Rachel Carson Wildlife Preserve

So I was tolling down the busy highway heading toward Acadia National Park, navigating heavy, unpredictable traffic when out of the corner of my eye I saw a small brown sign that said Estuarine and indicated an exit number I promptly forgot. This information was not repeated in the mass of subsequent signage flashing in and out of my range of vision as trucks and exits passed. I took a stab at it and got off in Wells, Maine. I needed fuel and a few supplies anyway. There were no clues of an estuarine or anything national park or monument-like, but the traffic was too heavy to turn back and resume my route so I kept going until I found an inviting gas station. Recreational cannabis products are legal in Maine, but this was still a culture-shock for me having grown up in a time of suspicion and concealment, so I was taken a bit off guard by the many unapologetic selections in the cooler at the convenience store. Were these beer? A young man standing next to me was more familiar with the products and explained that  they were not in fact alcoholic. Obvious on the label, I know. But I was still taking in the marvel of seeing THC on the can. We agreed that a cold blueberry mojito beverage with cannabis sounded pretty good on this hot day. We both bought one and had a friendly conversation afterward about Virginia, as he'd seen my license plate, and traveling, as he was heading back to Arlington where he works. 

Then I asked a smiling lady also getting gas about the grocery store across the street. She recommended instead,  Hannagan's "up the street." She laughed. That was the best she could give me. She couldn't estimate how far. Okay. She shrugged her shoulders merrily - just another to thing to love about her, I guess. Hannagan's carried the best bread ever, called When Pigs Fly. It really was more like cake. It had blueberries, lemonade and raspberries in it and all natural ingredients. Too, the man behind me in line was wonderfully patient with his Downs' syndrome companion and became lovable to me for his imaginative answers to his companion. I was liking Wells when I pulled out of Hannigans' parking lot and then  I spied a little brown sign at the light. If I cut across traffic and wheedled into the left lane to turn, I'd end up at Rachel Carson's Wildlife Refuge. Are you kidding me? I was rereading her book The Edge of the Sea. I was beginning to feel like the luckiest person alive.

It was in fact a marine estuary leading to the sea. Blurry is dreamy. Serene and lush. And all about the value of salt marshes to the biosphere. Bring on your cleansing, salt marshes! The ranger station was closed. For Flag Day I guess. The Rangers must have been taken by surprise as they didn't have time to put up a sign explaining why they weren't open during regularly-scheduled hours or to leave out a few Junior Ranger booklets for those who'd like to fill them out while exploring the marsh. No, I hadn't yet drunk the cannabis beverage, but I knew that I'd been guided here even though the Junior Ranger pin was off the table. 

You can't argue bucolic. It didn't look real. I might have stepped into a Thomas Cole painting. It all seemed so pre-ordained and Americana. That's when shit like that happens.

As I was reluctantly leaving, I noticed yet another small sign at the edge of what appeared to be a private drive that read "Wells Research Center." As you can tell, I am eagle eyes now looking for tiny clues to magical places.  The refuge had been a hidden jewel, and that just may be the way they do things here in Maine, so I drove down the road, private or nay, sorry, but lo and behold, I came upon a wedding scene, with pretty girls in dresses giggling and flitting about among lovely old buildings and young men, dashing in their tuxes, proceeded to grin and drink. A bit further away from the bottom of parking lot, a magical trail led through the woods with Alice in Wonderland type signs telling some eco-fantasy story. Too, I found a trail to a beautiful sandy beach expanse with loads of colorful rocks, a precursor to the tide pooling I would embark upon in subsequent days. In retrospect it all seemed as though I was presented with a sequential building of appreciation and knowledge, enriching each subsequent experience.

That night I was understandably whooped from all of the wonders I had taken in and simply pulled off the highway to sleep in my car at a travel stop where several others were doing the same thing. I'd go back to spend more time in Wells.