[Above photo: Katahdin Stream in Baxter State Park during a break in the weather.]
September 18, 2026
It surprises me each time I realize I have completed 85 revolutions around the sun; my 86th birthday seemed incredible to me. I, who thought I’d die at 55yo like my father. It is a common misperception, based on a strong identification with a deceased parent. And my sister is 97yo!
I mostly spent summer on the island, worrying about how I’d replace the rotten window sill, shingling one side of the house, catching mackerel with Hugh, and helping Ari with the sheep. I only kayaked once and never got into a sailboat. But I visited with lots of relatives and picked up 6 immense trash bags of plastic in various forms from the beaches: lobster buoys, mylar balloons, chunks of Styrofoam, lengths of poly rope, discarded water and drink bottles, and fragments of all the above. Who knew how many energy drinks are consumed, the bottles tossed into the sea? It’s my little bit to make it more attractive and to address the microplastic pollution. It doesn’t really have much of an effect on the latter but it improves my spirits.
Lindsey and I planned to climb Katahdin in early September but his daughter-in-law required early induction of her labor (Lucy is a darling, healthy newborn.) and the dates coincided. I decided to go on my own, to ascend to Chimney Pond for a night in a lean-to and to assess the feasibility of climbing the mountain the next day, possibly attaching myself to other hikers.
I drove to Millinocket, stayed in a refurbished mansion for the night, and entered the park the following day. It was pouring rain and projected to continue for two days. I enjoy the martyrish feeling of suffering as much as the next person but it lacked a certain appeal doing it alone. To whom would I whine? A sympathetic older state park employee at the S. entrance to Baxter said, “I have just the thing for you, deah.” And she did.
When Percival Baxter started buying up the land to preserve it as wilderness, since the state wouldn’t do it, there were several fishing and hunting camps on lakes in the area. They have been preserved and I snagged a great little one-room log cabin with a wood stove, two beds, and a covered front porch with a rocking chair facing a lake [“pond” in Maine parlance] 15 feet away. And unlimited free split wood. Canoe rentals for $1/hour! This isn’t California, Toto.
Given the circumstances, it was perfect and I read and strolled about in the intervals between storms. The Appalachian Trail ran behind the camp and I got 5 miles in the next day, following Katahdin Stream and chatting with hardcore AT hikers. I also met a guy who grew up in Downeast Maine, has summited Katahdin “many times” and biked the Continental Divide Trail from Canada to Mexico, solo. His early 20’s son confirmed all of this. Talk about driven!
The next day was also a soaker, so I packed the car and decamped for home. But it was an eye-opener and Baxter is a gem! I’ll give it another go next year. It was so wet and cloudy that I never could even see the flanks of Katahdin, let alone the summit. It kind of defeats the purpose, for me, of climbing it if I can’t see into the next county from the top. I’m not at the stage of life where I need to prove my strength or endurance, not that there is much I could prove!
My condo neighbor and I had our front porch rebuilt this summer and, given the immensity of that bill, I decided to paint it all myself. And I threw in 6 windowsills, as well. It has taken a lot of time—-scraping, sanding, priming, finish coat, and cleaning up the inevitable spills or inadvertent messes. I’m gradually whittling it down and it looks terrific.
I do want to recommend Anthony Trollop’s The Way We Live Now on Audiobooks. It is fabulous, the reader incredibly skillful at doing all the voices, and the central character is a dead ringer for DT—a greedy, narcissistic grifter. Trollop was a genius of a psychologist and learned how to put it down well. One dissimilarity with DT is that in the book, as his schemes are coming a cropper for the last of many times, he takes prussic acid and dies. We could only wish.
Ari and I will go to the island one more time to finish the window trim I’m replacing, to close the cabin for the winter, and to bring off her electric fences and other sheep-related paraphernalia. We’ll have a good supper, a few deadly-serious games of Bananagrams, and call it a summer.
A Psychiatrist in Myanmar 