The seventh day of our Trip of Dreams began when Tom’s alarm rang in our room at the Best Western hotel in Augusta, Maine at 5:45am on Wednesday August 12, 2026. My photographer had set his alarm a bit earlier than normal because he knew the three of us had a long day ahead of us; most of which would be on the road as we headed North to our final destination in Nova Scotia, Canada.
The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky as Vicki pulled out of the parking lot at 7:47am. Weatherwise, the morning was perfect for travel – low humidity with a morning temperature of just over 70 degrees. As we began the 75-mile journey towards Bangor, Maine, our first stop of the day, I listened as Tom mentioned to his wife that we might be in for a treat during the afternoon as long as the skies remained clear. Since I enjoy treats, and so does Vicki, we were all ears. My photographer proceeded to tell us that an eclipse of the sun, with a maximum peak time scheduled for 2:53pm, should be visible in New Brunswick while we’re driving through the province.
Our excitement was short-lived, however, when my owner said the eclipse would only be a partial one, and since just thirty percent of the sun’s surface would be blocked by the moon, it might be impossible for us to see the eclipse without proper eye protection – which, of course, we didn’t have.
At roughly 8:50am, we had arrived in Bangor, which was Maine’s third-most populated city. As large as the city was, however, we were surprised by how desolate Main Street seemed to be; especially since we were only a few blocks South of the city’s central hub. From the verbal portrait of Bangor that my photographer had painted the previous night, I had expected to see hundreds of homeless vagrants camped along the sidewalks just waiting to axe us for a handout. But when Vicki parked the Jeep alongside our morning’s first site, which appeared to be a huge brick apartment complex, there wasn’t a single person anywhere within a half mile. And to be honest, that was a huge relief – although a sense of uneasiness was present when Tom and I left the safety of our vehicle.
Although the large, five-story brick building that rose up in front of us at the corner of Main and Union Streets in Bangor appeared to have seen its better days, the one-time hotel known as the Bangor House was considered to be the pinnacle of luxury when it was constructed in 1833. So much so, in fact, the hotel had hosted numerous Presidential visits over the years – beginning with Ulysses S. Grant in October of 1871 and continuing with Chester Arthur in 1882 and Benjamin Harrison seven years after that.
But our visit on that Wednesday morning was centered around two other Presidents, Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft. And it was because of TR and Fat Taft, both of whom had visited Bangor in the early 1900s, that enticed Tom to have me pose near the portico where both Presidents had been photographed during their stay at the Bangor House. And to be honest, my camera guy didn’t have to twist my arm.
On August 27, 1902, during his Summer train tour of Maine, President Theodore Roosevelt arrived at the Bangor House following a brief carriage tour of the city with his longtime friend Bill Sewall, who was with TR at his Elkhorn Ranch in North Dakota. Just before the President’s scheduled luncheon was served at the luxury hotel, Roosevelt stood on the portico where he delivered a short speech to the enthusiastic crowd that had gathered along Main Street.
Roosevelt told the audience, “I can see by your faces that the old American spirit still burns as freely as ever.” Then the President observed the many Civil War veterans who had gathered below him in front of the Bangor House, and TR took time to pay tribute to those brave heroes. “Those of you who had fought in that great struggle had done the greatest deed which men have ever done. You preserved for us a united country and showed the world that it was ever to be united.”
As I stood in front of the Bangor House and thought about the words Roosevelt had spoken from the same portico some 124 years earlier; a message about American spirit and freedom; I couldn’t help but wonder what TR would think of the Democrat Socialist’s movement that was potentially jeopardizing our nation’s democracy today. Roosevelt would likely blame the narcissistic Donald Trump for forcing the average working American and the younger generation of voters into looking for a different path forward – a path that is unfortunately being paved by dangerous radicals like Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont, NYC Mayor Zohran Mamdani, U.S. Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez from NYC, and Michigan’s own Congressional ‘towel head’ liberal Roshida Tlaib.
Roughly twenty-one months before the RMS Titanic sunk during its maiden voyage to America, President William Howard Taft was in the middle of his 10-day coastal trip aboard the Presidential yacht USS Mayflower. During his trip, Taft made history when he became the first sitting President to visit Bangor by automobile, which the rotund Chief Executive did when he rolled into town to have dinner at the Bangor House on July 23, 1910.
Shortly after his arrival, Taft was escorted to the hotel’s portico where he stood in his predecessor’s footsteps and delivered his own speech to the huge, enthusiastic crowd below. As he flashed his huge, signature smile beneath his handlebar mustache, Taft delivered a relatively brief, light-hearted speech. He recited a list of well-known Maine political figures and highlighted the economic potential and profitability of farming in the region—specifically noting the money to be made with Aroostook County potatoes.
The funny thing was; potatoes weren’t the only thing on Taft’s mind. Following his brief outdoor address, the President was escorted into the dining room where Taft dined on a traditional local menu featuring Penobscot River salmon and green peas, with local papers noting that official politics were kept off the table during the meal. I imagine today, thanks to fat Taft, Penobscot River salmon are either on the endangered species list or completely extinct altogether.
I posed in a few locations near the exterior of the Bangor House before the two of us returned to the Jeep where Vicki waited for us behind locked doors. The route to the next stop, which was another Presidential site, took us through downtown Bangor and North through the Broadway Historic District before we ended up in the quiet section of town known as the Tree Street neighborhood of Bangor. Even though we traveled only about a mile and a half, I once again didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in downtown Bangor that would give me a cause for concern. What few pedestrians we saw seemed to be dressed well; I didn’t hear the sound of gunfire; and I didn’t notice any steel bars on the doors and windows of the businesses – all of which are the usual tell-tale signs of a DEI infected, crime-ridden city.
The drive along Maple Street was serene and made it feel like the three of us had been transported into Beaver Cleaver’s neighborhood. Even though we didn’t see any children playing in the yards, I thought for sure The Beav and Larry Mondello would run out in front of us at any time. Then, just before Vicki had reached the intersection of Maple and Mt. Hope Avenue, she pulled the Jeep to the curb and I heard Tom say out loud, “That’s the house on the corner. I know it doesn’t look like much, but President Jimmy Carter spent the night with the Murray family there in 1978.”
On February 17, 1978, President Carter had arrived in Bangor as part of his two-day, three-city New England tour. During the day, Carter attended a Town Hall Meeting at the Bangor Auditorium, which was filled with roughly 2,500 enthusiastic supporters. The President opened with remarks on a national energy plan and then fielded questions from the public for an hour and a half. Topics included Maine’s Indian Land claims settlement, the potential closure of Loring Air Force Base, the Dickey-Lincoln hydroelectric project, and national health insurance.
One of the questions Carter had fielded came from a Bangor second-grade teacher on behalf of her students. The President was asked, “What part of your job do you enjoy the most?”
Jimmy smiled and replied, “I think the most enjoyable thing I have to do as President is just to realize the tremendous history that has preceded me in the White House and what our nation stands for and the difficulties and challenges that have faced the American people and the courage and strength and the cohesiveness of Americans in overcoming those difficulties.”
In his next breath, Carter continued, “Every single President has lived in the White House except George Washington; the White House was built while he was President. And I walk through the White House sometimes alone and see the portraits there of Thomas Jefferson and his little writing case and go into the Lincoln Bedroom where the Emancipation Proclamation was signed and think about the difficult times they had. And the times of Harry Truman and Franklin Roosevelt when we fought in the second world war; and Woodrow Wilson at the contingent of the first world war, and I think about the strength of our country. So, I think the most gratifying thing is feeling that the American people have trusted me to be part of this tremendous nation and that I share the heritage and the history and the future in the greatest country on Earth – it’s a very reassuring thing.”
Rather than stay in a luxurious hotel following the Town Hall meeting, President Carter opted to spend the night at the home of Robert and Laura Murray – who had known they had been chosen as hosts only a few days before the President arrived in Bangor. Carter arrived at the Maple Street residence in a Presidential limousine, greeted Robert and Laura on the porch, then walked across the street to greet neighbors and other spectators gathered for a glimpse of him. Then, President Carter walked through the snow and into the house, carrying his own bags.
When the President woke the following morning, Jimmy made his bed and shared breakfast with the family before he headed back to Washington D.C. aboard Air Force One.
Tom had me pose for a couple of photos near the exterior of the Murray House, then just before we left, my photographer placed me on the same steps used by President Carter in 1978. As I stood on one of the wooden porch steps and looked out towards Maple Street, I envisioned the humble peanut farmer as he walked past me with luggage in hand. That’s the moment I thought to myself, “Did Jimmy Carter sleep here? You’re darn-tootin’ he did!” And the proof was in the small bronze plaque that was affixed to the wooden front door. The wording on the plaque read: ‘The Murray House, home of Robert and Laura Murray, where President Jimmy Carter was an overnight guest on February 17, 1978.’
The moment Tom had plucked me off the porch steps and placed me back in the camera case, he paused for a brief second or two and gazed at the front door. Although my photographer didn’t say a word, I knew he had hoped a member of the Murray family would notice him and invite the two of us inside their house for a quick visit the bedroom where President Jimmy Carter had slept. Although that never happened, at least the Murray’s didn’t call the cops on us because a large goofball with a bobble head and camera had just trespassed on their porch.
When my photographer and I returned to the Jeep where Vicki patiently waited for us, I thought for sure our next stop would be the Bangor Auditorium where Carter conducted his Town Hall Meeting in 1978. But when Tom attempted to find the address on his phone, he discovered the historic auditorium, which had originally opened on October 1, 1955, had been demolished in 2013.
Once Vicki and I learned the last potential Presidential site in Bangor had been demolished roughly thirteen years earlier, the two of us figured it was time to head for the Great White North of Canada. But instead, my photographer had one more surprise up his sleeve – and that surprise had the potential to be very dark and sinister.
I listened as Tom said to his wife, “I’m taking us to the King House and it’s only about a mile or so South of here. We won’t be able to get inside or go on a tour, but we should be able to see the house very easily from the public sidewalk. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed, unless you let your imagination and nightmares get the best of you.” I was fine; that is until my fat friend mentioned nightmares.
Initially, I was confused because I wasn’t aware Martin Luther King, Jr. had ever lived in Maine. I knew the three of us had visited the MLK House in 2019, but that was in Atlanta, a city which is very dark and somewhat sinister. But since we were roughly 1,200 miles North of Atlanta, I wondered which “King House” Tom was referencing – especially one that might cause nightmares?
Our visit remained shrouded in mystery until the moment Vicki parked the Jeep along West Broadway Street – that’s when I realized the place had nothing to do with the slain Civil Rights leader. A sudden chill went up and down my stainless-steel spine when my painted resin eyes first saw the dark red Victorian-style mansion, which was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence adorned with custom bats, spiderwebs, and a three-headed dragon. Had Tom taken us to the home of an infamous serial killer? Or was this perhaps the home of Alice Cooper, the King of Shock Rock; even though I knew The Coop resided just outside of Phoenix, Arizona.
Just before my photographer carried me across the street for a closer look at the elegant-but-spooky mansion, Tom finally spilled the beans of our whereabouts in a most unusual and creative way, saying to his wife, “Welcome to my nightmare, I think you’re gonna like it; I think you’re gonna feel you belong. We’ll sweat and laugh and scream here, ’cause Stephen King once dreamed here, and behind those walls, you’ll hear the cries. Welcome to my nightmare, and the birthplace of Pennywise.”
Although I was a tad bit disappointed the mansion didn’t belong to Alice Cooper, I was impressed nonetheless by the fact the huge home was owned by arguably the greatest horror writer in American history, Stephen King, who penned over 60 novels and 200 short stories, including such classic works as ‘Carrie’, ‘The Shining’, ‘Salem’s Lot’, ‘Pet Sematary’, and ‘It’.
While the house looked awesome from our position on the opposite side of West Broadway, and that was primarily because it seemed to be a safe distance from any ‘bad juju’ the place may have possessed, Tom threw caution to the wind and carried me up to the front gate where I posed for several photos. At one point, my photographer hooked my ponytail onto the iron gate’s spider web where I dangled for a few minutes, just waiting to fall to my death. I thought to myself, “If that damned Pennywise the Dancing Clown or the Curse of the Titanic doesn’t kill me, my photographer will!
From our position at the gate, the two of us had a great look at Stephen King’s famous house, which looked incredible beneath the morning’s cloudless blue sky. The 5,000 square-foot mansion was originally built for William Arnold in 1854 and was purchased by Stephen King and his wife Tabitha in 1980. Once they moved in, the author had his writing office re-located above the property’s converted stable where some of King’s most fascinating nightmares came to life.
The King’s made the mansion in front of us their primary residence for a little over 40 years, until the couple moved to Florida in February 2021. After they had relocated, Stephen and his wife transformed their Bangor place into a non-profit archive for the author’s literary work. Today, the house plays host to King’s manuscripts, personal notes, photographs, audio-visual recordings, and other historical documents from his career. Scholars and researchers can access the collection by appointment.
Our visit to the mansion where Stephen King had created some of his most terrifying novels had lasted about 20 minutes, and even though it wasn’t a Presidential home, I was very happy we saw it. I was even more thrilled when we didn’t encounter that evil shapeshifting alien bastard known as Pennywise the Dancing Clown, especially since the 40th Anniversary Special Edition of King’s novel ‘It’ had been released one week before our visit.
Safely back in the Jeep, I watched as Tom plugged the coordinates to our Verbo rental in Nova Scotia into the GPS app on his phone. When Siri said our destination was 470 miles from Stephen King’s house, that’s the moment when my resin jaw hit the bottom of my camera case – and I think my photographer’s wife was stunned as well. But Tom, always the ‘Clark W. Griswold’ optimist, tried to lighten the moment when he said with a smile, “Oh don’t worry Ellen, it’s only an eight-hour drive – it’ll go by quickly. And just think, getting there is half the fun. We’ll see an eclipse of the sun along the way; and who knows, maybe we’ll even spot a moose or a Sasquatch as well. Hell, if we’re really lucky, maybe we’ll even find Canada’s largest ball of twine, too. And the best part of all – once we get to the cabin, we’ll have three nights without having to pack up our stuff and load it all into the Family Truckster.”
It took over two hours of agonizing two-lane highway driving through small towns and past a handful of construction flaggers who stopped us at lane closures before we finally reached the Canadian border, and that was the good news. Once the three of us had made it safely through the Canadian Border Services checkpoint after a twenty-minute delay, we realized New Brunswick was in the Atlantic Time Zone, which meant we had just lost an hour. And while the signage in the province of New Brunswick was bilingual, which was a welcomed sight, the scenery was in one language – BORING!
For over three hours during our excruciating journey through New Brunswick, we never saw any moose, beavers, balls of twine, or even an elusive Squatch. In fact, the three of us didn’t see any Canada geese either, and that was because all of those useless birds were likely in Michigan, taking up space alongside the millions of black squirrels who have illegally immigrated to our state.
But there was a potential bright side, and I mean that literally, which was the highly anticipated solar eclipse. With Vicki behind the wheel of our Jeep as we drew closer to the large town of Moncton, New Brunswick, Tom opened our vehicle’s sunroof with the hopes of photographing the partial eclipse, which was nearing its maximum coverage of thirty percent at a few minutes before three o’clock. However, with no suitable eye protection nor filters for his camera, Tom was unable to see or capture photos of the eclipse.
Once we had passed the large town of Moncton where we reached the furthest Northern point of the entire trip, we had easy sailing for the rest our voyage towards Nova Scotia. When we crossed the border and entered The Bluenose Province at 4:47pm ADT, the historic moment marked the sixth Canadian province I’ve had the privilege of stepping foot in. One thing was for certain, I was shaking with excitement, because in my mind, Halifax, Nova Scotia was synonymous with one word – TITANIC.
The three of us were getting antsy to see our cabin, which was aptly called the ‘Sojourn Hideaway’ on Vrbo, because it was situated near the Northern shore of Falls Lake and some ten miles Southwest of Windsor, Nove Scotia. But our beloved Siri, who Tom claims usually has her head up her ass when she doesn’t guide us along the most direct route, had her own ideas when it came to the best way to reach the place. Siri decided to take us along the freeway all the way to Halifax before we connected to another freeway that brought us back North towards our final destination. I laughed when I heard my photographer say to Vicki, “I think that goddammed Siri just took us 50 miles out of our way to save two minutes of driving time. Sometimes I think she does that on purpose just to piss me off!”
The seemingly never-ending drive got worse the closer we got to the cabin. The freeway dumped us off at a regular two-lane highway in Windsor; and that highway connected us with a narrow, winding paved road that began between three glacial lakes known as Falls, Murphy, and Mockingee Lakes. Less than three miles later, however, we were forced to navigate the hazardous gravel monstrosity known as Pioneer Drive where Vicki’s top speed was only 12 mph. For over four miles, Vicki did her best to avoid the countless number of deep and unforgiving potholes caused by years of neglect. I chuckled and agreed with my photographer when he said to Vicki, “This road is called Pioneer Drive, but I think the pioneers in the 1800s had a smoother roadway to drive than this quagmire mine field we’re on. If we were in our Dodge Avenger instead of our Jeep right now, we’d be up Shit’s Creek without a paddle.”
Finally, after an agonizing eight-hours and seventeen minutes on the road, we arrived at the Sojourn Hideaway at precisely 7:43pm ADT. Upon arrival, the first thing I noticed was the primitive landscaping where our cabin was situated. It certainly appeared to me that we were in prime Sasquatch territory – the cabin was surrounded by dense foliage and tree cover; the place was close to Falls Lake, which has an endless food supply; and there didn’t seem to be an overabundance of human activity in the entire area. As a matter of fact, when Tom placed me in several locations near the exterior of the cabin after he and Vicki had unloaded the Jeep, the silence was deafening, and I had the eerie feeling of being watched.
Once the three of us got settled into our new digs, Tom quickly discovered our television set featured streaming shows via Rocu rather than the standard live cable networks he was accustomed to. And to make matters worse, it took my camera guy roughly an hour before he was able to get the damned Rocu to work at all – and that was only after a phone call to the owner had rectified the situation once she had suggested Tom that he wiggle all of the connected cables to make sure they weren’t loose.
The sun had set and darkness filled the windows in the living area of the cabin when my photographer found a show on Rocu that featured one of my favorite TV stars – Sasquatch. With Vicki already retired to her bedroom for the night, Tom and I were glued to the television while we absorbed all of the incredible stories related to the mystical legend known as Bigfoot.
Roughly halfway through the episode, I heard Tom mutter to himself, “I wonder if there’s ever been a Squatch sighting in Nova Scotia.” I watched as my camera guy paused the show, then I saw Tom use his phone to access ‘Google’ for some information. What he found on-line instantly made the painted resin hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of the bare living room and kitchen windows.
On September 16, 2008, which was a little less than 18 years earlier, a family from Maine had traveled to the area where they stayed at a secluded cabin near Card Lake Provincial Park, which was only eight miles directly South of our cabin. Shortly after their arrival, members of the family noticed broken tree branches and scattered bones of animals like coyotes, bears, and raccoons surrounding the property. If that wasn’t a cause for concern, their visit got more terrifying from there.
The following morning, while the family was having breakfast, they spotted a massive creature they estimated to be over 10 feet tall. The bipedal critter was described as bulky, covered in whitish/grayish hair or fur, with dark/black skin, a wide nose, a thin mouth, long hair on its head, big eyes, and sharp, visible canines. The creature reportedly let out a high-pitched scream and charged at the family. When the father quickly retrieved his rifle, the creature turned and immediately fled into the woods – never to be seen or heard from again.
When Tom and I resumed watching the Bigfoot show, my mind was focused on one thing – a massive Squatch that was spotted only eight miles away and was possibly walking in the woods near our cabin right now. And to be honest, the evidence and graphics on the show only made matters worse.
As soon as the Bigfoot show had concluded around 10:15pm, Tom turned off the TV and headed for his bedroom. Instead of taking me with him, that fat bastard left me all alone in the dark living room, and the only thing I could do was stare out the window towards the nearby dense woods.
Tomorrow was the day I had waited for since we left Michigan. That’s right, Thursday morning was scheduled to be ‘Titanic Day’ where the three of us had planned to visit downtown Halifax and its Maritime Museum of the Atlantic; followed by a tour of the three cemeteries where 150 victims of the Titanic disaster were buried in 1912.
Although we were only 35 miles North of downtown Halifax, at least when measured by the flight path of a crow, the Titanic sites were the least important things on my mind. For the entire night, I was as nervous as a one-legged bobble head at an ass-kicking contest. And there was a good reason, too. Not only did I possibly see a tall shadowy figure as it looked at me through the window, but at one point during the night, I distinctly heard a scratching noise on the door. Was there something outside our cabin or was my imagination just running rampant after all the scary crap I had experienced with my photographer that day?
I knew Canada was famous for many cryptids, including the Sasquatch, Wendigo, the Traverspine Gorilla, and the giant Waheela, which is said to roam the remote wilderness. While I thought the noises may have come from any one of those entities, I was more concerned they came from something else; perhaps someone from Maine who may have hitched a ride with us to Nova Scotia.
Who was that someone? Pennywise, the Dancing Clown.
