My son and I recently took a six-day road trip to Maine. Going back 51 years, it was my fourth trip to the Pine Tree State, and they seem to get better each time. The fact that Maine is the whitest state in the nation, and has no big cities to speak of — Portland, by far the biggest, has a population of only 69,000 — might have something to do with it. In this regard, Maine has much in common with the other two northern New England states, Vermont and New Hampshire. (Fun fact: Maine is the only state that shares a border with only one state — New Hampshire.) All three are great places to visit: safe and friendly, with plenty of quaint towns and Nature at its most pristine. In Maine’s case that includes a long, meandering coastline, often within sight of Route 1, which steals past Acadia National Park, where I did some hiking last time — a virgin expanse of trees, granite peaks, and surf. New Hampshire’s coast is gone before you know it, and Vermont is landlocked.
Maine gets its fair share of out-of-state visitors, though distant as it is, at the northeastern tip of the continental U.S., it tends to be overlooked. Also, Maine has always struck me as being a little different in that its heart and soul is as much in Canada as in America, specifically in the bordering provinces of New Brunswick and Quebec, and maritime Nova Scotia, not far away. The fact that Maine has never been the birth state or home state of any U.S. president, despite being admitted to the union in 1820, also gives it that outlier feel. This is not to imply that Mainers are estranged from their native country — far from it. I saw too many stars and stripes to my liking, and one homemade sign, of the kind you often see on the nation’s back roads, stays with me. It read: “Please God, Fix America.” I guess that speaks for the national mood. But sorry, friend, God won’t be coming to the rescue.
For whatever reason, New England has always had a pronounced streak of the mental disorder known as liberalism, and Maine is no exception. This does not apply to a good chunk of the population, but you have to wonder how, in a rugged state with no big cities and few non-Whites, renowned for outdoor activities like fishing, hunting, hiking, canoeing, and L.L. Bean, the country’s premier outfitter, whose sprawling store in Freeport is quite a tourist attraction — you have to wonder how a Democratic liberal moron, governor Janet Mills, gets elected and re-elected, and a maverick, down to earth oyster farmer like Graham Platner — truly a breath of fresh air despite some strange positions and past blemishes, no doubt exaggerated by the media establishment that despised him — runs a senatorial campaign that, after a primary victory, gets little support, causing him to drop out. I guess that questionable “Nazi” tattoo on his chest scared the lemmings away. Platner, a Democrat, would’ve run against longtime Republican senator Susan Collins, a dreary bipartisan hack, a female Mitch McConnell, a nothing. This did not dissuade many people from wearing t-shirts that read “Susan Collins, Our Senator,” a cute way of repudiating Platner and telling the world, “I have no brains, so I’m proud to be represented by a nobody.” Well, people will be people. Picking up Platner’s baton, and running on a nearly identical platform, is another honest workingman, a logger named Troy Jackson. Like Platner, he has some excellent ideas, but also like Platner, and even though neither man is a homo, he fiercely defends LGBTQ “rights.” What’s up with that? I have no idea. So much for Maine politics.
On the subject of fairies and liberalism, I visited Bangor, population 32,000, for the first time on my recent trip. It’s the hub of central Maine but I can’t say I was impressed. In fact, it’s the only place I ever saw a crosswalk painted in queer rainbow colors. Not a whole lot to see or do in Bangor. I liked Portland a lot more when I first visited it on my previous trip. It struck me as a bastion of the real America, of the country as I remember it growing up in the 1960s.
A state this White did not escape the notice of organized Jewry, which saw fit to import thousands of Somalis, and dump them in the Portland area and in Lewiston, Maine’s second largest city. Needless to say, this has created serious problems, though to nowhere near the degree as in Minnesota, another very White and largely Nordic state — at least it used to be. But in my four trips to Maine combined, I saw a dozen Blacks at most, and not a single Somali — the facial features of Somalis, and Ethiopians too for that matter, being distinguishable from those of full-blooded Congoid Negroes. Racially, Somalis are classified as Cushites, whatever that is.
I made my second trip to Maine in February 1988, while living near Boston — after checking the weather forecast, of course. Clear skies for a few days, and the temperature hovering above zero, so I was good to go, driving all the way to Fort Kent, the northernmost town in the lower 48 (some say it’s Sumas, Washington). There wasn’t much going on there, but I have never seen so much snow in my life. Houses swaddled in drifts ten feet high were a common sight on Route 11, which was plowed. How do people get through these winters, I wonder. And don’t let Maine’s rank of #39 in area fool you; it’s a damn big state if you drive the entire distance south to north. The northern half is mostly a vast wilderness, much of it accessible only by gravel roads owned by logging companies.
As I always do before a road trip, I checked the state website for a calendar of events, and noted three that were taking place August 1-6, the days we were there. I picked out the Lobster Festival in Rockland, the Sweet Chariot Music Festival in Swan’s Island, and the Blueberry Festival in Union. But good things started happening on the first night, after we settled in at the Duck Puddle Campground near Nobleboro, following an 11-hour drive from my home in upstate New York. Over the years, I’ve stayed in about fifty campgrounds all over the country, most privately owned, occasionally state-run properties. (I once pulled into a KOA, Kampgrounds of America, a 500-plus franchise of overpriced RV slums. I never repeated that mistake.) Most are pleasantly situated among tall trees, and often a lake or stream nearby. Rarely do you see any racial minorities. Campgrounds are where millions of White working class families and retirees take their vacations. Some arrive in their RV motor homes, which cost a fortune, but most show up in pick-up trucks hauling trailers, which still have most of the amenities of home and aren’t exactly cheap. Hardly roughing it, and I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to spend that kind of money traveling to Europe and beyond five times over, but who am I to belittle their priorities? Of course, there are others like me who opt for a tent site. In my experience, state campgrounds, though ably staffed and well-maintained, are not geared to family activities and you see much fewer children there. Typically, there are lots of kids at campgrounds like the Duck Puddle enjoying themselves. Campgrounds are safe, happy places which, I suppose, brought about the contrary expression, “not a happy camper.”
Around dusk, shortly after we pitched our tent, we heard music at the pavilion so we went down to check it out. It was a Saturday night and a local band was playing soft rock tunes from the sixties and seventies. As darkness fell, more families drifted down, and a worker built a huge bonfire nearby. About forty people, children, teens and their parents filled the pavilion, dancing or swaying to the mellow music. It was a pleasure taking all of this in, sitting in my camp chair. It was so natural, so tribal, so White, even if no one there could’ve explained it in those terms. I can’t remember the last time I felt that way.
Returning to our tent site, we built our own little fire which, of course, most people do when camping. There’s no better way to wind down after a long day and reflect on things. I had bought the firewood not at the campground store, but from a little stand, of which there were several along the quiet road to the Duck Puddle. You frequently see these unattended stands, selling bundled firewood or fresh farm vegetables, in rural, high-trust America, usually with a locked box attached where you slip in your payment. Where I stopped, however, there was a small, loose money box on the ground that anyone could walk off with. You can’t get more high-trust than that.
On our second night at the Duck Puddle, I heard the first raindrops hit the fly sheet around 1:30, then it rained without letup until dawn. I was not a happy camper, but that’s part of it, and at least our tent didn’t leak and we slept okay. The morning before we had driven forty minutes to the lobster festival in the seaside town of Rockland, and squeezed in a late blueberry pancake breakfast under the enormous food tent. Sunday was the last day of this event, a tradition of eighty years, but there was plenty going on, including some entertaining contests. My favorite was the lobster pot run. They string about thirty bobbing lobster pots between two floating docks, and contestants run across them, trying to get from one dock to the other without falling into the water, which even in mid-summer is quite chilly that far north. Few made it across. In the community spirit, even Rockland’s police chief, wearing his uniform, took part and quickly got dunked.
Here in the northeast, when you think of Maine, you think of lobster. I don’t know if that’s true for the rest of the country, and I don’t know how far live lobsters are transported, but here in New York, you’ll find them awaiting their fate in tanks in the seafood departments of most supermarkets. Oysters, clams, and scallops are also harvested in Maine, but lobster is king. It’s a major source of revenue, and as you’d expect at an annual festival honoring this luscious crustacean, throughout the day lobster was cooked, prepared and served in every imaginable way. I had a bisque, my son lobster mac and cheese, but most people dined on a whole steamed lobster. Whenever I treat myself to lobster, which isn’t often, I feel a bit remorseful at facilitating their brief agony while being cooked alive. I wish there was a better way. (Actually, there is. In Switzerland and Italy, restaurants are required to “stun” lobsters — render them insensitive to heat — before boiling them.)
I was amazed to discover just how much has been written about the intimate connection between Maine and lobsters. Here’s an excerpt from an article that touches all the bases:
Not only an economic powerhouse, the Maine lobster fishery is something more: an indelible part of Maine’s identity.… There is no doubt that the lobster industry in Maine is among the most — if not the most — important in the state in terms of economic impact and cultural identity.… It is Maine’s fishing communities that draw [visitors] to the coast, in part because activities in the small harbors are so unlike where the visitors call home and in part because it reflects a way of life uncommon in today’s computer- and service-driven world.… Fishermen tend to present themselves to tourists as men who earn their living from a relentless and icy sea with nothing but their skill, courage, and tenacity.… The lobster fisherman embodies many of our most cherished virtues. He is, along with the farmer and the rancher, the quintessential American.
As there are so many campgrounds in south-central Maine, I didn’t bother making any reservations, I just showed up. But before leaving home I was lucky to reserve a room for two nights at the Harbor Watch Inn on Swan’s Island because, unless you want to rent a house, it’s the only place to stay on the whole island, and the inn was almost completely booked for August. There are no campgrounds, and freelance camping is not allowed. There are no restaurants either, and only one tiny store with a limited selection of meat, fresh vegetables, and packaged food products. Unless you have your own boat, the only way to get to and from Swan’s Island is by ferry from the little town of Bass Harbor, six miles away, which itself is out of the way. And from what I heard, in summer it’s a gamble getting a spot on the ferry, which runs five times a day in either direction, and accommodates only about fifteen vehicles. You have to line up on the road, first-come first-served. If you miss the crossing, you have to wait for the next one, and I was told that the lines can get so long in July and August that sometimes people get stuck there overnight because the ferry doesn’t sail after dark. We got there two hours ahead of schedule going and returning and had no problems. The sea was pretty rough getting there, but flat calm on the way back. I’ve taken lots of ferries in my travels, here and abroad, but this was unique and delightfully Maine-ey.
Some 350 people live on Swan’s Island year-round. The land area of this amoeba-shaped island is twelve square miles, and it’s clear from driving on its mix of gravel and paved roads that most make their living from the sea, mainly lobstering. (Decal on a pick-up truck: “Dirty Hands, Clean Money.”) Lobster pots were piled high on many properties, and from the ferry and the coastline we saw countless small buoys, which have distinctive color patterns so that their owners can identify them. These buoys are tethered to weighted lobster traps at the bottom of the sea. This work is severely curtailed in the winter months because conditions are just too dangerous, I learned. It must be a tough way to live in such an isolated place, but, as in remotest Siberia, people survive.
There’s a volunteer fire department here, a public library, and — what’s this — four churches? For 350 people? Too many American flags as well. The inn owner, who lives on the other side of the island, stopped by and we chatted. I hadn’t seen a police station so I asked him about that. He said that the Hancock County sheriff comes over on the ferry three times a week, but for what reason? There appears to be zero crime, and I couldn’t even picture a minor dispute. Swan’s Island is a White paradise, a miniature Iceland, though to be honest I wouldn’t want to live there.
What brought me here was the Sweet Chariot Music Festival, which I discovered while diddling on the internet. The oblivion of it, and the inconvenience of getting to Swan’s Island, appealed to me. It goes on for three nights, three hours for each show with a brief intermission giving the sold-out crowd of 200 a chance to meet the local performers and buy their CDs. I contacted the director by email, but everything else was done the old-fashioned way without computers. I mailed him a check, and when I got there my tickets were waiting in a stack of envelopes with names written on them, arranged alphabetically. They cost all of $20 each; imagine that in this day and age. It was mostly traditional vocal music with seafaring themes played on guitar, string bass, accordion and fiddle. To spice it up, at one point between songs, a local gymnast, a cute little girl of nine or ten, did back flips across the stage. The stage backdrop was a huge mural that looked like it had been painted a hundred years ago, showing boats plunging into heavy seas. It matched the songs, all of which I enjoyed. One song in particular was so primal and powerful, I wish I had recorded it.
The festival took place at the Odd Fellows Hall, which serves as the community center for Swan’s Island. I’d heard of the Odd Fellows, but had no idea who they were until I looked it up and read that it’s a fraternal organization dedicated to charity and philanthropy, with murky origins in early eighteenth century England. It appears to be a spin-off of Freemasonry. I guess it fit right in with those pie-in-the-sky cults that sprang up in the America of old, particularly in the New England states. The Odd Fellows Hall struck me as a pleasant throwback to those halcyon days. In fact, many things about Maine harken back to America’s golden age, if you can call it that.
Though not as emblematic as lobster and lumber — and moose too, I should add, though I never saw one — blueberries are a big thing here, especially in August when they ripen. Did you know that the blueberries sold in supermarkets are not the real deal, that they’ve been cross-bred to plump them up? Maine’s wild blueberries are smaller, more tart, and widely available at farm stands. The little town of Union celebrates them once a year at harvest time. It was a typical American agricultural fair which the common folk always look forward to. There were about ten thrill rides, the kind you see at amusement parks and most county fairs, though there were none at all at the lobster festival. All of them were operated by Spanish-speaking Mestizos, the only time I ever saw this type in my four trips to Maine.
I managed to snag the last unreserved tent site at Lake St. George State Park for our final two nights. The lake itself was quite scenic, but looking at that green blip on my Rand McNally road atlas, I made the mistake of assuming it was a fair distance from the main road, as most campgrounds are. To my annoyance, our site was less than a hundred yards from Route 3, separated only by a patch of woods. The din of traffic was not what I came here for, though it did quiet down considerably after 10 PM. Route 3, incidentally, takes you right into Augusta, the third least populous state capital, which I’ve never visited. Judging from the scanty information provided by the state tourist board, it probably doesn’t have much going for it.
There are more whimsical facts about Maine that I’ve left out, but I think I’ve covered enough to give you a good picture of this alluring state. But I would be remiss if I did not mention a man whose name is conspicuously absent from Wikipedia’s long list of “Notable people from Maine,” even though he’s its greatest son. George Lincoln Rockwell was born in Illinois, but grew up in the charming waterfront town of Boothbay Harbor, today one of Maine’s top tourist destinations. In his autobiography This Time The World he writes nostalgically about the state’s natural splendors, deep sea fishing trips with his brother, and one dark, windy night when, with a friend, he took up the challenge of sailing on a tiny boat through a narrow passage surrounded by jagged rocks, fighting a treacherous rip tide, and safely making it back to shore, soaking wet. It was a lesson that later shaped his political activism — accepting danger and facing it down in the struggle to attain victory.
Not to wind this down on a sour note, but I have to add one depressing item about my latest trip. Never have I seen so many Flock cameras as I did in my six days in Maine. They were everywhere, even on the most lightly traveled back roads. As you probably know, there’s a growing grassroots movement to make these pillars of the surveillance state inoperable, and in some cases destroy them. I’m sure they’re not very popular in Maine, but given the sheer volume of them, I’m amazed that I didn’t see any signs of discontent. I suppose that has something to do with a population that not only tolerates politicians like Janet Mills and Susan Collins, but keeps returning them to office.
All things considered, Maine is as good as it gets for living in America, and to me there’s something special about it, a reflection of its racial homogeneity and the sturdiness of its people, which always seems to go hand in hand with living in cold climates. Whatever there is to look forward to in this multicultural train wreck of a nation lies in regions like Maine, where the European spirit remains intact despite relentless Jewish and liberal subversion. When White nationalists talk about political and geographical separation, they almost always point to the Pacific northwest, not so much the Atlantic northeast. But I can see it happening there too, though it will take some major convulsions to bring it about.