We loaded up the truck, intending to make no stops along the way—camp-bound we were.
The Significant One had an autumn fixation, freaking out photographically speaking while watching for various and varying colors, capturing the same in the memory bank of an iPhone while hanging out the window at times, much to my chagrin.
I lamented more than once or twice that the sun hid behind the clouds, but the colors were bright nonetheless. It’s peak, give or take a day.
I pulled into a favorite scenic overlook on the Whalesback, a staple of the limited number of roadside gawking sites on “The Airline,” a road running crookedly from Bangor to Calais. The byway crosses immense tracts of land covered with deciduous hardwoods in full bloom.
“That would be wonderful,” she said.
We had the spot to ourselves, and most traffic was traveling too fast to slow down in time to pull into the pit-stop-like turnout without some prior knowledge of where it might be.
The S.O. is shorter than I remember, and this caused her vantage point for photography to be lower than it should be for an optimum view overlooking the meandering stream and colorful backdrop.
“Here, I’ll put you up on the tailgate of the truck, remembering that I bought Ol’ Blue with the optional stairway to the stars, or in this case, to a bed full of trashbags that I forgot to drop at the dump on the way out of town.
She climbed up and stood tall, shooting photographs with every mode her phone offered, leaving me on the ground to wait for the clicking to stop.
That’s when another leaf peeper pulled in, exiting her van with the same intention; I could tell because her phone was in her hand as she sauntered toward me. She was trying to find a break in the trees to take photos of her own.
While I am almost unrecognizable and try to be, Ms. Deb Bennett appears to have known me from somewhere. I think she said, “I can’t believe this,” but not in the way someone who hates you might say it—so I felt safe to approach. My S.O. was still clicking away at a ridiculous rate high above us on the tailgate.
She explained that she’d met me at my book signing in Machias last year and possibly at another location where I spoke on some subject; she followed the page and read the books.
Ms. Bennett had the same height affliction, so in the interest of customer relations, we offered her the same vantage point, and up she went. It’s a precarious climb, but she mastered the art of the scramble in record time.
Once she got her photos, we chatted for a few and then decided to take a picture of our own with my S.O. pulling camera duty for the first annual Route Nine Reunion Commemorative plaque.
Maine is a vast state with a small-town feel—Ms. Bennett moved here from Illinois because she liked that feel. She never complained about the garbage bags, so she’ll fit in perfectly.
We are glad we could elevate her to fulfill her higher calling, which, in this case, was great autumn pictures from the bed of my pickup truck.
Thanks for saying hello.
You never know who you’ll run into on Rt. 9.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC