Hundreds of feet below, the waves crash against the jagged rocks, the air sharp with the tangy scent of salt and sea.
Scant yards from the cliff's edge, I share a picnic table with the biggest gull I've ever seen – which is focused on the remains of my lobster roll lunch. Yellow eye fixed on my plate, it paces the length of the table – one flat foot placed awkwardly in front of the other, head bobbing while it squawks its impatience.
Suddenly, the gull makes its move – swooping in and snatching its prize with a dazzling display of aeronautical grace. Snowy wings outstretched, the gull floats above the cresting waves, its triumphant cry carried away on the wind.
We're just outside Kennebunkport, Maine, a region known for its seafood - particularly clams and lobsters. Before I leave, I'll probably consume the equivalent of my own weight in the tasty fare.
Once we'd left the coastline and headed inland, the rolling hillsides started to resemble rural Ontario. But where our farm houses and small towns are predominantly red-brick architecture, here it's decidedly of a Cape Cod style – neat and tidy clapboard structures featuring the signature shaker roofs and dormers. The landscape is lovely, hilly, pastoral and with no shortage of trees – 90% of Maine is forested, with towering oaks giving way to mostly pine as we move up into the hills.
Although the peaceful villages are postcard-pretty to drive through, we're glad to head into less traveled roads; the drivers here are some of the slowest we've ever encountered. If the posted signs say 50 mph – you can bet that the van in front of you, and the Subaru in front of him… will be doing 30. And with some reason, state troopers are seemingly everywhere.
Maine being the least populated state in the U.S., we encounter little traffic as we move higher into the hills. The roads have the distinction of being some of the worst I've experienced outside of the Yukon. Buckled, heaved and pockmarked with potholes, they resemble a ribbon of grey patchwork quilt. Yet they wind and loop through beautiful rugged hill country. The foliage is just starting to show the first touches of autumn – another couple of weeks and these hills should be a blaze of colour.
Approaching the New Hampshire border, we notice the undulating horizon becoming jagged as the gentle foothills give way to mountains. Our destination: the 6,288 ft. summit of Mount Washington.
Constructed in 1861 and once traveled by ox cart and covered wagon, the Mt. Washington Auto Road has since become the oldest manmade tourist attraction in the U.S., and the site of one of motorsport's greatest hill climbs. The 11.9-km course snakes its way up the mountain, while trees and vegetation give way to lichen and stone as we ascend past the treeline.
The road is treacherous - there are no guardrails and only a few feet separate us from a 5,000-foot drop. We take it slowly, never going above 50 km/h, pointedly ignoring the grand vista that spreads out below us.
I take my hat off to the annual "Climb to the Clouds" competitors, who are either brave beyond measure, or clinically insane. The course record of 6 minutes and 11.54 seconds was established in a hair-raising dash by rally driver David Higgins in a specially prepared Subaru WRX STI.
Our leisurely descent took probably 15 to 20 minutes and ended with the New England equivalent of a hot dog – the ubiquitous lobster roll.
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| Photo: Lesley Wimbush/Auto123.com |
Scant yards from the cliff's edge, I share a picnic table with the biggest gull I've ever seen – which is focused on the remains of my lobster roll lunch. Yellow eye fixed on my plate, it paces the length of the table – one flat foot placed awkwardly in front of the other, head bobbing while it squawks its impatience.
Suddenly, the gull makes its move – swooping in and snatching its prize with a dazzling display of aeronautical grace. Snowy wings outstretched, the gull floats above the cresting waves, its triumphant cry carried away on the wind.
We're just outside Kennebunkport, Maine, a region known for its seafood - particularly clams and lobsters. Before I leave, I'll probably consume the equivalent of my own weight in the tasty fare.
Once we'd left the coastline and headed inland, the rolling hillsides started to resemble rural Ontario. But where our farm houses and small towns are predominantly red-brick architecture, here it's decidedly of a Cape Cod style – neat and tidy clapboard structures featuring the signature shaker roofs and dormers. The landscape is lovely, hilly, pastoral and with no shortage of trees – 90% of Maine is forested, with towering oaks giving way to mostly pine as we move up into the hills.
Although the peaceful villages are postcard-pretty to drive through, we're glad to head into less traveled roads; the drivers here are some of the slowest we've ever encountered. If the posted signs say 50 mph – you can bet that the van in front of you, and the Subaru in front of him… will be doing 30. And with some reason, state troopers are seemingly everywhere.
Maine being the least populated state in the U.S., we encounter little traffic as we move higher into the hills. The roads have the distinction of being some of the worst I've experienced outside of the Yukon. Buckled, heaved and pockmarked with potholes, they resemble a ribbon of grey patchwork quilt. Yet they wind and loop through beautiful rugged hill country. The foliage is just starting to show the first touches of autumn – another couple of weeks and these hills should be a blaze of colour.
 |
| Photo: Lesley Wimbush/Auto123.com |
Approaching the New Hampshire border, we notice the undulating horizon becoming jagged as the gentle foothills give way to mountains. Our destination: the 6,288 ft. summit of Mount Washington.
Constructed in 1861 and once traveled by ox cart and covered wagon, the Mt. Washington Auto Road has since become the oldest manmade tourist attraction in the U.S., and the site of one of motorsport's greatest hill climbs. The 11.9-km course snakes its way up the mountain, while trees and vegetation give way to lichen and stone as we ascend past the treeline.
The road is treacherous - there are no guardrails and only a few feet separate us from a 5,000-foot drop. We take it slowly, never going above 50 km/h, pointedly ignoring the grand vista that spreads out below us.
I take my hat off to the annual "Climb to the Clouds" competitors, who are either brave beyond measure, or clinically insane. The course record of 6 minutes and 11.54 seconds was established in a hair-raising dash by rally driver David Higgins in a specially prepared Subaru WRX STI.
Our leisurely descent took probably 15 to 20 minutes and ended with the New England equivalent of a hot dog – the ubiquitous lobster roll.