We lived in Southwestern Maine on a plain surrounded by foothills, just a short drive from the lakes regions. Quiet forests, bubbling creeks, and dips in the local lake were the stuff of our lives. We didn’t live by the ocean. We didn’t eat lobster. We didn’t see moose daily. We did, however, love our own magical corner of Maine.

The modest peaks of Southwestern Maine create part of that magic. Hike Kathadin or Cadillac with my blessing! I’d love doing that myself. But linger on these humbler mountains as well, ones that are so out of the way you’ll need a local’s convoluted directions to get there.

Here are five reasons why you should hike the mountains of Southwestern Maine.

1. The journey is half the fun

The mountains of my home region aren’t always easily accessible to tourists. They are often out of the way, taking a local’s knowledge to find. Some hikes lie off quiet streets lined with country homes. No clear signs mark the paths until you are almost on top of them. Others require driving down logging routes or all-but-deserted roads. Once you find the trail, you might need to hike another 20 minutes through the woods before you reach even  the foot of the mountain.

I treasure the memory of the time my father’s large extended family decided to go on a favorite hike from their childhoods. We bounced in on old logging roads that crossed several small streams. After years of disuse, the simple bridges were impassible. Not to be deterred, my family gathered scrap lumber lying near by and built makeshift bridges. Once the caravan would successfully cross a stream, we’d raid the newly made bridge for the material to build another at the next stream, leapfrogging our way forward.

2. Clean air

I never fully appreciated the air of Maine until I lived in a city with significant pollution problems. Maine, with its abundant natural resources, has little in the way of pollutants. The higher up the mountains you go, the cleaner it gets.

3. Surprises along the way

One of my favorite hikes requires a trek through the forest to reach the mountain. Before you start climbing in earnest, there’s a pristine lake nestled among the mountains. We often bring our bathing suits and enjoy a crisp swim both before and after scaling the mountain.

Maine mountains are full of charms. Grand mountain lakes tucked just around the bend and mama birds faking injury to lure you away from hidden chicks will keep you wide-eyed and breathless.

4. Wild beauty and breathtaking views

No words needed. Just enjoy.

5. Locals know best

When I travel, I’m hungry to taste how each new place would feel as home, not just as a vacation spot. The magic of a place isn’t as much in the tourist traps as it is in the daily life of the locals. What do they do for fun? What do they love?

When I was in my mid-teens, a visitor once asked me what we did for fun in such a remote country town. I was lost for words. With forests to explore, rivers to canoe, and mountains to hike, it had never occurred to me that anyone could think country life boring.

When you visit Maine, get beyond the tourist traps and find the magic that binds people to the place: quiet country walks, dips in brisk lakes, fresh air, brusque but friendly locals. Mainers aren’t genteel. They don’t go out of their way to be polite, but they’d be the first to offer a helping hand. And they’re always ready to share directions to their favorite bit of Maine.

Ask. Then listen. Maine has a lot to offer.

Words by Rachel Kaye. Photos by Ben. 

Photos are of Singepole Mountain, Streaked Mountain, Bald Mountain, and Speckled Mountain 

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Two nights ago, my grandmother on my dad’s side passed away. She was an extraordinary woman who lived an extraordinary life. 

I went home this summer for her birthday. Somehow, I knew her 90th would be her last. I’m glad I got to spend that last birthday with her but am sad I can’t make it home again for her funeral. Grammie loved to travel. She was one of our biggest supporters when Benjamin and I were planning our move overseas. I know she was proud of me, and that knowledge brings me no end of joy.

I will miss her, but I’m so happy to know her earthly journey and it’s pain are over, and she’s home with Jesus and Grampa. If I were to write her a last letter, though, this is what I would write. 

Dear Grammie,

I won’t be able to make it home for your funeral. I’m so sorry about that! I always thought I’d be there.

You’re going to have a big crowd, though! With ten kids, almost 50 grandkids, I-honestly-can’t-remember-how-many great-grandkids, and all the many other people you knew and loved, you’re liable to have people sitting in the parking lot for lack of space! You touched so many lives throughout your 90 years of living. I was always proud, growing up, when people asked me if I was Esther’s granddaughter. You lived a rich, full life and you added richness to the lives of many others.

You were a sweet woman but a sassy one, too. You were the godliest woman I knew but were also the person who, upon the occasion of my marriage, gave me the raciest gift at my Bridal Shower. I remember how your eyes danced as everyone gasped. I’ll never forget your recounting the adventures you went through in hunting down that gift.

I loved you for that sense of humor, for your willingness to push the limits and give people a little shock from time to time. I loved you for your sparkling eyes and big smile. I loved you for your gigantic heart. I don’t know how you fit so many people into that heart. It seemed you never stopped loving. Through joy and pain, your heart just kept getting bigger. As one of my cousins put it, “Everyone of us felt like your favorite because you had so much love.”

I’m sad I won’t make it to your funeral, but I hope and think you would understand the reason why. I remember you once told me how when you were young you made a list of all the things you wanted to do and the places you wanted to see. I think you accomplished a lot of the things on that list. But you said if you were to make another list all those years later it would be longer than your first list. You were an adventurer.

You and Grampa traveled before traveling was the cool millennial thing to do. You trekked across the US by bus with nothing but a tiny suitcase between you. You traveled to Germany and Israel and Mexico and I don’t know where else. Even after Grampa died, you didn’t stop traveling. You went to New Guinea to visit your missionary son. Cross country trips were regularly made for the sake of a wedding, family event, or just because. One of my favorite memories is ten years ago when we went to Jamaica together on a mission trip.  We travelled to schools and worked with children. You were 80 at the time, but I think you outworked the rest of us. I’m not sure you ever stopped smiling.

I remember how happy you were when you heard I was moving to Taiwan to teach children. I hope you were at least a little bit sad to see me go, but I think what made you saddest was that you couldn’t come and visit. I remember your wishing you were just five years younger and able to make the trip. When we talked after I moved, you were also so full of questions about the culture, the people, the children, the food, and basically anything you could think of. You shared stories about your own travels with me. I never told you this, but I was scared stiff about that move. It was you and your example that gave me the courage to go.

I think you knew when you went on this most recent trip that it would be your last one. You were 90. You could barely walk. But you were determined to have one last hurrah. You traveled from Maine to Pennsylvania to Idaho to California. There your earthly journey ended.

I will miss you, Grammie. I’m happy, though, that you’ve finally gone on the final trip anyone ever takes. I know you were ready for it. You were ready for the pain to end. You told us again and again that you weren’t afraid of going. I’m not sure you were ever afraid of anything.

You will always be my hero. Your memory will travel with me and give me courage for the rest of my life.

You were a traveler, Grammie. And now you’ve traveled home.

Much love until we meet again,

Rachel 

Words by Rachel Kaye. Photos by Ben.

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I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

“The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by W.B. Yeats

I remember my words, even if I can’t remember when I said them. Maybe it was before I left for college. More likely, it was a few years earlier when my family moved south for an 18-month hiatus in the sunny Carolinas.

I was talking to my dad. I think we were in the dining room in our old home, but I can’t say for sure. We were discussing how much I loved Maine and yet how willing I was to leave it and travel. “I want to leave Maine,” I told him, “so I can miss it.”

My dad laughed, but it wasn’t a mocking laugh. It was the surprised, delighted laugh he saves for when I say something he considers wise, a feeling he identifies with even if he hadn’t put it into words.

This summer, I spent five weeks at my parents’ home in Maine. After years of missing Maine, I’m now a traveler in the place where I belong. I go back with a dual perspective, that of someone who is owned by that place and that of someone who is discovering it afresh. I love this duality. It allows me to see home in a way that few others can. I delight in what delights the locals and tourists alike. I also sometimes hate this duality. I feel torn at times, uncertain of where we belong. Are we pilgrims or are we settlers?

For now the answer is that we are both. I love to wander but I always feel the call home “in the deep heart’s core,” as Yeats says. Always having home in my heart allows me to see new places as more than just a tourist. Each time I meet a new place, I try to understand what makes that place home to someone else.

The more I understand, the more each place feels a little bit more like my home. Maine always calls me, but I have a dozen homes in my heart now. Each one owns a little piece of me.

Sometimes we wander. And sometimes we wander home.

“Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be and to do.”

Frodo to Sam, The Return of the King

Words by Rachel Kaye. Photos by Ben.

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Kenting National Park is located on the Southern tip of Taiwan on Hengchun Peninsula. While the entire area is considered a national park, it’s not in the same style as an American national park. There are small townships, houses, and farms throughout it. The best-known place to stay is Kenting Town. However, unless you are looking for a spring break vibe, avoid it at all costs! Instead, consider driving about ten more minutes South and find a place in the next township.

I’m honestly not sure what the name of the this township is. We were hard pressed to find one. However, here’s a link to the Google coordinates of the 7-11 right in the middle of it. We stayed in a friend’s vacation house in the hills above the town, but there were plenty of quaint B&B’s lining the street.

Once you’ve found your accommodation, it’s time to start your vacation! We stayed in Kenting for just two days. Here are our top seven suggestions based on our own itinerary (this is not meant to authoritative or definitive!).

1) Enjoy the Early Morning View.

Wake up early and enjoy the view. If you are staying in town, walk down to the beach before the heat of the day. We weren’t able to walk down to the beach in the morning but enjoyed our view from our perch above the village. 

2) Find a local breakfast shop.

We found a small shop just down the road from 7-11. There’s nothing quite like a Taiwanese breakfast, so if you haven’t had one, make sure to enjoy it now. Our favorites? Nai cha/奶茶 (milk tea-pictured above), peigan dan bing/培根蛋餅 (a bacon and egg sandwich wrap-pictured above), and luo bo gao/蘿蔔糕 (turnip cakes).

3) Visit Eluanbi.

After breakfast. Rent a scooter or hail a taxi and head down to Eluanbi. The admission fee is just 60 NT (about $2 US). The park includes Eluanbi lighthouse and numerous walking trails. There’s a lot I could say about how beautiful the area is, but you’ll have to visit for yourself.

Admiring God’s creation! This is what you miss when you don’t walk.

4) Walk the Coast from Eluanbi to Longpan Park.

Ok. We are crazy. I never denied that. While scooter rentals are a dime a dozen in Eluanbi, we chose to trust our feet instead. While the road from the Kenting Town area to Eluanbi is busy and not too scenic, a walk along the Eastern side of the Hengchun Peninsula up to Longpan Park is definitely worth it! The views are breathtaking and best enjoyed at the speed of walking, not the speed of a scooter, even a slow-poke electric scooter. It’s about three miles from Eluanbi to Longpan.

5) Stop for some tea along the way.

There’s nothing quite like a Taiwan milk tea to refresh you after a long walk. We found a sweet little tea shop just about halfway between Eluanbi and Longpan. They also served some small lunch dishes. The shop doesn’t seem to be on Google Maps, but it was right next door to this seafood restaurant (which looked pretty interesting as well).

6) Thoroughly explore Longpan Park.

You might be tempted to give the coral reef cliffs and grasslands a quick look and then travel on. If you do this, you’re missing out. Look out for the paths that follow the cliffs. And while walking them, keep your eyes open! We saw mountain goats travelling at record paces and making their way down the steep sides toward the ocean.

7) Enjoy a beach or two.

There are plenty of beaches to enjoy in Kenting. We missed out on most of them but were quite content with our own little beach near the township where we stayed. However, if you are interested in some more famous spots, consider the beach in Kenting Town or the more secluded Bai Sha Beach a few miles outside Kenting. It’s where several scenes from Life of Pi were filmed.

You can go to Kenting for parties and wild nights, but if you miss out on the quiet scenes and breathtaking vistas, then you’ve missed out on it all.

A few things to consider:

• Getting there from Zuoying Station. There’s an easy shuttle bus from the HSR to Kenting. Just follow the signs for the Kenting Express at Zuoying. Make sure to buy a return ticket then as well. It’s open-ended and much cheaper. Round trip tickets cost 600 NT ($18 US). The drive will take a couple hours.
• Eating. Most of the restaurants in Kenting are pricey. Many have a wild and crazy spring break feel. Our little town had no restaurants open in the evening except a small, overpriced, French-themed bistro. Make sure to plan ahead for this. We ended up eating our lunch and supper at 7-11.

Words by Rachel Kaye. Images by Benjamin. 

The post If You Only Have the Weekend: 7 Things to do in Kenting National Park appeared first on Pilgrims Under the Oak.

Come and open up your folding chair next to me
My feet are buried in the sand and there’s a breeze
There’s a shadow you can’t see my eyes
And the sea is just a wetter version of the skies

“Folding Chair” – Regina Spektor 

The roof of the house slopes gently into a tall, metal, platform porch. I lay with my back against the cool surface. From my perch, I can see the town below and then a line of ocean followed by nothing but sky.

Google had told us our vacation house in Kenting National Park was just over a mile outside of town. What Google failed to mention was that the air would be so hot and heavy and the road so steep. Never have I more fully understood the concept of your legs turning to jello than during that walk.

But up on the deck, the air is cool. A breeze plays with the damp hair that was plastered to my forehead a moment ago. Several deer run through the clearing by our house. It reminds me of home almost but not quite. Even the deer here are foreign with their wide antlers, their broad chests, and their pale coats. The deer I know are delicately majestic. These look like warriors whose ancestors hailed from somewhere in Middle Earth.

Earlier that day, we had witnessed a herd of sneaky water buffalo outwit their keeper and walk across a busy street, stopping traffic. Later, on our trip into town for beach time and supper, we pass a tribe of goats meandering freely down a dirt road.

That night, we try sleeping on the deck. I lay on a cot and nestle into a far too small sleeping bag lined with an annoyingly synthetic fabric. We can see the stars above us, a sight I’ve missed in bustling Taipei. The wind rustles my hair, making it tickle my face until I push it all back into the hood of my sweatshirt.

At the house next door, roosters crow. I remember our vacation with coworkers to the Philippines this time last year. We stayed in a remote fishing village. Sometimes it seemed there were more roosters in that town than there were people. They crowed all night. Others on the trip complained. I barely noticed. It felt like home. Farm noise is one kind of noise pollution I’m happy to embrace.

The next few days are filled with walking—lots of walking. We average fifteen to twenty miles a day. But it’s fifteen to twenty miles away from city lights, constant traffic, and views obstructed by skyscrapers. Kenting has a lighthouse, electric scooters that couldn’t break a speed limit if they tried, and breathless ocean views wherever we look.

On our final day, we go down to the ocean for a last hour on the beach. The sand is hot. I have to run from the shade to the waves before blisters develop on my feet. I stand in the surf, pant legs rolled up, staring out at the sea.

In a few minutes, I will have to gather my things and run for cooler footing. We will catch a taxi, board a bus, and head into Kaohsiung, a quieter city than Taipei but still a city. In a few minutes, we will say goodbye to this reprieve from city life. For now, though, I don’t think about that. I just stand in the surf, looking out—past the couple taking pictures of each other, pass the tourists on jet skis, pass the buoys, past the speck of a sailboat far out to sea. I look past all that to that line where the ocean meets the sky.

Words by Rachel Kaye. Images by Ben. Click here for more photos of our trip to Kenting. 

Stay tuned for info on planning your own trip to Kenting National Park. 

The post Kenting National Park, Taiwan. Where the Ocean Meets the Sky. appeared first on Pilgrims Under the Oak.

Over Spring Break this year, we ventured to the southern end of the island. Our time in Kenting National Park proved a refreshing change from the harried life of Taipei. In our two days there we walked nearly forty miles. It was amazing! (sore feet, chafing, and sunburns aside) Enjoying the tip Taiwan at the speed of our feet allowed us to soak in the sights, scents, and sounds of roads less traveled. All photographs are unfiltered; it really is this gorgeous.

-bae

Words and Images by Ben

The post Photo Journal – Kenting, Taiwan: Wayfaring in the Sunny South appeared first on Pilgrims Under the Oak.

It happened again after a recent trip to the southern tip of Taiwan. When we got off the High Speed Rail at Taipei Main Station and headed toward the MRT (Taipei’s metro), we had two sensations. We both felt as though we had been gone for weeks or months instead of just for four days, and we both felt as though we were returning home. Taipei had become comfortable and familiar. Once again, that puzzle pieced clicked back into place.

If you had told me three years ago that I would shortly call Taipei home, a city of nearly three million people with close to four million in the surrounding metropolis of New Taipei City, I probably would have laughed. Up to that point, the only place where I’d had that feeling of belonging, of everything clicking into place, was Maine, a place as different from Taiwan as you can get. And yet here I am, somehow somewhat at home in this foreign land.

I don’t expect Taipei to ever feel as fully home as Maine does. I miss the quiet fields and coastline of my home state. I cringe at the constant noise pollution in Taipei. On top of that, we will always be outsiders (waiguoren) here, no matter how long we stay. Still, I marvel at my sense of belonging, even if it is only a partial belonging.

I can’t help but wonder what this all means for the future. I now have two homes in my heart. We don’t plan on staying in this one forever, nor do we intend on returning to the other one immediately. What then will it be like wandering the world so far away from the places I love? When we create a new life in a new country, will my heart ache for both Taipei and Maine? Or will Taipei fade from my mind as I learn to love a new home? Are homes like friends? Is there always room in your heart for another? Or are they more like a once-in-a-lifetime love?

Someday in the not too distant future I will have an answer to that question. Until that day, I will continue to love my adopted home while missing my first home. And there’s the rub, the drawback of travel that no amount of new experiences and Instagram-worthy images can do away with. Every time we travel, we leave something behind.

One of the things I miss the most about Maine, especially this time of year, is the dandelions—watching the snow melt, feeling the air warm, seeing the grass grow, and waiting for those humble little flowers to carpet my lawn. It’s hard to fathom that those flowers continue to bloom every year even when I’m not there. Maine and I continue to exist, to grow and change thousands of miles apart. While I’m gone, the dandelions continue to bloom.

I had a similar experience after returning from our trip south. The morning following our return, I walked out onto the balcony. There’s a lily plant out there (specifically an amaryllis, I think). When we left, the buds were closed. When we came back the flowers were already in full bloom. I had missed the opportunity to see them come to life.

There’s no escaping this exchange, the loss of one thing for the gaining of another. It’s part and parcel of travel. You learn, you grow, and you have new experiences. You begin to call a new place home and are the better for it. In the process, though, you give up something else. While you were gone, the lilies bloomed.

Words by Rachel Kaye. Images by Ben.

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