In 1958, when I first set foot in Rangeley, one went over a hill on Route 4 before South Shore Drive to be greeted by an expansive first view of Rangeley Lake. Tree growth has long since blocked that view, but I’ll never forget it.  I was a city kid, growing up in the lower middle class Dorchester section of Boston. Other than the occasional Boy Scout camping trip, I had  little connection to the outdoors, never mind the wilderness.  My aunt and uncle, surprisingly woodsy types, had been vacationing in Rangeley for decades, always coming home with stories for the dinner table. Loving what I heard, I begged them to take me along, and when I turned 13, my parents gave the nod. Finally I would meet the people I had heard about for years, like compelling characters in a novel.  That July, my aunt Bertha, uncle Saul, their sidekick Johnny and I headed north for the little valley town of Rangeley.  It was many years before the Piscataqua River Bridge was constructed, and a long trip.  When we finally arrived, I may as well have just landed on some other hauntingly beautiful planet.

As they had done for years, we were staying at Sam-O-Set Camps on South Shore Drive. When we pulled up to the extremely modest (to say the least) Cabin 14, I felt like I was looking at the great Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite. It was on the lake. It had a dock. It was next to an expansive hayfield with an old post and beam barn.  This was it- I had died and gone to Heaven.  Then I met the first of many, many wonderful Rangeley people, the Swains. Steve and Bessie Swain greeted us at the office, when we checked in.  These were solid, sturdy rural New Englanders, genuinely happy to see their long time renters, who were now friends.  This was a far different world than the one in which we now live, and the Swains were among the best that world had to offer. I soon learned that Bessie made the best pies one could find, and when I told her so, she said, “Oh, you have to use lard in the crust.”   Steve was the essence of the rural farmer, also the deacon of the Baptist Church.  He used to mow his fields with a horse, and he didn’t have to ask twice if I wanted to take a ride. He was a big man- in so many ways- and my hand disappeared in his when he shook it.

After settling in to Cabin 14, they took me to meet some friends living in an old trailer by the lakeshore.  They were Fred and Lou Patience, and they had a collie named Skipper.  I took a picture of the dog stretched out on the lawn at sunset, covered in long shadows with a golden glow.  At my aunt’s suggestion, I entered it in the Boston Globe Photo Contest, and won a third place award.  Fred Patience was a boater and fisherman, and an ardent tinkerer.  I hung around his little workshop, watching him repair his collection of old outboard motors, and listening to his fish stories.  One day, he asked if I would like to go with him into town on his Rangeley Boat with an old Scott-Atwater motor. I had never been on a boat before, so this was a true adventure.   A few days later, I decided I would build a raft.  Mr. Swain had been clearing some land across the road, and he said I could have some of the saplings he had cut, to use for the raft.  On a trip in town, I went to Russell’s Hardware Store, and asked the owner, Mason Russell, what kind of nails I needed. I saw him a number of times that year, with him taking a liking to this young kid who liked to build things. That store was sort of a museum of old time tools, and he taught me about how they were used.  When we returned the followed summer, I ran to the store to see Mr. Russell, only to learn that he had passed away during the winter. It was one of my first experiences of losing someone I cared about, and it hurt. I couldn’t comprehend death, and I guess I still cannot to this day.

Building the raft was a hilarious fiasco.   I brought the saplings down near the lake, sawing them all to the same length. They were fir, about 3 – 4 inches in diameter.  I lined them all up, using thinner saplings as ribs, and nailed them all together.  When I finished that evening, I couldn’t be prouder.  Launching would be tomorrow morning.  Unfortunately, this raft of green logs was a bit heavy.  So heavy, in fact, that I couldn’t budge it, even with my uncle Saul and Johnny pulling with all they had.  While I was getting angry, they were both trying to suppress their laughter.  They could barely contain themselves, running back to the cabin where they roared with laughter, at my expense.  I pouted for a while, then took my axe to the raft, and lugged all the saplings back to the slash pile. Kinda like they guy who builds a boat in his basement, only to find that it is too big to get it out.

A boy could not have better vacation guides than my aunt and uncle, as they were doers who didn’t sit still. They loved taking me to enjoy the many things in the Rangeley region and beyond, as they had done for years.  My father once told me to have a lot of adventures in your life, because some day all you will have left are those memories, until they too fade. He was right about a lot things, which took me a long time to figure out, but I’m thankful that I took his advice. I have been more than blessed with a life of adventures; yet, wherever they took me, I somehow have always wound up back in Rangeley.

Stay tuned!

“The way a crow shook down on me,

The dust of snow from a hemlock tree,

Has given my heart a change of mood,

And saved some part of a day I had rued.”          Robert Frost