View from the Pier

Each of us makes his own weather,
determines the colour of the skies
in the emotional universe which he inhabits.
- Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, 1985-1979

Eastham, Massachusetts

This picture was taken just a couple of weeks ago in the Cape Cod National Seashore preserve of Fort Hill in Eastham. I was first introduced to the timeless beauty of this town and the Outer Cape by my college roommate Alison, who grew up here.  She is proud to hail from the Cape, and with good reason.  The scenery is spectacular and diverse–while most associate the area with the Atlantic Ocean, it is also home to a breathtaking bay, and marshes, ponds, bogs, and forests.  Eastham also lays claim to a significant event in this country’s history–its First Encounter Beach, on the bayside of the Cape, is the site of the first meeting between the Pilgrims and Native Americans in 1620.

A fastidious planner who considers researching destinations a part of the pleasure of traveling, I committed to this jaunt just the night before going, in an unprecedented act of spontaneity.  Candidly, “winging it” often makes me ill-at-ease, and I am forcing myself to become more comfortable on the fly.  That sense of apprehension was heightened by the fact that this excursion involved driving, alone, in Massachusetts, home of quite possibly the worst drivers on the planet.  I was not one of those who couldn’t wait to get my driver’s license, and the Mini Cooper I have now had for almost six years has under 45,000 miles on it. Strap me into an airline seat anytime–I completely buy into the idea that you are safer at a cruising altitude of 30,000 feet than on 93 South.  I had made plans to meet another dear college friend for dinner, and Kathy and I laughed together as only old friends can at the peculiar perimeters of my comfort level.  While I have traveled solo to foreign continents, navigating the 92 miles from my home in Nahant to Dennis seemed like the Incredible Journey to the Center of the Earth.  I cannot claim to be an intrepid traveler…but I do aspire!

And so, after some initial clumsiness, that willingness propelled me to enjoy two glorious, golden fall days of crisp weather, tooling around practically deserted roads, making my way from one magnificent vista to the next.  I left Route 6 to start my exploration in earnest in Chatham, where I had lived for a summer while in college. I parked on the main street and, footloose and fancy free, sauntered past the band stand on the green, to the Wayside Inn’s patio.  Over lunch in the sun, I contemplated all this luxurious freedom that a lack of structured itinerary created and felt, well, a little overwhelmed and panic-stricken.

Determined to enjoy my experiment in improvisation, I realized I just needed to figure what I was going to do next, not map out the entire day in my mind.  I headed to Lighthouse Beach, where I inhaled the salty air, and watched a candy-red fishing boat slice through the sparkling waters between the beach and an outlying sandbar.  I then meandered along Shore Road and on impulse swung a right down to the Chatham Fish Pier.  In a stroke of serendipity, I had arrived just as the fleet of fishing boats that call this harbor home returned for the day.  I moved around the pier, soaking up the ambiance from behind the lens of my camera, completely lost in the palette of primary colors and the moment.  I suddenly realized that the afternoon was slipping away.  I had a few more miles to go before I fulfilled the only actual objective I had set for myself on this expedition.

That goal was to shoot Truro’s massive sand dunes.  Once within the vicinity, I puzzled over how to gain access.  Once I figured out that the obvious entry point was a chained-off road that quickly disappeared into a murky tangle of trees, I paused.  Who owned the two cars parked there, I wondered?  Far from being a fearless trail blazer, I was just a middle-aged suburbanite with a flexible schedule, a camera, some curiosity–and one on whom Charlie Manson had made an indelible impression while an adolescent.   I envisioned walking down the path…and Charlie jumping from behind a tree, doing a maniacal little dance, and…I actually laughed out loud, the scary spell broken.

I sallied forth, through the small grove and then trudged up the steep hill of shifting sands, breathing heavily.  At the top, I was rewarded with a stunning scene of seemingly endless bleached and contoured hills, speckled with swathes of tall, emerald grass rippling in the breeze, and an immense, dramatic sky.  An incoming late afternoon squall created swirls of low-lying, fast-moving clouds of mauve, violet and charcoal and in the distance I could see fuzzy patches of sheets of rain.  I was transfixed in awe and felt a warm glow of peace and contentedness in my chest that mirrored the radiance of the light conditions on the landscape.

Early the next morning, I admired the view from Fort Hill’s small parking lot at the crest of a hill overlooking Nauset Marsh and the Atlantic beyond.  The sky was a brilliant blue with puffs of fluffy cumulus clouds and the terrain seemed torn between summer and autumn, with the colors of both seasons enlivening the thickets alongside the trail.  I felt great gratitude to be exactly where I was at that moment.  I emphatically understood why Thoreau’s “Cape Cod,” chronicling his long walks on the length of this arm of land, exuded such sunny good humor.

Coming down the Red Maple Swamp Trail, I crossed paths with an elderly birder, and chirped a cheerful hello, commenting on the beautiful day.  He responded dourly that he was disappointed with the light and turned his back to me to resume glaring at the trees.   I was stunned, then indignant, then saddened and then grateful again, all in the space of a few seconds.  The disgruntled gentleman reminded me that I too have been known to be down-in-the-dumps on spectacular mornings and perfectly at peace on stormy afternoons.  I felt blessed that my emotional weather for the past 24 hours, both internally and externally, had happily been a perfect “10,” and the quintessential “day at the beach.”

http://www.nps.gov/caco/planyourvisit/upload/forthillcolor.pdf

http://www.trails.com/tcatalog_trail.aspx?trailid=XMR016-032

http://www.nps.gov/caco/planyourvisit/fort-hill-gps-quest.htm

http://thoreau.eserver.org/capecd00.html

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