Details at Motion Based.
Remember the old Camel slogan, "
I'd walk a mile for a Camel"? Chances are you don't because I believe the ad first appeared in 1921. Nevertheless, I would like to take this moment to suggest that Subway, the sandwich makers, should consider taking a similar advertising approach.
Today, I walked from my apartment in
Caribou to the Subway shop in neighboring
Fort Fairfield. Why? Because I felt like it, dammit. The excursion started out like any other; aimless, unplanned, and ill-equipped. I toted all the battery powered technological marvels I could muster, such as a GPS receiver, cell phone, and digital camera. However, I lacked food, water, compass, map, and basic first aid supplies, all of which are strongly recommended to have on one's person for such outings. Such are the characteristics of my walks; long distances, hunger, mild dehydration, and uncertainty. Although I would strongly hesitate to recommend this manner of day-tripping to anyone, I wouldn't have it any other way.
For the most part, I followed route 161 south (although as you can see from the map, I was heading southeast). For the last mile or so, I jumped onto an old railroad bed, which now serves as a snowmobile/ATV trail, which runs adjacent to route 161. Upon setting off at 12:19 pm, the sky was partly cloudy, the temperature was in the thirties, and the gusts of wind coming from the north were to my back. No sign of inclemency showed itself on the horizon (or on the weather report). Perhaps an overcast of clouds and a dusting of snowflakes later in the day; hardly anything to turn my heels to. Having no pre-determined destination in mind, I set off in the usual direction, which was north on Main street, turning right on Birdseye avenue, and right on Fort street (which is actually route 161). When I reached the intersection with route 1, I elected to cross the bridge over the Aroostook River and make for Fort (which, in these parts, is short for Fort Fairfield). What the hell. I hadn't been that way for some time.
There is a distinct lack of stimuli for both the eye and the mind in the space between Caribou and Fort Fairfield, particularly during this time of year. One must look to the mountains on the far horizon to see anything of interest. The foliage of last fall has been lying beneath the snow for months and now lies exposed and half-decayed on the saturated ground. The surrounding potato fields are empty and the trees are bare, save for the evergreens. Of course, that's the point. Everyday life has it's own extremes, and it's nice to indulge them. Working in the software industry, it is often desirable to have a hobby that can be practiced with little or no cognitive effort. I find walking to work wonderfully in that regard.
I should also mention my ulterior motive for venturing out today. I recently purchased a new pair of
Merrell hiking boots. My previous pair had been subject to similar outings in the past year and were due for retirement, with it's seams coming apart, it's heels balding in certain spots, and it's water-resistant qualities nearly gone. The temptation to break in these virgin boots was too great. I'm not made of stone.
Having driven and pedaled through this area, indeed this very route, numerous times in the past few years, I had a rough idea of how far I had to go before I reached the next oasis (that is, market or restaurant). It can be said that within the area of land that I can normally be found walking or biking periodically throughout the year, which covers four towns and approximately 130 square miles, you are never more than 10 miles or so from the nearest town, which means that food and water are usually available to purchase within reasonable distance, depending on the hour and your own physical condition. In today's case, I would find no sustenance until I reached my stated destination. The first signals of hunger came within the first hour of walking. To resist common sense and turn back was an exercise of discipline to which I have become accustomed over many years.
About halfway through, I came to the town line dividing Caribou and Fort Fairfield. Town line signs are curious things. I hardly ever notice them when I'm driving. They seem to appear out of nowhere, as if they sprung up from the ground, when I come across them as I trod through familiar areas. When walking from one town to the next, these signs bear with them a certain degree of futility. I know I've made it to the next town, but it is likely that I have several more miles to travel before I reach any sort of developed area. The sign seems to say, "You have reached the point that you can now claim to have traveled to this town and not be lying. However, it is only the outlying perimeter you have reached, and does not constitute an actual visit to the town in the sincerest sense of the word. Keep moving."
As if to further taunt me, I later arrive at the "Welcome To Friendly Fort Fairfield" sign. Again, this sign is the precursor of at least a few more miles before I have the satisfaction of a comfortable seat and a meal. However, the sun still shone and the ravens still circled overhead, prompting me to press forward. A couple of squirrels in a tree near the road provided some light entertainment for a few minutes as they chased each other up and down the tree, yelling little squirrel obscenities and calling each other names. Probably a territorial dispute. Whatever it was, it was certainly no business of mine so I continued to make my way southeast.
Further down the road, I came upon a familiar sight. Granted, the entire route was very familiar, as I mentioned earlier, however this particular spot bore special significance. It was a patch of ground beside a barn just a few feet from the road. Here on this spot, about seven years ago, I was lying on my back staring into the sky. It was probably around midnight and I had been walking for several hours. It was my first walk of any significant distance, not to mention considerable pain. I had come from Presque Isle where I was attending school at Northern Maine Technical College (now called Northern Maine Community College). That day, I had come to a breaking point of frustration with one of my classes and set off for a walk; aimless, unplanned, and ill-equipped. I traveled northeast on route 167 for a few hours, grumbling to myself and being pissed off at things in general. Being far less familiar with The County (Aroostook County, that is) than I am today, I had no idea to which town I was headed, or indeed if there was a town to be reached at all on my present course. From route 167 I turned onto Conant Road, and then onto route 1A. After reaching Fort Fairfield and purchasing a soda from a vending machine (which was probably the only thing that could be purchased in the entire town at that hour), I stood and deliberated the direction I would take next for a while. I decided, or rather, chose at random, to head northwest towards Caribou. The sign indicated eleven miles between my position and Caribou. I made it about three miles before I reached this point by the barn and where I finally acquiesced to pain and exhaustion on the cool grass. It was at this point that I decided I should return to my dorm room before classes began the following morning. I had nearly forgotten what I was pissed off about anyway. I made it about 7/10 of the way back when I was picked up by a police cruiser who had received reports of a drunken man stumbling along the road between Presque Isle and Fort Fairfield. I denied being inebriated (endorphins maybe, not alcohol) but my staggered manner of walking after so many miles may well have made me look half in the bag. I don't think the officer believed me though, for he dropped me off about two miles from my dorm room, letting me walk the rest of the way, presumably to work out the alcohol.
Anyway, I have digressed from the walk at hand. We now return to it.
About forty-five minutes later, I came upon one of the many historical records dotting the roadsides in Fort Fairfield. They depict the sites and trails that once existed in the area before most of the population (and money) drained out of it. Faded by the sun, the plaque told of an old lumber mill which supplied work and electricity for much of the town in the late nineteenth century. After this brief history lesson, I noticed the sun was now hidden by an overcast of clouds and the wind was growing colder. Time to move on. Beside the historic marker lay a trail that connected the main road to the adjacent snowmobile trail. For the sake of a change of scenery, I decided to hop onto the trail.
I knew the surface of the trail would be packed hard by snowmobile traffic, however, I failed to anticipate the slick blanket of ice that had formed, probably during the last few sunny days and frozen nights we've had. Not only was the ice especially slippery, but it was inconsistent, breaking under my weight every fourth or fifth step and making the trail generally unpleasant. Regardless, I persisted over the treacherous terrain. I've never been quite certain whether this manner of thinking can be defined as disciplined, stubborn, or just plain stupid. However, I did need to test these new boots over the myriad of surfaces that I am likely to encounter, so it can be said that there is method to my madness.
The character of the day had turned bleak with the passing of the sun behind the clouds. The colors of the world around me became limited to grey, white, and a few shades of brown. The trail which I now followed was lined on either side with thick patches of gnarly brushes and dogwood, most of which was covered with a dark fungus resembling animal dung, or smothered by Wild Cucumber bearing vines (Echinocystis lobata).
(Announcer) Will our hero survive the unrelenting dullness of the road ahead of him? Will he ever make it to Subway before he bores us to death with his damn stories? Tune in again tomorrow for the exciting (and hopefully short) finale!
On a recent trip to Fredericton, New Brunswick, I discovered a cozy little eatery on bustling Queen Street. 476 Queen Street, to be exact.
