Week 6 Prompt III

A picture postcard view and you hate it, because postcards belong to anyone with the money to buy one. If the tourists ever got past the obvious, they'd see what you see....

If someone came down our road, traversed the worn path to the turn, they would see rather a quaint spectacle. As the paved road turns aside, the woods rear up before the watcher, creating a nice spectacle. In the spring and summer, the verdure is flashing bright to the eye, in the fall, it is brilliant colors of the leaves that spring forth to the oculus, in the winter, the snow lays draped over the canopy, as if a fragile pure white blanket was laid across the forest, its rich but thin, silky fabric torn apart by the trees on which it lands.

But most casual observers would not go on past this snapshot, would not learn more about the history of the area. For the privileged and informed, such as myself, the road does not just curve on to the left. It also continues directly ahead, into the trees. For this was the original main road of the town of Winterport, several hundred years ago, as old as our house. Slipping through the trees, I discover the path, with a stream filtering through it, and the new "No trespassing" signs, that I disregard, having been put up by our neighbors across the street. During hunting season, occasionally people would be coming down here, but normally there is only our neighbor who owns the property, and one person who comes with his dog, named Bob. (Not sure which, think it might be the dog).

But following this path along, it curves through the trees, passing large boulders, and monstrous trees, left standing by the loggers who cleared a lot of the tinier trees out last year. I reach a large gate, with more no trespassing signs on it. The gate did not use to be there, and I hurtle it and continue down the oft traversed path of my childhood. My mother would lead my sister and I down here. I walk to a pit. There are debris inside. It is where a house used to be when this was the main street of Winterport. It is a little more buried than it was when we used to come down here, but it is still there. Farther on are some stones. Nearing them, they reveal themselves as headstones. Here is what used to be the main cemetery of the town. The names on it are faint, but legible, with years such as 1800 inscribed in the stone.

Turning away, I veer away past a rock wall, and to a stream. I follow the stream a good ways, as the sides of the banks gain continually upon their height, until the tops of the banks are near out of sight, towering above. I turn aside and scale it, and walk the rest of the way on the right bank. Eventually, the bank begins to slope down, and suddenly a vista of blue is opened up. It is the Penobscot River. Once, a dog we had, Jack, tumbled into the river, and had to be pulled out. I carefully descend to the shore for an unobstructed view. It is not much of a shore generally, as the water for the most part is right up to the sloping wall of loose dirt and trees. But the sight is amazing, as there is probably a 200 degree viewing radius of the river. On the other side are diminutive buildings, part of Brewer presumably. In the winter, the slippery slope of the bank becomes even slippery, as the waterfall that there is when there is extra rainwater freezes, into a thick slide all the way down. Not one I would want to try.

As I walk back onto the pavement, I think of how much anyone just looking at the trees from the outside misses. It is like an iceberg, the majority is below the surface.