A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"Dogs eat shit, man."

Posted by pete at September 3, 2007 11:37 AM

It's great to be back in Houston, where the relative humidity is always around 80% this time of year, and the ambient aroma can best be described as "moldering potato." But a scant week ago we were in the temperate climes of eastern Maine, visiting my dad in Bar Harbor. The beer was cold, the temperatures almost so (we had to retreat to the basement one afternoon when temps reached the mid-80s), and She Who Shall Not Be Named honed her cat tackling skills.

Now let's go to the photos.

The view from my dad's back deck, that's his dog Barbaloot in the left foreground. They have about six acres:

More pics in the extended entry...

Barbaloot is what they call an American "wirehaired pointing griffon," and they do a lot of pointing indeed, especially at invisible prey:

She Who Shall Not Be Named had a fine old time, climbing the treehouse and pestering my younger siblings. Here she is following Dad and the dog into the woods, untroubled by the fact her guide is carrying a beer, or wearing a silly hat:

Then again, if large cracks couldn't dissuade her from jumping on boards, her choice of woodsmen can hardly be faulted:

Barbaloot's predecessor "Roxy" is also buried on the premises. The cairn is either to keep coyotes from digging her up or to make sure she doesn't rise from the grave. This is Wendigo territory, after all:

Or it could just be because Maine is full of rocks.

The Wife demurred when asked to join me in visiting the site. When pressed, I learned that my "interactions" with Roxy were one of the only things that made her doubt her decision to marry me. Something about blowing on the dog's snout to make her cheeks to puff out in what I thought was a comical fashion. How wrong I was. Even Dad, whose tolerance of the tasteless is well-documented, reminded me that "Dogs eat shit, man." Thanks for the support.

Our travels also took us to the Penobscot Narrows Bridge and Observatory in Bucksport:

Our seemingly pastoral visit was not without its dangers, however:

I was a little surprised by this. After all, everyone knows if you just ignore white Anglo-Saxons, they probably won't bother you.

Fort Knox (no, not that one) is also strategically situated at the Narrows. It was built in the mid-1800s but never saw action during the Civil War. This is one of the ways in which they welcomed uninvited guests to the Penobscot:

So is this 10-inch Rodman cannon:

The view of Bucksport from Ft. Knox:

After you check out the fort, there's nothing for it but to go up to the observatory, situated 420 feet in the air. SWSNBN wasn't too impressed with the view:

If the observatory attendant recommends a place for lunch, listen to him. Crosby's was one of the best meals we had on the trip:

No trip to the Bar Harbor-Ellsworth-Trenton area is complete without a visit to the Great Maine Lumberjack Show. "Timber" Tina hosts nightly shows, and the one we attended pitted males against females:

The audience was almost as entertaining as the show itself, many of whom - if incomprehensible accents are a reliable gauge - were from New Jersey. I dubbed the two 13-year olds sitting in front of us the "AJs."

Whatever, here's some log rolling:

Surprisingly, there are still some trees left standing in Maine. For example, those around Witch Hole in Acadia National Park.

Our last day there we went to Bangor for the American Folk Festival, held on the banks of the Penobscot River. We arrived just as the Dixie Hummingbirds were finishing up, but sadly missed the Tibetan Monks. Luckily, there was plenty of time to settle in for the Inuit throat singers:

I also shot some video, but I'm trying to keep what few readers I have.

The festival was also the site of the reunion of the Irish traditional group, the Green Fields of America. I commemorated this momentous occasion by taking SWSNBN to the bathroom, but not before snapping a photo:

The festival winds down:

And there are few places better to kick back after a long day of yodeling and banjo picking than the Sea Dog Brewery:

Sea Dog was recently purchased by Shipyard Brewing. I was informed of this fact by the bartender, and probably made a sworn enemy when I responded, "What's a 'shipyahd?'"

Finally, no trip to Bangor is complete without annoying favorite son Stephen King by taking a picture of his house:

A successful trip, by most accounts, Our flight up was only delayed an hour, while we only had to circle aimlessly above IAH for 45 minutes on the way back. For Continental, that counts as an error-free flight. We've talked about making the American Folk Festival a yearly thing, and if it gets me out of this subtropical sauna for a week each year, I'd share a room with the throat singers.