Maine, Moments, and Mystery: A Journey of Family, Nature, and Inspiration 🌊🌲✒️
From river calm to ocean fog, a trip through Maine in the spring.
Hello, coastal wanderers, daring storytellers, and lighthouse and lobster fans!
I just returned from an unforgettable trip up the New England coast from Rhode Island to Maine.
This wasn’t just a getaway. It was a journey filled with family, nature, and inspiration. Quiet mornings with coffee by the river, hiking the coastal trails with my daughter, and an adventure to explore Acadia National Park that sparked new story ideas for my next mystery-thriller.
A Warm Welcome By The River 🌅☕👣
Spending time with family was my favorite part of the journey.
My first stop in Bath, Maine, felt like coming home. I visited my daughter and her husband at their lovely home by the Kennebec River, just as spring burst into bloom. The sun dipped low over the water, and a distant lighthouse blinked to life.
It was the perfect weekend escape, filled with precious moments together.
We sipped coffee and smoothies, indulged in fresh Frosty’s donuts, strolled along coastal paths, ran forest trails, worked out at the local Y, and shared a cozy dinner. And the best part? Cass and her husband are expecting a baby girl this summer! I can’t wait to return, again and again, to this beautiful corner of Maine.
A Midcoast Road Trip to Acadia 🌊🌲🦞
After a wonderful weekend, I hit the road and drove up the Midcoast to explore Acadia National Park. May is a great time to visit before the tourist crowds arrive for summer in vacationland.
My first stop: the iconic Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse. I trekked down the slippery, rocky trail to explore tide pools. I listened to the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore, the islands in the distance, and was warmed by the sun above the lighthouse. It’s no wonder it’s one of Maine’s most photographed places.
Do you dare to climb with me? Let’s scale the rocks and discover the beauty of Bass Harbor together!
After leaving the lighthouse, I was blown away by the Park Loop Road. The weather was perfect, the drive was peaceful, and the sun warmed the park, casting soft light through the trees.
The drive gave me time to be alone and think. I stopped several times along the way and walked my ten thousand steps along secluded trails, tranquil lakes, and the coast, taking my time as the park seemed to hold its breath before the summer crowds.
I stopped at Thunder Hole as the tide crashed waves against the rocks. That evening, I made my way to Southwest Harbor for a sunset dinner. The sky lit up in the golden hour. I didn’t rush; I let the moment unfold, looking out at the bay. As the sun dipped below the horizon, I started jotting down notes for a new story idea, perhaps one that would take place right here, in Acadia. The park had started to work its magic on me.
A Foggy Day with Fictional Friends 💭🕵️♂️ ⚓️
I woke the next morning to heavy fog rolling in, swallowing the coastline and veiling the world around me. The sunshine was gone, replaced by shadows and darkness. The park felt different now. Watching. Waiting.
The salt air was sharper, the cries of gulls more like warnings than welcome. A distant lighthouse bell tolled like a warning. As waves crashed over the slick stones, I felt the shift, this wasn’t just another peaceful morning. It was the start of something darker. The kind of day where a wrong turn could change everything, and every sound felt like a clue or a threat.
And I wasn’t alone.
Mitch, Ben, and Alex, my three adventurers from Do Not Die Today, had joined me, daring me to imagine the next chapter of our adventure.
Together, we scrambled fog-draped trails, explored tide pools, and uncovered secrets along the rugged coast. At Sand Beach, we listened to waves whisper through the mist. We witnessed the explosive spray at Thunder Hole. We even tackled the Beehive Trail, gripping iron rungs and risking everything for that dizzying summit view.
At Little Hunters Beach, we found a staircase beside a waterfall into a hidden cove of smooth, sea-worn round stones. The tumbling water sounded like nature’s therapy. At Jordan Pond, we paused for tea and popovers, with Bubble Rock in the distance. Cadillac Mountain disappointed us, its summit covered in thick fog and mystery, lost in the clouds like a secret waiting to be revealed
We wrapped up the day in Bar Harbor, where a cozy bookstore and a bowl of lobster stew fueled the final burst of inspiration. Story notes spilled onto the page like a tide rolling in. Murder in Vacationland started writing itself.
As the sky darkened and fog thickened and the world seemed to blur into shades of gray, we found ourselves at the Bar Harbor pier, trying to figure out how to get back to the campground. That’s when we met Captain Dell, a crusty, weather-worn lobsterman. Picture a Sea Dogs cap bleached by sun and salt, a flannel shirt that had seen decades of dawns on the Gulf of Maine, and a voice that carried the weight of tides and time. He smelled faintly of bait, diesel, and strong coffee.
“Ayuh, boys,” he said with a nod as we stood by our bikes, surrounded by fog. “I can get ya back to your campground, but don’t expect me t’ rush. Tide don’t care what time it is.”
We looked at each other, surprised and curious. He wasn’t offering us a ride on a bus, but on his lobster boat, a weathered vessel bobbing gently at the dock.
“You’ll be ridin’ the Gulf of Maine today,” he said. “Come on, hop aboard.”
His boat was as much a part of him as the sea, worn but reliable. Dell started the engine, and as we chugged out into the mist, he talked the whole way.
“See that lighthouse?” he asked, gesturing toward the faint shadow of a structure looming in the distance. “Said to be haunted by a ghost. Still hear him tappin’ on the glass when the mist rolls in.”
Ben raised an eyebrow, Alex leaned in, and Mitch, ever anxious, quietly started recording on his phone.
“A coupla summers back,” Dell continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone, “I seen a shadow slip beneath the waves. Ain’t no whale, I’ll tell ya that. Some say it’s a Russkie sub, still pokin’ ‘round since the Cold War. Or somethin’ older, deeper.”
Dell grinned, cracking open a thermos of coffee. “But don’t let that scare ya. Nothin’ scarier than losin’ the sea. Lobstah ain’t just our bread, it’s our blood. Gulf of Maine’s heatin’ up. Traps goin’ deeper. The ocean don’t lie.”
By the time we arrived at the pier, Dell had offered to show us the “real Acadia” sometime in the future, and then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he vanished back into the fog.
Keep journeying, keep dreaming, and remember: every journey tells a story.