Rafting the Kennebec: The river of truth

I've heard it said that what defines you as a person isn't what happens to you, but how you respond to what happens to you. And it isn't until you've experienced stress of some magnitude that your true colors emerge.

Maybe you don't consider white water rafting in The Forks a high-stress situation - but I do, okay, so back off! I was skittish. Bothered. Agitated. The entire drive north I did my best to maintain moderate calm in front of my friends (who had rafted before and who all appeared disturbingly lackadaisical about the whole thing). But that morning, with the raft looming, my stomach was feeling some internal rapids of its own. This is the vision I had in my head:

I came to grips with the reality that I likely would be the one jerk in the boat to fall out, so I took copious mental notes on what to to when I fell out and donned my life vest, which would keep me afloat when I fell out. Then I climbed into that inflatable raft with the expression of a death-row inmate.

I was excited, too, I think, somewhere deep down. But that didn't mean I couldn't frantically search for an escape. I even scanned the raft for some sort of hole or tear (which would, oh so sadly, force our party to remain on land). Finding nothing, I resigned myself to fate, sat quietly and began saying goodbyes in my head.

Goodbye Michelle, you can have all of my hats (except for the cop one, which I never gave back to Victoria). Goodbye Victoria, you can have my collection of pub coasters (and your cop hat back). Sell everything else, but someone please take care of my couch, lovingly known as Cocoa Microfiber, Jr.

And off we went.

I didn't freak out or fall overboard. I didn't shriek my way down the river. I paddled when told and "woohooed" when appropriate. I didn't freeze with fear or hit anyone in the face with my paddle. I committed no rafting sins. And somehow, shockingly, I found myself having a grand time.

In fact, by the looks of this photo, I not only look like I'm enjoying myself (second from front with perma-grin), I almost look like I know what I'm doing. I look like a professional. I could BE a professional. I could raft in the Olympics! I'm the best rafter in the world!

The great thing about high-resolution pictures - aside from being evidence that you did, in fact, go rafting - is that they offer a brief snapshot of river truth. Take a close look at both sides of the boat. On my side (closest to the camera) we're smiling like chubby kids in front of a make-your-own sundae buffet. The far side looks, well, miserable.

It's almost disturbing how pleased we look.

Just as disturbing, how unhappy they look.

In even closer examination, Phil appears to be having a mid-raft crisis of some sort. Is he crying? Is he holding on?

I won't hold it against him - partly because I'd like to think I'm a nice person and partly because there's also this picture of me:

I'm not ashamed. When you're looking at a rapid like this and the guide tells you to hold on, you do it:

Here's the highlight reel, which shows why guides are guides and we're not.

Yep, we're hardcore rafters alright. Or something.

The Forks: The lesser-known perks

Checked another "must do" off my list this weekend: Tackle white water rafting (even better, survive with my limbs, my skull and my pride in tact).

I went into the venture embarrassingly over-anxious. Having never done anything of the sort, I could only imagine the worst - and "the worst" got worse with each passing hour.

There's nothing scarier than the unknown (particularly when your cohorts insist on telling you stories about massive rapids, sinister guides and near drownings).

But the adventure up north was an overwhelming success and all in my party survived. I'm holding off on saying more, though, until I get my hands on some footage from the river.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to highlight the lesser-known perks of The Forks. Sure, the rivers are stellar and the view is okay, if you're into that pristine nature kind of thing. But there are so many other things to appreciate.

Top Six Completely Underrated Perks of The Forks (and thereabouts) that I had Corresponding Pictures For

1. The fate-tempters. At Moxie Falls, there's always that one guy who insists on relaying the dangers of the unstable rocks and the powerful current, who then climbs over the railing and sits precariously on the edge to "wow" the onlookers.

2. The unorthodox drinks. Here, you don't hide your penchant for tequila and pickle juice. You celebrate it. It's considered a staple at Northern Outdoors - the result of having tequila and nothing else to mix it with...but wait, there's a lonely pickle jar filled with juice in the fridge. Drink it.

3.The near-completion Appalachian Trail hikers. What they lack in antiperspirant (and toothbrushes and combs), they make up for in good old hippie altruism.

4. The wildlife. Up close and personal, sharing your beverage whether you invited them or not. Depending on your exhaustion/slap-happy level, such creatures can capture your unwavering attention for 30 minutes or more. Just a bug, you say? You try and look away.

(On a side note, we're all still perplexed as to what kind of insect that actual is. If you know, please share.)

5. The acceptance. You don't have to choose between your God and your gun. Around here, they go handgun in hand.

6. Wild Bill. He's a local. He's a hunter. He's a quotable compadre. He may also be looking to lure humans to his remote property in hopes of hunting them for sport.

Wild Bill-isms:

On hunting: "If it's brown it goes down."

On life's tribulations: "Issues are like tissues. They just keep popping up."

On himself: "I've been all over the world. I've been shot. I've died twice. I've met Satan and he ain't [censored]. The only thing I fear is God in Heaven. I fear no man."

So go thee to The Forks. Raft away. Enjoy the views. But keep your eyes peeled for those lesser-known joys that make such a trip all the more memorable.

Happy Maine-iversary

I've come to understand that to officially call yourself a Mainer, at least three generations of your family must have lived, worked and died on Maine soil. That's an adequate enough time to erase any bad habits that may have been picked up in other states or countries.

Lucky for me, the rules slacken the closer you get to the Portland city line.

It's been exactly two years since I fled the Midwest.

Two years since I announced to my stunned friends and family that I was selling whatever wouldn't fit in my car and moving to Maine ("Yes, Maine" I had said. "Of course you know it, it's that coastal state in the northeast corner…yes, the one with the lobsters…yes, people really live there.")

Two years since I woke up in a rented room on the East End, surveyed my colorful new surroundings, took a deep breath of the cool almost-autumn air and thought, "Oh my God…what have I done?"

Every day since, I've felt less and less like a visitor. And on Labor Day weekend I was feeling 100% local.

A friend and I had ferried back to Portland from Peaks Island, where we'd spent what might have been the last warm day of the year, with plans to meet a friend for drinks at Portland Lobster Company. But as the sun set and the air temperature dropped, both of us were cursing our short sleeves. Home - where the stack of fleece and sweatshirts lay in wait - was close, but not that close.

But, my keen friend noted, just across the street a row of tourist shops stood before us, flaunting their lobster magnets, Maine shot glasses and framed photographs of various Maine scenery. And just beyond the 99-cent trinkets rose a wall of soft fleece and cotton sweatshirts # each emblazoned with those familiar five letters: MAINE.

We didn't care, at first, about entering the shop, tearing sweatshirts from the rack and pulling them over our heads. We chatted with the cashier as we paid, and she told us a about a recent visitor who didn't approve of the store's Made in China merchandise.

"This woman got so offended when she saw our sweatshirts were made in China. She ended up laying down in the middle of the store in protest. We just went about our day and she lay there, going on and on about China and whatnot. Finally when we were closing my boss was, like, 'You need to go, we're closing,' and the lady went to stand up and whacked her head on a rack of hangers and my boss was like, 'yeah, those hangers are from China too.'"

As I moved toward the door to leave, the sudden realization hit me: a Portlander I may be, but a tourist I looked. And I wasn't a tourist. This is my home! I live here!

So I flipped the sweatshirt inside out. Phew! Misperception diverted!

Until the guys selling Duck Tour tickets meandered over and said, "While you're here, you should go inside that pet store," he motions over to the Fetch pet store. "They have all kinds of stuff for pets. People here just love their animals."

"Yes, I've been in there. I live here."

"So if you have time, go in and look around."

"I have. I live here."

Maybe two years isn't enough time to shake off the out-of-town look. Maybe I'd rather not completely shirk my Midwestern past. Maybe I should just wear the dang sweatshirt right side out.

And it doesn't matter if I look like a tourist. It doesn't matter if I pronounce the "r" in lobster. In my book, you are a Mainer if you 1) love this state and 2) consider Maine home.

Check, check.

Separation anxiety

Panic.

I flipped papers over on my desk, emptied my bag, the laptop case and the drawers. Nothing under the desk but a pile of cables and cords # and a dried out marker that successfully resisted a toss into the garbage can. I stood up to scan, I squatted down to scan. Nothing.

It's official. My wallet is gone.

The reality of the situation doesn't take long to sink in: No wallet means no money. It means credit cards (the only one I have, which has hovered precariously close its limit for over a year), debit cards (that delightful plastic key to ATMs and coffee shops) and cash (which I had little of) are all gone.

It means that my driver's license (that proves that I am, officially, no longer a flatlander # no matter what my nasally voice might indicated to the contrary) is likely making its way into the hands of some 18-year-old USM co-ed.

And all this means that the next several days, weeks, months will be filled with phone calls, card cancellations, trips to the BMV, the library, the gym (maybe not) and the constant monitoring of my credit. And, oh my lord, I can't go to happy hour.

Yes, Wednesday was a downer.

So I mentally retraced my steps. I had it when I left the office for lunch. I had it when I bought some grub. I had it when I sat outside with a colleague. I had when I came back…or did I?

I called the bagel shop. No answer. I ran over there. Closed. The table at which I sat earlier that day (the last moments my wallet and I enjoyed together - oh, if only I'd known) had been taken inside. I called the Portland Police Department, but the only person who's allowed to discuss lost and found property (yep, there's just one) had already left the building.

I could do nothing but wait for morning and pray that whoever had discovered my fake-leather bundle of all things important had turned it in # and wasn't in the middle of a Wal-Mart electronics shopping spree.

That night, I dreamed of the good times.

Sharing a float.

A wild night of Jenga.

Celebratory drinks after wallet got his G.E.D.



It was a tense walk to the bagel shop early yesterday morning. I approached the gentleman behind the counter.

Me: "I'm here on the off-chance someone found a wallet here yesterday."

Him, apologetically: "I don't think so."

Me, still hopeful: "Wait - the wallet was in a small black and white bag." [You know, so it's not as easy to loose.]

Him, recalling something: "Hang on..."

He disappears into the back and I stare after him - half wanting to know the fate of my wallet, half fearful of the chance it could be gone forever. It could go either way, but I needed resolution.

Then back through the doorway he comes - with the wallet still encased in the small bag! I reached out for it, expressed profuse thanks to him, the shop, whoever found it and all the customers eating breakfast around me.

And the world was peaceful once again.

Thank you Works Bakery Cafe. Thank you kind stranger who saved my wallet from an unknown fate.

Reunited - and it feels so good.

I'll never leave you again, wallet.

What kind of art are you driving?

Art, they say, is subjective. That means there's plenty to be subjective about in Portland.

There are enough galleries and studios in town to keep your inner art critic well exercised for a year. (Try the First Friday Art walk. If you're not an art fan, start tipping back the free wine until something finally speaks to you. Everyone knows wine makes you profound and intellectual - oh, and richer.)

But there's unexpected art everywhere, too. Like the Post Office mailbox on Forest Ave. that's painted to look like R2-D2. That's art, right?

What about a ball of pants? Is it art? Or just the unfortunate result of putting off laundry day a few weeks too long?

I'll defer to more experienced art enthusiasts in most cases, but my entirely-clueless-when-it-comes-to-art rule of thumb is, if I could recreate it, it isn't good.

Take this, for example:

Some construction paper and a stapler and you've pretty much got that one covered.

So let's forget all the canvas, all the clay, all the turnpike underpasses and all the back alley brick walls for a moment. There's a new art movement driving through Portland.

Car art is taking over the city. In the last week I spotted a couple of fine works parked in the area.

A Caddy skillfully splattered with paint.

I call it, "You can't control me anymore, Dad!"

A red pickup embellished with spray paint.

I call it, "I am, therefore I stencil"

It's art for the people. Even I was able to create some car art of my own.

I call it, "Who moved that #&%*$# rock wall?"

So long summer. Welcome back pants.

Go ahead and tell yourself Labor Day isn't the official end of summer. "Another 19 days!" But my already fading almost-tan says differently. We're now on a fast track collision course with another brisk-winded leaf-peeping season. I know, it hurts.

Labor Day says so long flip flops and hello socks. Air out the tightly packed sweater bin and wake the fleece from it's summer slumber.

Labor Day says summer is over.

More than once over the last couple of days, a fashion-conscious Labor Day die hard also reminded me not to violate the long-ignored "whites after Labor Day" rule. Thanks, but I pretty much gave up wearing white six years ago after an embarrassing spaghetti incident that left a good, honest white shirt with permanent and unsightly injuries.

It's fairly guaranteed, if it's white I'll ruin it. An accidental swipe of a pen, a leaky coffee lid or the ominous "unknown origin."

And white pants? Kudos to those of you who can pull it off, but I'm the girl who's most likely to sit in the melted ice cream puddle - so I think I'll pass.

Thus, my wardrobe isn't divided into seasons. It's divided into what fits (a rotation of four pairs of jeans), what doesn't (the stuff that fit a year ago that I keep hanging in the closet as a masochistic reminder of what used to be) and that beckoning pile of "comfortable" clothes that says, "Go ahead, have another beer. I'll be here waiting."

But your pride resists. Those sweats or "fat pants" or otherwise loose-fitting items are worn only when desperately ill, when cleaning or when you need milk/bread/sugared cereal/whiskey at 7:00 a.m. and you're 99 percent certain you won't be bumping into anyone you know.

But I digress.

Thanks Labor Day - even though you kill summer every year, at least you give us a day off to mourn.