Beth looks down at Japan and the Pacific Rim from the 3rd floor balcony. "We're seeing the world together," I told her.

The tourist adventure continued as we headed into Freeport, home of the L.L. Bean factory store. Open 24 hours a day, 365 days a week, this mega outdoors store had everything.

And after, oh, too long spent wandering the spacious floors of the L.L. Bean, Beth and I departed with an assortment of crap--including new winter jackets (in the middle of August).

Lobster rolls and Maine ice cream for lunch, then it was back on the road. We still had no idea where the day would take us, but we were anxious to get there. (Freeport is pretty, but too many outlet stores make Jack a dull boy.)

In case it wasn't painfully obvious already, we were in serious Red Sox country. "I DON'T BRAKE FOR YANKEES FANS" was the general sentiment. The Red Sox logo tattoo below right was just one of many spotted in the state.

Only one disc golf course popped up on the disc golf directory that seemed to be on our path. So we made sure to drive through Edgecomb for the Basket Case Links. As the sign said, "YA DON'T NEED BALLS TO PLAY."

I was taken aback by the cost of the course. Not that it was expensive--it was $4 per person per round--but just that there was a cost, period. Disc golf is a free sport in my mind, set up in parks by volunteers. But here in Maine, disc golf was an occupation. Courses were set up on private land, and courses cut through the back woods of families' property. There was a house at the start of the course. There were a few people milling about downstairs. They were watching Judy Judge.

$4 seemed nominal enough, so we whipped out our wallets and grabbed our discs.

The course itself was densely wooded--without reprieve. Trees after trees was the way it was, with no clearings in sight.

So it went. A couple of good shots, a couple of trees. The round wouldn't have been so bad had my putts not been repelled by the pin. I marked a C on my scorecard every time I hit off the chains. There were 12 Cs.

It was just nice to walk in the woods of Maine--the 10th state that I'd play disc golf in--after NY, NJ, PA, MD, NV, CA, OR, IL, and FL.

Back at the homestead after hole #18, Beth and I chatted with the proprietor of the course. She told us about their winter bowl (-10 degrees!), the two-person, three-legged tournament, and the etymology of the course motto. (Beth approved of the equality-of-the-sexes message it promoted.) She also explained that the course was expanding, and that there would be three full 18-hole courses in the area by the time they were done with construction (i.e. chopping down trees). In all, the hospitality was worth the $4 alone. And I bought a new disc as well.

With the disc golf bag back in the trunk, we hopped back on the 1, north toward wherever.
Every tiny town we passed through had its own admirable character, and I was only
sad not to spend a week in each. And as the sunlight wound to a close on this fine
vacation day, we found ourselves in the town of Rockland, Maine. A glorious
display of color fell over the "Lobster Capital of the World."

Despite the grandiose claim, the town did seem more preoccupied with
lobster than most. The numerous art galleries featured lobster paintings,
giant lobster sculptures, and even diamond jewelry--encased in an golden
lobster claw. On display on yet another lobster claw. --------------->

We had just missed the Maine Lobster Festival, a five-day lobster celebration.

Beth and I wandered through the art galleries and used bookstores, admiring
the left-leaning literature and sipping coffee in preparation for our late-dine drive
to Ellsworth. It was time to head to Acadia.