Far from Enchanted (Part Two)

As we pulled the canoe back to the truck, someone turned on the wind switch. It was like a wind monster had come suddenly striding across the ridgelines and gotten into a beef with the pond. Roaring, swirling, portentous winds made our timing impeccable — it sounded like it meant lengthy, nasty business. Glad to be on solid ground and not out on the water, we tied down the canoe and headed back for camp. Where the wind monster’s even more badass father was hard at work giving Misery its namesake mojo.

The previous night’s “wind” had reversed course 180 degrees and was now coming in across the waters unimpeded. Our crisply tethered tarp snapped and popped in the gale-force wind tunnel of our site like a panicked goat staked in the path of a Tyrannosaurus, several of its tension poles missing. Our oh-so-tall tent had been pushed into the bushes of the tiny clearing into which it had barely fit (sufficient level ground being a notable criterion for deploying such an abode). But surprisingly, nothing had been sent down the driveway and across the road by the single-minded howl. After trying in vain to resecure the tarp, we yielded to sanity and took it down in the horizontal pellet-gun salvo of intermittent rain. Mark took to the passenger seat to listen to weather reports to see if this was a passing fancy or a long day’s night, while Mike and I spent a bracing hour or so cleaning up and securing things as if we were ceding the territory — though we had no place to which to retreat nor lasting desire to do so. In the end, the sheer practicality offered by The Road gave us our only sensible option. Had we in fact achieved Enchanted’s shores, we’d’ve had no choice but to improvise, though I’m glad not to have found out how I’d have served dinner that night. As it was, we threw what we could into the truck, placed goodly rocks atop our coolers, staked down our mainsail of a tent (including a rope across the top secured to massive trees), and headed off down Capitol.

Yes … Though we blush to disclose this detail, roads that size have names – the current “landowners” have put up perfectly familiar suburban road signs with reflective white letters on green rectangles sticking up out of the bushes — as incongruous a sight as I can remember. Capitol. At the end of which is pavement. Down which can be found a loose cluster of 7 or 8 buildings meriting the name West Forks on a map. Food and shelter.

And so three dirty, soaked and bedraggled – and slightly sheepish – erstwhile campers ascended the timber stairs of The Emptiest Restaurant We’ve Ever Eaten In and made the acquaintance of Blonde #1, our waitress. We had our choice of booths and slid into one with a good view of the bar and the massive chainsaw art – actually pretty impressive – and gazed about the true log-cabin architecture at more knotty pine than seemed plausible. Her Blonde Coolness brought menus, recited the draft list, and we tried to keep the dry jeans we all clutched out of sight, lest the commonality be misconstrued somehow. One by one we surreptitiously made use of the facilities to change and tidy up a bit. A second blonde waitress somehow also kept herself busy, though we three hardly taxed Blonde # 1, and # 3 could be spied behind the bar, making some sort of list and trading out Dave Matthews for what turned out to be Sol Jibe. After awhile one of them noticed the chill (anything short of Misery’s antithesis of a blowdryer was heaven to us), and they turned on the heat. Michael would’ve been last to change, but the warm air blowing under the table eventually dried out his soggy pant legs, and he was able to save his lone change of clean clothing for the ride back to Massachusetts several days later. We made our peace with the weirdness and ordered.

The Guinness was great, Mike’s pulled pork sandwich unspeakable, other stuff unremarkable but good, and most all got gratefully eaten — the dessert was sinfully worthwhile. We lingered, then further procrastinated by playing a little pool in the third floor “lounge” — there was more losing than winning going on, though some fabulous shots were sunk. Yet a fourth blonde showed up, a twenty-something we’d noticed at the gas station while filling up just before arriving here, possibly a daughter of one of The Three Blondes, as she loitered about with a relative’s familiarity, heedless of our shabby selves. Though it was getting late, two other tablefulls had finally arrived. Out on the Kennebeck some moonlight could be spied. Ultimately we shuffled off into the now-gentler night and drove the dark roads (with one extinguishing of the headlights in a nod to Dan Akroyd and Albert Brooks in the opening scenes of “The Twilight Zone” feature film) back to camp.

Where all was well. We stayed up a little, made a half-hearted fire, and with the wind monsters somewhat settled (but still huffing nearby) and the rain elsewhere, Mike went back to his vigil, Mark and I to our ripstop townhouse, all hoping the optimistic weather report – which was actually for elsewhere – boded well for our corner of the north woods. Many times I coasted awake to the sound of a resurgence of winds and thought of Mike, out in the open. His night was pretty sleepless, he tells us, the buffeting more the cause than the cold. Though that, too.

Turns out Bingham, south of us, had tornados. Much of the region endured the same sudden severity, which was nowhere forecast before we left. We spoke around the fire of what we’d’ve done had we had to do something, had we been across a pond without the option of The Road, but we’d made our peace with taking the easy way out, a notable change in individual characters and group dynamics. No regrets dogged our heels as we set off the next morning up the talus slopes below the ridge that overhangs Misery, out of the lingering winds and into embracing sun in the shelter of the ridge’s lee, a new quest calling us out of another late-breakfast-become-lunch and off to find whatever it is we come out there to find. Change. Nature. Vistas to photograph, and before which to sip good wine. A bit of breathlessness. A new appreciation granted by comfort with real contrast.