I joined this family and their love of Maine late in the game. When I met Susan in the winter of 2014, she already had another trip north booked — probably her tenth — while I was packing for a flight west, bound for Oahu to catch up with an old Army buddy on the North Shore. We were two people on opposite ends of the map then, living in separate latitudes of habit and history. But somewhere between her stories of pine forests and rocky coasts, and my memories of surf and sunburned afternoons, I realized that Maine wasn’t just a place she loved — it was a part of her rhythm.
That first summer, she convinced me to go. I packed too much, expected too little, and learned quickly that Maine has a way of making both mistakes feel small. The air hits different there — clean, briny, threaded with the scent of fir and saltwater. The trails are old, stubborn things, winding through quiet woods that seem to whisper that you’re just passing through. We hiked until our legs burned and the mosquitoes earned their keep. At the summit of one nameless hill, we sat in the silence and watched fog roll in like a tide, and I knew I was done for — not just for the place, but for her.
Over the years, those trips have become a kind of pilgrimage. The same trails, the same salt-stung wind, the same unspoken peace that comes from walking side by side with the person you love — not talking, just being. Maine taught me that adventure isn’t always loud or wild. Sometimes it’s steady, patient, and wrapped in the quiet confidence of a woman who already knew where she belonged.
Now, every time we head north, I’m reminded that love and adventure aren’t opposites. They’re the same road — winding, unpredictable, and worth every mile.
