The Big Quiet
Our passage to Monhegan Island was unexpectedly rough. The calm waters in New Harbor fooled even the captain (“lovely day for a ride,” said he, after delivering his brief spiel on safety procedures), but out at sea, the swells were tall enough to splash water into the lower deck. Poor Matt endured the ride as bravely as he could, his hands white at the knuckles and his face tinged pistachio green.
Despite the foreboding voyage, the island felt solid and hospitable - an impression owing, perhaps, to the fleet of rusty pickups that awaited our arrival on the town dock, whose drivers relieved us of our luggage and pointed us towards our lodging. We stayed at the Monhegan House, situated at the end of a long curve up the hill from the dock, a dignified looking building with a wide and welcoming porch.
We came to the island to see the lighthouse, which sits atop a hill, a short distance from the village dock. The stocky, sloping, granite tower seems characteristic of the island itself. In the lighthouse museum and gift shop, the volunteer keeper spoke to us about island life. “The Big Quiet,” she described it. We stepped out into the expansive hilltop view and let the idea soak in. The Big Quiet. Apt words for place so dominated by sea and sky.
From the outlook, Matt spotted a male-ring necked pheasant darting behind the gravestones in the village cemetery. A pheasant, and barely another soul in sight.
We deposited a dollar in a wooden collection box in exchange for a trail map, and spent many hours getting acquainted with the trails. Although less than a square mile in navigable land, the island is interwoven with 12 miles of trails — to places called Gull Cove, Cathedral Woods, Fern Glen.
Monhegan’s dramatic cliffs and craggy shoreline background more quotidian sparks of joy: summertime flowers in full bloom. Fairy houses painstakingly built at the base of the trees. Berries hidden in precious clusters on on boulders: tiny wind-whipped raspberries that clung tenaciously to the vine, blueberries as richly tinted as astronomical twilight. We spot a female pheasant (perhaps the grave-runner’s mate?) chaperoning her small brood across a clearing. Through our binoculars, we see black ducklings nestled in the cliffside, and a cluster of grey seals at play in the dark cold waters below.
At the day’s end, we purchased wine at The Novelty and enjoyed the a tasty homestyle dinner Monhegan House (byob!). The next morning, we were delighted to find island-roasted espresso drinks at The Barnacle. In the afternoon, we took to the trails to see what we could see, only emerging from the woods when the boats departed with the day-trippers and left the tables at the Fish House free for our taking. Within this simple structure our days unfolded, relaxed and open and full of ocean air.
Tropical Storm Elsa abridged our visit, and gave us a rain-soaked detour on the way home. Could we live here? I asked myself as we pulled out of the foggy harbor, gliding into the great grey emptiness that swallowed the island whole. Certainly not. Whatever self-reliance and love of solitude inspires folks to live twelve miles out to sea, neither of us is eager to exercise. But we love the interlude, the postage-stamp picturesqueness, the shifting-sunlight serenity of this place. We vowed to come again, and give ourselves more time.
For more pictures, see our gallery Monhegan Island.
