Last week I shared my maritime tales of Maine’s shoreline and now allow me to follow up those salty stories with the details of our journey into the scenic core of New England.

Bethel, a small Maine village of 2,500 residents nestled near the New Hampshire border, was our first inland stop. Jason and I strayed from our comfort zone a bit and stayed at a little B&B while in this tiny hamlet. The building was over 100 years old and its age showed. The floors squeaked and the doorknobs didn’t turn so well but there was a feeling of significance in that vintage dwelling. The innkeepers were very hospitable and cheerily made us a delicious breakfast each morning using eggs from their own happy chickens. Sometimes comfort zones are for sissies.

Like our B&B, every part of Bethel spoke history. It was full of antique church spires and homes not much younger than America. Its widespread white clapboard buildings and village greens were lovingly preserved and just plain lovely.

Bethel’s charm wasn’t its only appeal though. It was conveniently close to Grafton Notch, a U-shaped valley carved out by glaciers, which we were eager to explore. Glaciers receded from New England about 14,000 years ago yet their icy influence can still be seen in its rounded mountaintops and pitted rock. Potholes in this region, sculpted by glacial debris, have turned the streams cascading down them into nature’s waterslides over the millennia. These acrobatic rivers frequently twist and jump across their granite platforms, performing a continuous magnificent show.

In the Grafton Notch area we saw a couple such jumps, Screw Auger and Step Falls, and took a hike through some of the oddest terrain I’ve ever stood on. Table Rock, a giant block of granite, was our 2.4-mile destination. To get to it we had to climb a never-ending flight of roughly-hewn rock steps. These giant “stairs” only ceased when the terrain became a jumble of massive boulders, which had to be leapt and scrambled over. Although strenuous, this trek was quite fun and the fantastic views of the Mahoosuc Range from Table Rock would have been worth it regardless.

Upon leaving Bethel, we proceeded west to Stowe, Vermont, famous for its ski resorts and fall leaves. We paused as we passed through New Hampshire to do a short hike in Moose Brook State Park. Our little walk followed Perkins Brook through a quiet mossy forest. The spongy soil was peopled with mushrooms and anything that hadn’t moved recently was covered in swaths of flourishing life. The dappled light filtering through the emerald canopy doubled the green of the ground and brought to mind the realm of fairies.

After that brief intermission, we continued on our way to Stowe, a beautiful drive. The Vermont countryside was dotted with bright weathered barns and hilly pastures, which the dense forests just beyond seemed plotting to reclaim. Stowe was made of the same scenic stuff. In the shadow of Mt. Mansfield, Vermont’s highest peak, this quaint little village looked like it hadn’t changed much in many years.

While at Stowe we hiked in nearby Smugglers’ Notch, so called because it’s been a favorite route for sneaking alcohol, people, you name it, into and out of Canada throughout American history. The trails we took to Bingham Falls and Sterling Pond were stunning but crossed by rivulets and trickles so often it seemed that the whole area was part of some makeshift waterway. Along with the views we encountered by using our feet, we caught a ride on the Stowe Mountain Resort gondola and got a cheater’s peek of the panorama from the top of Mt. Mansfield.

Our visit to Stowe’s happened to be the same weekend as their annual British Invasion, a regional British-car show. After gorging on fantastic dinner fare one night, we decided to drive into town but found the road blocked off for the “British Invasion Block Party.” Stowe’s main street was lined with tiny English sports cars and people eating ice cream cones and generally having a good time. We thought we might as well have a good time too so we took to mingling with the jovial throngs. A band was playing some classic rock tunes and soon the crowd started boogying and swinging to the music. Everyone, from children so young they could barely walk to gents so old they could barely walk, joined in the fun. Jason and I also took to grooving on the pavement. Thus, we connected with that friendly community on their small street with the full moon and historic steeples floating above us. It truly felt like something out of a movie.

The last stop in our inland interlude was Franconia, New Hampshire. Franconia, in the midst of the White Mountains, is definitely a blink-and-miss town but enchanting nonetheless. While we didn’t find the foliage in Stowe as impressive as we’d hoped, due to the earliness of the season, the woods around Franconia were smack in the middle of their fall fire. The whole area was ablaze and gorgeous.

We stayed in the “Dream Cottage” at the Sugar Hill Inn our night in Franconia. With a giant fireplace, private sauna and comfy porch swing, it’s a shame we couldn’t just spend the evening slouching in our bungalow but Franconia Notch State Park was not to be missed. This notch’s rugged beauty inspired authors like Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry David Thoreau. It inspired us too. Oddly enough, sometimes inspiration feels a lot like a downpour. We hiked to various falls and features along the Pemigewasset River as rain pelted us through an eerie blanket of mist. It was surreal yet soggy.

Before we headed to Boston to catch our flight the next day, we stopped at Frost Place, home of the poet Robert Frost for five years and twenty summers. The spectacular views of the Franconia Notch from his modest farmhouse made Frost’s wooded muses almost tangible.

Although time wasn’t really permitting, after Frost Place we hurriedly explored Flume Gorge, an 800-foot-long chasm created by a plume of lava squishing through a crack and then eroding. I wish we could have enjoyed its lush sheer walls and impressive falls without time constraints but seeing it in a dash was better than not seeing it at all. We rushed back to Boston after our gorge tour with just enough time to not feel panicked about making our flight. Whew!

New England may not be a common vacation destination for those in the west but Jason and I are very glad we’ve roamed its precipitous shores and saturated woods. Compared to visiting Maine and its neighbors, all other holidays are minor.

New England is a big chunk of land with lots to keep your eyes and feet occupied so choosing where to spend our time was not easy. I read a 400-page travel book as I puzzled over this quandary and researched a whole lot on Trip Advisor. Our friends were no help as none of them have ever been to this region but I think I sorted out a pretty good itinerary for our excursion without the assistance of acquaintances.

We flew into Boston and began traveling up the coast, staying our first night in Portland, Maine. We found Portland, Maine’s only real city, quaint and historic. Whiffs of briny air hit us now and then as we wandered through the cobblestone streets of its Old Port district and took in the scenic shoreline from its Eastern Prom Trail. Delightful.

While in that town we toured the magnificent Victoria Mansion, circa 1858, widely regarded as the most ornate dwelling from its time period left in the country. Beyond exploring that spectacular building, we couldn’t leave Portland without also checking out its famous lighthouses: Portland Head and the twins of Cape Elizabeth. Lighthouses in Maine? Funny you should ask. Maine’s shores are guarded by 66 lighthouses, 52 of which are still in working order. Why so many? The coast of this state is more hazardous than most. Rocks + fog = ship booboo = sad panda. It’s easier than algebra. Although somewhat antiquated with today’s newfangled technologies, lighthouses still service small watercraft and conjure romantic notions of a tough solitary existence. In short, when in Maine, visiting at least a few of these steadfast beacons is practically mandatory.

After leaving Portland, we stopped in Freeport to visit L.L. Bean’s flagship store, a strange request of Jason’s, and check out a few other shops that featured local handmade pottery and jewelry. (Yes, I did purchase some. Do you really need to ask?) Then, we settled in for the evening near Camden at the Inn at Sunrise Point. Don’t let the “inn” in that name mislead you, we were really staying at a private cottage on the beach. Ahhhhh. Our “Rachel Carson” cottage was lovely: a giant wall of windows looking out over the ocean, a porch with wicker rockers to encourage relaxation, a gas fireplace and a monstrous jetted tub. Following our arrival, we walked along its rock-strewn beach under the dreamy light of the nearly-full moon and then cozied up by our fireplace with good books. After that thorough unwinding, we cracked our windows just enough that a refreshing ocean breeze drifted in as the rhythmic pulsing of the waves carried us off to sleep.

As for Camden, a classier and more charming New England village you will not find. Before we continued on our way north, we took a little time to stroll its picturesque streets and catch an aerial view of the surrounding bay from Mount Battie, a 780-foot verdant outcropping that gently rises behind Camden’s pleasing avenues.

Too soon we were moving north again or, as the locals put it, Down East. After a couple of detours to check out the Fort Point lighthouse and fatten ourselves further with lobster rolls from yet another waterside shack, we arrived at our last coastal destination: Bar Harbor. Bar Harbor, located on Mount Desert Island just outside Acadia National Park, has an outdoorsy touristy feel that caters to the wannabe-naturalist crowd but it’s still a cute town. In Bar Harbor we gobbled some of the best ice cream I’ve ever eaten, however, we spent most of our non-gorging hours inside Acadia, America’s second-most visited national park. With lush forests rimmed by cliffs of pink granite that plunge into the ocean, it’s easy to see why Acadia attracts 2 million visitors each year. Since our time was limited, we had to choose wisely which of its 125 miles of trail options to hit. It was difficult but I believe even that last knight of the Crusades would be proud of our decision.

We walked the Ocean Path Trail, a 4.4-mile stroll along Acadia’s jagged coastline, our first day in the park. It was a mellow and beautiful meandering. The following morning we set sleep and mellow aside to embark on some sunrise madness. Cadillac Mountain, at a whopping 1,530 feet, is, oddly enough, the tallest peak on the Eastern Seaboard north of Brazil. (No snickering please Utahans.) Because of its eastern location and height, it’s the first place in the country to see the break of day each morning. It’s a longstanding tradition among tourists and locals alike to greet the rising sun from atop Cadillac’s rounded dome and, hence, be one of the first in the country to see a new dawn. Jason was a little reluctant to get up at 4:55 AM (2:55 back home) to greet anything but he gave in to my enthusiasm and, thus, we found ourselves out in 37 degrees with the wind hustling around us as we waited for the arrival of that glowing orb. It was bitterly cold but I’d like to think it was worth it…I’m pretty sure it was.

Since we were already up, I convinced Jason that we might as well hike to the top of another mountain. He was a little resistant to this plan but he eventually caved to my stubbornness. (Are you seeing a pattern here?) I only had to wear a beanie, gloves, a sweater and three jackets to stay marginally warm as we made our way up the South Bubble. You westerners might laugh a little about me even calling the South Bubble a “mountain” since its summit is only 766 feet above sea level but, apparently, that’s what it technically is. Our chilly jaunt was too early and frigid for all but the senseless and stupid so we saw absolutely no one on the Bubble and only ran into other wanderers as we neared the last curves of Jordan Pond, a deep glacier-made lake that we circled to reach our “mountain.”

And, thusly, we ended our time on the coast and began our trek inland. I will save our adventures in New England’s interior for next week. I wouldn’t want to add too much excitement or too many thoughts of lobster to your lives.

Jason and I, ever the ready adventurers, decided that we were going to break camp early our last morning in Great Basin and leave our buddies to hike Wheeler Peak. Wheeler Peak, at 13,063 feet, is Great Basin’s tallest mountain and a mere 89 feet shy of being Nevada’s highest. For those that need a comparison closer to home, Wheeler is just 500 feet shorter than Kings Peak, Utah’s loftiest. As one would expect from a path this elevated, the trail up Wheeler leaves the timberline far behind and zigzags through massive piles of rock for the majority of its duration. The barren nature of those hillsides, in combination with the frequency of their summer afternoon thunderstorms, meant that we needed to start our nearly 9-mile journey promptly in the morning as a safety precaution. But, alas, our well-planned precautions didn’t prevent anything. Here is the woeful tale of our trek up Wheeler and my faithful account of how Mother Nature tried to give us the bird.

The appeal of hiking Wheeler Peak, for many, is the amount of bang you get for your walk. I’ve summited Kings Peak multiple times and know firsthand how three tiring days of backpacking are required to reach its craggy top. The trail to Wheeler, on the other hand, starts at about 10,000 feet and is only 8.6 miles round-trip. So for just 4-10 hours of work, depending on your speed, you can witness the world from a soaring perspective. That’s a pretty dang good deal if you ask me. It took us 6 hours, truly a bargain. Don’t let the reasonable distance convince you that conquering Wheeler is easy though for that’s certainly not the case. Gaining 3,000 feet in 4.3 miles, with most of that increase in the last 2, means ascending some extremely steep hillsides. Add terrain exclusively composed of rocks and boulders and toss in some thin air and you’ve got a recipe for exhaustion. We made it to the summit after 2 hours and 45 minutes of grueling climbing and we felt pretty good about that.

The peak was sunny and beautiful when we reached it but, far off in the distance, we could see some potential storm clouds brewing so we didn’t dillydally there at the top. After a quick half-hour break for pictures and lunch, we started scurrying down those same tricky stones that we had just climbed. Only about an hour into our descent, the clouds became much more threatening as they congregated directly over our heads. Since we were still above the timberline and the highest things sticking out of the ground for miles, we were eager to reach the cover of the pines before things got any worse. That eagerness manifested itself in the closest approximation of a run that the rough terrain would allow. Our haste, it turns out, was not unwarranted. Just minutes after our earnest dash began, a blinding light about 100 yards to our left, followed immediately by a crash so loud it made our ears ring, confirmed that hurrying was an excellent idea. That bang was many, many decibels beyond any rumble either of us had ever heard before and way too close for comfort. This disturbance, of course, prompted further bolting on our part and we hurried down those rocky slopes in a panic. We rushed past the point where a few hardy trees were growing sporadically to the place where the forest became denser without incident but then all hail broke loose.

Right as we reached a concentration of trees thick enough for the term “wooded” to apply, rain started to fall by the bucketful so Jason and I stopped in a clump of pines to put on the emergency ponchos that I had had the foresight to bring. In front of us lay a stretching meadow that would take 10-20 minutes to traverse before the trail fell under timbered foliage again. We were standing at the edge of this pasture, reluctant to give up our newfound protection, when lightning and thunder suddenly began shaking the ground all around us. The heavens, apparently, had abruptly and arbitrarily declared a dazzling war on the mountainside we occupied.

Jason and I didn’t go out into that open terrain once the blasting began, thank goodness. Instead, we cowered under the trees as enough hail to cover the world in a lumpy blanket pelted us and rain soaked us in frosty rivulets that dripped down our ponchos. And, all the while, the firestorm continued to terrify. I don’t know how to explain the dread of being bombarded by bursting flashes of electrifying light and earsplitting thunder claps. I don’t know how to convey just how loud it was because nothing else I’ve ever witnessed compares. I’d never been in the middle of a thunderstorm like this before and, now that I have, I certainly hope that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

We seemed to be at the storm’s epicenter, a focal point that was not only horrifying but freezing. Temperatures plummeted 20 or 30 degrees in the middle of the ruckus so, as we crouched beneath those sheltering pines like frightened wet dogs, we were chilled to the bone. Neither of us thought to look at the time during the crash-boom-bang but I’d guess that we sat there for about half an hour, long enough for violent shivering to set in and complete saturation to occur. We had made a wise choice in staying put though as we saw several strings of lightning light up the meadow we would have been sprinting through. Eventually, the commotion let up enough that we dared to pick up our sopping bodies and make a run for it.

We darted across that meadow as fast as we could, through ankle-deep puddles and icy mud. While the refuge of an occasional tree tempted Jason, I didn’t let temporary sanctuary get between me and my end goal: getting back to the car without becoming a lightning rod. Although the skies continued to grumble, we made it to our vehicle an hour or so later without any more near misses.

We stopped at the park’s visitor center café on our way home to get a hot beverage to help thaw us out. The exchange between Jason and the café cashier pretty much sums up this whole experience. He told her that he really needed some tea for his wife because she’d almost been struck by lightning. To this the clerk just nodded sympathetically and said, “Yeah, we get that a lot.”