There’s no better way to start off a morning than with a four-hour drive; but that’s exactly what we did on Wednesday July 12, 2017. The alarm went off at 5:00am and we were on the road by 7:00. Since it was about 225 miles to our first stop of the day, we took the expressway north through the middle of Maine rather than to travel the more time-consuming coastal route. My photographer had decided that we would take the scenic route south the following day.
We arrived in Lubec, Maine at 11:20am and crossed over the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge and onto Campobello Island in New Brunswick, Canada. Even though the Canadian Border Service Agency appeared very small, it still concerned me that I would get harassed by the border agents. It has never happened yet, but I still worry about it; mostly because I was born in China. Once we were through Customs, it was a very short ride before we reached our first and only Presidential site of the day – the summer cottage once owned by Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt.
As I was carried towards the magnificent burnt-red wooden, two-story cottage with green shutters, I was amazed by the sheer size of the building. Built in 1897 and referred to as their cottage, the place had 34 rooms (18 bedrooms and six bathrooms); it also featured seven fireplaces. Franklin Roosevelt first came to Campobello with his parents at the age of 18 months in 1883; where they had built a place of their own. In 1909, FDR’s mother Sara bought this cottage, which was next to hers, and gave it to Franklin and Eleanor as a wedding gift. From the time they owned the cottage until 1921, FDR spent every July, August and most of September there. But that all changed on August 10, 1921 when FDR became deathly ill at the cottage. After weeks of agonizing pain, doctors finally diagnosed his condition as infantile poliomyelitis, or polio.
My photographer carried me throughout the house and into most of the 34 rooms. I thought the family room with the view of the harbor was amazing. As I stood in that room, I also envisioned FDR playing scrabble with his children or working alone on his stamp collection. But it was in Franklin and Eleanor’s bedroom where reality struck me the hardest. After he had become ill in 1921, FDR stayed in that bedroom for weeks; writhing in pain while doctors tried to diagnose his condition. After about a month of intense pain, Roosevelt was taken off the island and transported to New York City where he was diagnosed with polio. Paralyzed from the waist down, FDR returned to his “beloved cottage” only three more times during his life – each of which was when he was President. He had an extended stay in 1933 and made two brief visits in 1936 and ’39. Eleanor continued to visit Campo every year until her death in 1962.
The three of us walked down the steep embankment to the water’s edge where we saw the same scenic beauty that the Roosevelt’s had enjoyed for so many years. Driftwood and sea plants littered the pebble-covered beach while sailboats could be seen in Friars Bay. My photographer quickly discovered that our walk down the hill to the beach was a lot easier than the climb back up to the cottage. From my position in the camera case I could hear him huffing and puffing all the way up the hill. Tom removed me from the case as he wanted to capture an image of me with the back of the cottage that faced the bay. It was at that moment, as I was held up for the photo, that he discovered my lower leg was once again broken. A gaping gash could be seen just above my left shoe. It surprised me that I didn’t feel any pain; but at the same time, I was concerned because we had a long way to go on the trip and my leg was likely going to get worse. After the photos were taken, I started to think about the similarity between me and FDR. His symptoms of polio began at that cottage and my leg issues reared their ugly head there as well. Luckily for me, however, I wasn’t paralyzed from the waist down; a little plumber’s putty and a dab of paint and I should be good to go.
Once we were finished at the Roosevelt’s cottage, we drove out to the northern-most point on Campobello Island where we saw the Head Harbour Light station that has been situated on a small and remote rocky island since 1829. It is the second oldest lighthouse in the Province of New Brunswick. People can visit the light house, which is also known as the East Quoddy Head Light station, but only at low tide – which is when the rocky pathway to the small island is accessible. For the three of us, that pathway was under about eight feet of sea water, which meant we had to view the lighthouse from a distance.
We continued our drive around Campobello Island, finally stopping at the Mulholland Point Light that was located on a small peninsula just north of the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge. The Mulholland Point Light was constructed in 1884 and from our position near the 44-foot tall lighthouse we could easily see the bridge that spanned the Lubec Narrows and connected Maine with New Brunswick.
I made it back into the United States without being subjected to a body cavity exam by the border agents. Once again, I was able to breathe a sigh of relief as I wanted to keep my leg as my only body part that was cracked. It was a six-mile drive to the West Quoddy Head Lighthouse; a historic light that’s billed as being situated on the easternmost point of the United States. Once there, the three of us got out of the Avenger and walked the short pathway to the lighthouse; only to discover that the lighthouse was far more beautiful than we had expected. The 49-foot red-and-white striped light tower and the wooden lightkeeper’s house sat on a cliff that overlooked the Quoddy Narrows. The stark contrast between the bright colors of the lighthouse against the dark blue background of the water was breathtaking; my cameraman was in heaven and it seemed as though he took a thousand photos.
Although the sign on the building stated the lighthouse was on the easternmost point of the country, the fact was I could see rock formations on the beach below that seemed to be farther east. Not wanting to miss standing on the easternmost point, Tom carried me down a path and onto the rocky section of beach. From our vantagepoint at the water’s edge, it gave us a new scenic appreciation of the lighthouse and surrounding area. My photographer did his best to climb onto the rock formation that was partially submerged by the sea water, but the footing was difficult as the rocks were somewhat covered in wet seaweed and green slime. Tom managed to make his way out to a portion of the rugged formation; but due to safety concerns, and the fact that Vicki was unaware of our adventure, he returned to the beach and ultimately back to the lighthouse.
It was 3:30pm and time for my photographer and his wife to find a place for an early dinner. Tom had the hairbrained idea of trying lobster for the first time and there was no better place to try it than in the easternmost town in the contiguous United States – Lubec, Maine. After we made the six-mile journey back into town, Vicki pulled the Avenger into the parking lot of Fisherman’s Wharf that was situated on the north side of the Lubec peninsula. From my position inside the camera case, I peered out as the server brought Tom’s lobster to the table. I also watched as he held up the red crustacean as Vicki snapped the historic photograph. After my photographer had the server take the lobster meat out of the shell, I had to laugh when I heard him describe the taste: “I don’t understand why people make such a fuss about lobster; it tastes like butter-flavored rubber. Maybe it would taste better if I dipped it in ketchup.”
It was late in the afternoon and time to find a place to stay for the night. Vicki found a motel along Route 1 that was a little over 25 miles from Lubec; which was perfect as we had planned on taking that highway south on our search for some of Maine’s scenic lighthouses. When my photographer entered the Machias River Inn in Machias, Maine, he saw a hand-made flyer hanging in the lobby that informed guests to look for the “resident” bald eagle in the area. The desk clerk said that our best chance to spot the eagle was in the early morning just after sunrise. She also mentioned that we should be able to see its nest high in a tree across the river from the motel. Vicki did a great job when she made our on-line reservation – she got us a room with a view of the Machias River. But hard as he tried, Tom couldn’t spot the eagle’s nest. I was placed on a table that was near a window where I spent the night wondering if we would see the bald eagle in the morning. To me, nothing symbolized America more than a bald eagle and that would start our day off right – even without any Presidential sites on the agenda.
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When the alarm went off at 5:00am on Thursday July 13, 2017, my photographer immediately went out onto our small patio to look for the bald eagle. The sky was overcast, the temperature was cool, and there appeared to be a threat of rain; all of which Tom hoped wouldn’t impede our lighthouse tour. Once he was showered and packed, he woke his wife, grabbed his camera, and went outside and waited for the eagle to appear. It took only about ten minutes when my cameraman saw what looked like a large bird with a white head, but the bird was a long way away and it quickly disappeared out of sight as it flew south along the river.
Twenty minutes went by when I heard my photographer shout out loud: “Holy cow, I see the bald eagle. It just landed in the tree across the river; I see the eagle. The eagle has landed!” Vicki couldn’t hear him as she was in the shower. I saw Tom run into the bathroom and he asked his wife to hustle if she wanted to see the eagle. As Vicki walked onto the patio in her bathrobe to see what her husband was fussing about, I heard Tom make the most prophetic statement on the trip: “I took a few pictures of the eagle, but it looks like a small white dot in the greenery of the trees. Wouldn’t it be cool if it took off right now and flew right over us; maybe buzzed our tower?” Those words were no more out of his mouth and the eagle flew out of the tree and headed north along the Machias River. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe what I’m seeing. The eagle is headed straight for us,” Tom said as he viewed the majestic bird through the zoom lens of his camera. From my position on the table, I saw the bald eagle a minute or so later as it flew over us. It almost seemed like that beautiful bird posed for my photographer’s camera.
The script for that morning couldn’t have been written any better; well, except for the threat of rain. My photographer and his wife left the Machias River Inn with smiles on their faces and the Steve Miller Band’s ‘Fly Like An Eagle’ song running through their heads. An hour later they arrived at the first lighthouse on our agenda – the Prospect Harbor Lighthouse that was located about six miles south of Gouldsboro, Maine. Upon our arrival, however, our script turned sour: “Restricted Area – No Trespassing” was printed on the sign located at the entrance to the lighthouse. After taking a few images of the lighthouse from that location, we drove around the Inner Harbor where we could see the Prospect Harbor Lighthouse across the water.
Following our visit to the Prospect Harbor Lighthouse, the weather grew colder, and the wind became stronger. There were also times in our 90-mile drive to the next lighthouse when we saw raindrops on the Avenger’s windshield. When we arrived at the Rockland Breakwater Light, Mother Nature unleashed her fury. Once the car was parked, my photographer and his wife struggled to walk against the fierce wind as they made their way along the Breakwater Access Trail in Marie Reed Park. As they arrived at the edge of the breakwater, they could see a man as he struggled to return to land. It was at that time Tom and Vicki decided not to make the 4,000-foot journey out to the lighthouse that sat on the southern tip of the breakwater.
The next lighthouse on our tour was called the Owls Head Lighthouse, which was located on the opposite side of the bay from the Rockland Breakwater Light. Even though it seemed relatively close in comparison to some of our other drives, it still took over 20 minutes to get there. Upon our arrival at the lighthouse, the rain had let up; but not the wind. There was also about 50 to 75 steep stairs to climb to get to the 30-foot-tall Owls Head Lighthouse; one that has stood guard over Rockland Harbor since 1825. Once the three of us made it up to the lighthouse, the wind seemed even stronger, which made our visit short-lived. Back down onto the ground, we stood near the cliff and watched a small schooner fight the fierce waves in Owls Head Bay.
The final Maine lighthouse on our agenda was nearly 90 miles to the south. It took us nearly three hours to arrive, but 45 minutes of that time was spent at an antique shop where Vicki found a couple of old lobster trap buoys to bring back to Michigan. At 3:15pm, we finally arrived at the Portland Head Light, which is the oldest lighthouse in Maine – dating back to 1791. As a matter of fact, George Washington gave the directive to start construction on the lighthouse in 1787. Upon our arrival, we could tell it was a popular spot as there were a lot of vehicles in the parking lot; and rightfully so – it’s arguably the most beautiful of Maine’s 65 lighthouses. Since there were dozens of tourists congregated around the 80-foot-tall tower and lightkeepers house, my photographer and his wife found a trail along the cliff that was high above the rocky shore. From a position two hundred yards to the north, the three of us were awestruck by the breathtaking and scenic beauty that was unveiled before us. As beautiful as the lighthouse was, a pure blue sky would’ve made it even better. I heard my photographer say out loud: “This is amazing; unbelievably amazing; we will definitely have to make a return trip to this lighthouse when the weather is better. Can you imagine being here with a clear blue sky or maybe visit the lighthouse at sunrise?”
At one point, my photographer’s wife had the idea that she wanted to climb down to the rocky shore; even though there was no defined trail. With me tucked away in the camera case, the two of them carefully and methodically made their way down the cliff to the rocky shore below. Although the view of the lighthouse was still amazing, the footing on the rocks proved to be treacherous at best. I was waiting for my photographer to slip and fall; I only hoped that he didn’t land on my camera case. I knew the case had protective walls, but I also figured there wasn’t enough padding to protect me from the weight of old Tomzilla. After roughly 20 minutes of navigating the rocks by the seashore, my cameraman and his wife found some difficulty in returning to the cliff above. Vicki didn’t have as much trouble as Tom; some of which was due to the camera equipment, and some was due to him being out of shape. At one point I heard my photographer sarcastically say: “If I can’t make it back up the side of this cliff, they’ll have to rescue me with a helicopter or else I’ll die down here. I would starve to death unless a fish flopped up out of the water and onto my lap.”
The Portland Head Light was one of the most scenic sites I had ever laid my blue-painted eyes on. When we were finished walking around the historic lighthouse, it was nearly 4:30pm and too late in the afternoon to see George Bush’s home in Kennebunkport, Maine. We could’ve easily made the 30-mile drive before dark, but my photographer wanted to chance better weather in the morning. Just south of Portland, near the town of Scarborough, we spent the night at the Comfort Inn that was located along Route 1. As usual, I took refuge next to the television set in the room. During the middle of the night, as I thought about the bald eagle that began my morning and the beautiful lighthouse that ended the day, it dawned on me that I didn’t see one Presidential site the entire day. That was about to change; we were headed towards Boston – and that’s Adams and Kennedy territory.
