME 10/4/24

The last stretch south.

Tree limbs stretch across the road above us like interlaced fingers as we drift down US Route 1 towards Main Street. The canopy casts an even green glow down on the car until it abruptly parts to reveal grey skies and views of rigging rocking on the water that borders the town.

The room we shed our belongings into is in a motor lodge perched at the crest of a hill on the opposite side of town, its white buildings laid out around the perimeter of an expansive parking lot with a pool at its centre. A partially deflated red and white rubber ring floats on its surface like a fading memory of summer. Out back of the building we’re in lies miles of dense woodland. A small window beside the bathroom looks out onto a cluttered view of trees and gives the disquieting sensation of being stranded in some uncharted wilderness miles from civilisation. The only way to overcome this feeling is by opening the door of the room to stare out across the parking lot towards the pool with its diminishing inflatable and the road of lazy traffic beyond leading back into town.

Later at a local taproom, we listen to a woman insist the barman tell her his name, which he’s hesitant to give out as “people’ll be calling it across the bar, the street, in parking lots. You name it.” She hassles him with this request between pours until he finally caves and whispers it into her ear. The moment he heads for the other end of the bar her shrill voice screams out “MIKE!" Can I see the specials again?” She’s too many drinks deep and her announcement resonates around the room with enough volume to let the whole establishment know Mike’s name.

Mike hustles while we pound local brews. Mike tells us that ‘86 was a good year when he checks my driver’s license. Mike clears up the mess when a drunk tourist spills his entire glass of beer across the counter. Mike’s reading glasses sit atop his head when he deals the drink and lower over his eyes to ring the tabs. They flip up and down rhythmically as he works as though hinged to his head by a hidden piece of hardware.

The wind carries a chill through to our bones as we walk beside the water’s edge, where we stare out across its surface into historic homes on the opposite shore, past the passing sailboats returning from day trips along the coast. The windows from those homes exude a warmth that glows through the blue light deepening into night.

Come morning the motel parking lot is thick with fog that’s been a staple of each daybreak in the state. It thickens around us as we head down the hill towards the harbor in search of breakfast. Buildings, spires, and the masts of ships materialise slowly through the atmosphere like spirits called to a seance. The ghosts of last night’s town summoned back to us through the morning haze.

Breakfast is biscuits and gravy with bacon, washed down by black coffee and a can of Moxie that the waitress gives us a history lesson on as we pass it back and forth between our lips. We share the dregs on one final stroll along the streets watching market vendors set up stalls in the amphitheater.

Packing the car up back at the motel, a young film crew is setting up a shot in the parking lot. As we pull the car out of its spot and head towards the road, we see a girl in nothing but a white dress shirt covered in blood appear in the open doorway of a room and can only hope she’s part of the production as we pull out onto the road to begin the journey south.