Peat yo' self!

Spring...or the new summer?...in a Maine bogland

New England summer is not what it once was. Our ascendant temperatures and dew points have made being outdoors more punishing and potentially dangerous. Last summer, when simply walking to the nearest bus stop was enough to necessitate wringing out your shirt, a lot of us started scheduling most of our outdoor activities for the mornings and evenings, just like a lot of the people in Arizona and Florida who strategically retreat into air-conditioned venues during the midday hours. If this keeps up, as it’s likely to, it’s going to transform the way in which New Englanders think about summer—or when we decide to take our day trips. Consider the spring shoulder. April rain can be a drag too, but it’s not going to leave you burnt, dehydrated, or exhausted.

I’ve been trying to get a head start on recalibrating to our new seasonal reality. And in doing so, I was recently humbled and bedazzled by something spectacular, folded into the outskirts of Saco, Maine—only 20 minutes south of Portland and 90 minutes north of Boston. I say “humbled” because this place was a total surprise to me. But here’s an open secret about the travel writing profession. Every regional expert whose articles or guidebooks you’ve enjoyed has passed over wondrous destinations in the heart of their territory; in the same way that a squirrel hunting for Mother’s Day picnic scraps at an arboretum might overlook a fresh pile of acorns beside one of the trees. But what I had missed in Maine was much bigger than a pile of acorns. Bigger, and mossier too.