I'm back from the city, Beantown, I am. Five days of urban living complete with traffic, trains and tall buildings. And all the accompanying noise and confusion. A mass of humanity moving to and fro 24/7.

It's exhilarating and energizing. But I can only take so much. So after business was complete yesterday afternoon I was happy to bid adieu to fair Boston and head north.

To unpack the suits and ties, shiny shoes and briefcase. Only to repack again tonight. This time with fleece and sleeping bag, boots and tent. And books, precious books.

And notebook. To record what I see and feel as I walk the trails of beautiful Nahmakanta. Past lakes and ponds, over streams, up the hills, beneath the shade of the spruce and fir.

To think. Quietly. About what was, record what is, and dream of what may be.

With half of Travels with Charley remaining, Steinbeck will be traveling with me. I am consuming it as though it were a drug and I an addict. The urge, the itch to go is back (as if it ever left?) and Steinbeck's words help only to load up the trunk of my car.

Encamped at some peaceful tentsite, I'll next take up with William Least Heat Moon and begin down Blue Highways. Moon will no doubt fill my tank with gas. And by it's final pages I could be road bound. Such is the influence on my unquenchable desire to travel. To see. To do.

I peeked through Blue Highways already and on the last page found this:

Lines from a Navajo Wind Chant
Then he was told:
Remember what you have seen,
because everything forgotten
returns to the circling winds.

Yes, see, really see. And remember. Life is short and uncertain and precious. Live conciously so as to live well, fully, richly.

These thoughts and more will be with me on the trail on this long weekend in the restful and renewing wilderness.

It was cool enough for a fleece vest on my morning walk today. Doesn't bother me a bit though. I like the brisk air. It's refreshing, invigorating.

And it signals change.

Summer is fleeting. Yeah, there'll be some more warm days, but you know when Clayton Lake up north starts making the news as the coldest spot in the US in late August (31 degrees this AM) that autumn is on its way.

Another sure sign, and a favorite of mine, is the appearance of the orange fruit on the American Mountain Ash trees around town. Sorbus americana if you're a tree nut like me.

A colorful mountain ash on Stevens Avenue in Portland this AM, a sure sign of autumn.

For years the mountain ash has been the tip off, the "back to school" sign. Time to wrap up summer's fun and get on to other things.

Like the best hiking of the year.

Those fleeting six weeks or so when our forests slowly change color; the tinges of yellow, red and orange taking over as the chlorophyll recedes back through the stems of the leaves.

Suddenly it seems we are bathed in brilliant color at every turn. For a precious couple of weeks. Then the winds will blow and the rains will come. And the show will be over.

But not the hiking.

For I've come to extend my season well into November, taking advantage of the uncrowded trails, shelters and campsites. The late colors. And finally, when the trees are bare, the far off views that are revealed once again, unseen since early spring.

Yes, change is in the air.

Breath it in. Deeply. Revel in it.

Then pack a few extra layers into your daypack. Maybe a Thermos of hot cocoa. And go.

My day job takes me to Boston for most of next week. A little city action. All good.

But then it's home to Maine and off to the other end of the spectrum: a few days of backpacking in the Nahmakanta Lake region. Maybe a climb of Katahdin. But outdoors and away from it all. All the way.

So, my dear Trail Head friends, fall is almost here. What are your big outdoor plans? For the long Labor Day weekend? For our most precious September? October?

Up where I was it rained some, blew some, but was mostly nice and sunny.

A fine weekend overall.

Some golf, some kayaking, a scenic boat ride, some sitting around the campfire, some bald eagle watching.

And all the fun and food and yucking it up that a person could possibly want.

Yep, nothing like 20 or so old college friends getting together for our umpteenth summer reunion (long story, but we we call it "Big Deck") at my friend Kathy's camp on beautiful Branch Lake in Ellsworth.

It never fails to be an outstanding, if a bit exhausting, weekend in the great outdoors.

Hope yours was fun, too. What did you do?

Despite the fact that I didn't get in a single boot print of hiking over the weekend, I am still strangely compelled to post this photo...

Maybe it's the fond memories of my trek across Wales a year ago (the photo was taken high in the hills above Llangollen). Could be the big grin that only a big hike can bring out.

Or it could be that baseball hat...

Hard to say. Hmmm.

Anyway, wow, what a weekend, eh?

Looking for a good hike this weekend? One with pleasant trails, lots o' views, an open ledge for lunch, and not too far in trail or road miles?

I've got just the thing: The Green Hills Preserve.

Huh?

Yeah, just across our western frontier in New Hampshire. And just minutes from the traffic snarls and shopping madness of North Conway.

That's right. You'd never believe that 5,000 acres of wildlands could be so close to the bustle of the infamous tourist Mecca.

But it is. And you'll love it!

You can avoid the worst of the hubbub in getting there: Take the North-South Road off Route 302 just before town. Look for Artist Falls Road and go right underneath the railroad tracks. Then right again on Thompson Road to the trailhead. Voila! You 'dere!

On with the pack and off you go, around the gate, and up the wide dirt track to the information kiosk a couple minutes up the way.

Pick up a trail map and continue on... Peaked Mountain and Middle Mountain are your goals. Do 'em clockwise for a nice 6-mile loop hike.

It's easy walking for awhile under a thick hardwood canopy. Then left uphill after a junction before slabbing across the mountainside. The last pull takes you through a semi-open forest of red and white pines across stretches of rock slabs.

It's great walking!

Top out on Peaked Mountain and settle in under the lone red pine there for lunch and a nap. And a heckuva a view of North Conway below and the shapely pyramid of Middle Mountain, your next objective.

Backtrack a bit, then turn east for Middle. Climb gradually up along the backside of the mountain before opening up on a slab, take on one final rise and call it good. Step down a few paces to a ledge and fine views of the valley and mountains beyond.

Retrace your steps to the last junction and streak downhill beside a bubbly stream, following it most of the way back.

With any luck you've wiled away a good 3-4 hours doing not much but putting one foot in front of the other, letting the mind wander freely, chowing down on a tasty lunch and enjoying a cold beverage, snoozing in the shade and maybe taking in a few pages of your latest adventure book.

All good. That's what a good day hike is all about. And Peaked and Middle are two of the best I've been up in awhile.

Try 'em. You be liking 'em, I'm sure.

For bonus time, stop at Weston's Beach at the bridge over the Saco River in Fryeburg for a swim. Can't be beat I tells ya.

Many thanks to Mainer and hiking fanatic Jeff Romano for tipping me off to this wonderful hike. You can find a description of it, and 59 other fabulous hikes, in his new book: Best Loop Hikes: New Hampshire's White Mountains to the Maine Coast.

Pick up a copy and get on out there. The best hiking of the year is on it's way!

Map of the Green Hills Preserve near North Conway NH.

Trail sign en route.

Under a thick canopy of hardwoods on the lower reaches of the trail.

Scenic window to Mount Washington from side of Peaked Mountain.

Hiking through park-like pines high on Peaked Mountain.

Middle Mountain from top of Peaked Mountain.

Enjoying my cooler lunch on the peak.

The Green Hills Preserve is managed by the Nature Conservancy.

A TNC trail marker.

Hiking the narrow path between the pines.

Busy North Conway from Middle Mountain.

There's nothing like a post-hike dip in the Saco River in Fryeburg.

Some stories are just impossible to pass up.

So it was with the "hybrid mutant of something" which caught my news eye this morning.

"It was evil, evil looking. And it had a horrible stench I will never forget," said Michelle O´Donnell of Turner, describing the horrible creature she'd seen in her yard a week ago.

The mysterious beast was found dead last weekend, apparently hit by a passing car.

And now folks in the Turner area are wondering whether this thing is the same thing that's been wandering around the local woods mauling dogs and cats and scaring the bejeezus out of people for more than a decade.

It's a tale that has grown to legendary proportions. But alas, this one may now be over.

For friends, I'm sorry to say, I believe I know the answer to this mystery.

The bushy tail, short snout, short ears and curled fangs hanging over its lips are an almost certain giveaway.

Seems to me that your shadowy creature of horror may be none other than...

The Beer Troll.

Yes, I fear.

The Beer Troll has met its demise.

Likely hit by that unsuspecting car on Route 4 after pilfering a six-pack of beer and a can of beans (hence the terrible odor) from a convenience store along the highway.

Nasty teeth and wild eyes displayed to a horrified counter clerk, it must have run off into the night. And was fatally nicked while wobbling unsteadily back to its lair to consume its ill-gotten brew.

Looks like the Beer Troll will terrorize beer stores and patrons no more. And the woods of Androscoggin County will be safe once again!

Trains.

Who doesn't have a soft spot in their heart for them?

How many books have we read about hobos riding the rails across the US, free as the wind?

Trains stir up the nostalgia in all of us, signaling adventure to places distant and unknown.

It was such excitement that my Mom (she's up visiting from the summer blast furnace they call Texas) and me jumped aboard the Maine Eastern Railroad in Brunswick last Saturday bound for Rockland.

We settled into some plush seats up front and started to relax. Until we were told that this was first class and were promptly ushered to the rear of the train.

Ooops.

No matter.

The coach car was comfy, too. And just one car down from the bar car. Bonus!

And so we clicked and clacked our way up the rails, watching out the window like a couple of kids as the countryside rolled by.

Soon enough a real live conductor came by announcing, "Tickets, please. Tickets."

Cool.

Somewhere around Wiscasset a young man pulled out his guitar and harmonica and strolled through the cars playing music for tips. Nice.

The Rockland station came all too soon. We piled out onto the platform and into the beautifully refurbished station. Then into the streets of Rockland in search of, what else, lobster!

We found our prey at the Rockland Cafe and gorged ourselves on succulent hard shells, hand-cut fries, cole slaw and sweet tea. Mmmm.

Then we wiled away the afternoon poking about the waterfront and nosing through the downtown shops.

Weary travelers, we were happy to board the 4:30 train for home. We alternately dozed and stared out the big window as the train rumbled down the tracks and transported us back through time.

What a wonderful experience! A trip that will only get better as the beautiful late summer and fall weather arrives...

My Mom waxes nostalgic for the old trains.

First class is nice, eh? Too bad we got kicked out!

Coach class was comfy.

Real conductors!

Our on-board enterainment.

The view from the caboose.

Pulling into the station in Rockland.

It's easy to enjoy a day in downtown Rockland.

You can't visit Rockland without gettin' a lobstah hat!

Mom ready to ride the rails home.

Are you an old train buff? Have you ever ridden on the Maine Eastern Railroad?

Many thanks to Trail Header Mike, ever in search of liquid refreshment, for passing along information about an emerging adventure destination: The Czech Republic and its pivo trails.

Pivo trail?

Lemme 'splain.

You see, "pivo" is Czech for beer.

Ah, now I get it, you say.

Beer trails, much like our own wine trails here in the US (Napa Valley in California for one) are becoming a popular thing in the Czech Republic, expecially in the heavily beer-laden regions of Bohemia and Moravia.

And why not?

Not only is the Czech Republic and its mountainous countryside, with its extensive trail and high hut system, a scenic and friendly place to visit in its own right, it boasts 450 beers made by 100 breweries.

Bonus!

And the Czechs claim their country to be the beer-drinking capital of the world, consuming an average of 320 pints per year per person.

My people!

Bohemia in particular, is said to be "the fountainhead of most beer in the world."

My goodness!

The origin. The source. My holy grail!

Not surprisingly, I am already dialing up my dear travel agent in search of air fares to what may well be my next big adventure abroad, the "ultimate beer run" if you will.

Trekking pack is out. Gear list in hand. "Hello, AAA?"

You in???

Now that I think of it, why not a "beer trail" here in Maine? Hmmm... Gotta go. I've got serious work to do!

Portland, Maine. Great Adventure City.

But you and me, we knew that already.

It's nice, though, for our fair city to be recognized nationally on occasion.

And so it was in the September issue of National Geographic Adventure magazine. (Which, by the way, if you're not a subscriber, you should be. You'll never want to work again, I swear!).

Portland is listed among some pretty heady company, including Las Vegas, Portland OR, Spokane and Washington DC. Not bad for a little city, eh?

Unfortunately, from there you can tell the blurb is written by someone from away. "The Scene," as it is described, says we Portland adventurers like to escape to Popham Beach, paddle the coves of Casco Bay and bike Bradbury Mountain.

Well, I kinda think we Portlanders are more likely to hit the beaches of Willard, Crescent or Scarborough before driving north to Popham. And we paddle the islands of Casco Bay and hike Bradbury Mountain (the mountain biking trails are in the woods across Route 9), but maybe I'm splitting hairs.

At least they didn't insert an "ayuh", picture anybody in red and black plaid, or insist that we dine on lobsters every day.

Regardless, thanks for the mention NGA. We'll take it.

But next time you come visit, get hold of one of us locals and we'll show you around some good, we will.

Ayuh.

Paddle in hand I make the occasional soft stroke to keep the bow headed downstream.

Rocks pass quickly by underneath the boat, a reminder of just how fast the current is.

The sun is bright and warm on the skin. The sky a perfect cloudless blue. The air is thick with the smell of the river.

My crew, friends new and old, lounge in front of me on the tubes of the raft. Looking. Seeing. No doubt enjoying.

Trees line the river's edge and rise to the top of the steep gorge. The river ripples and winds, turn after turn. A gentle wind begins to blow upstream.

This is the Kennebec River.

An hour ago we were tossing and turning through roiling waves, spashing down through Big Mama backwards (on purpose). Riding the roller coaster of Whitewasher and Big Kahuna. Plunging dead on over the hump of Magic for that famous hit. Whooping it up so much that I forgot about Bonecrusher below, which inflicted on us one last good wallop.

And now we float along. Tired, happy, sunning, snoozing, chatting, telling dirty jokes, dreaming up future adventures, quietly contemplating life, sipping a can of beer.

But mostly we're just "on the river." Allowing the river to work its magic, it's transformative powers.

We are there now. In it. On it.

One raft trip down it or a hundred. It doesn't matter. Not to this guide.

If there is a more peaceful, relaxing place on Earth, I don't know it.

Pre-trip camp out at Webb's Campground, West Forks.

Sunset over the Dead River, West Forks, just above its confluence with the Kennebec River.

Tubers ready their unlikely craft for a trip down the Kennebec Gorge.

A butterfly hitchhikes down river on my hat.

Floating down the beautiful lower Kennebec.

Nasty river guide-type. Hey, is that a can of beer in your PFD pocket?

Lazy afternoon on the lower K.

Gear spread out in camp after a trip down the Kennebec River a week ago.

Gravel pits.

The quintessential Maine campsite.

On any given weekend from spring through fall you'll find pick-up trucks, campers and cars tucked into gravel pits; chairs set out, fires blazing, drinks in hand.

It's what we do. A part of our heritage. And it saves us money on them fancy type campgrounds.

Besides, you can create more of a ruckus in a remote gravel pit than somewhere more civilized. And don't we enjoy that!

Anyway, a gravel pit was just where me and my trail buddy D-man found ourselves one evening late last week. Right up near the Appalachian Trail, where we maintain contiguous sections of the hallowed footpath.

A gravel pit camp somewhere up north.

Evening campfire.

And after a fun night of gravel-pitting, we did just that: got out the chainsaw and clippers and fire rake and headed off to clear some 5 miles of the AT. Our summer check-in to see that all is well out there.

We took to my section first, removing 24 blowdowns as we went. The humidity was rough and we sweated our way out to the beautiful sand beach at East Carry Pond.

Dana (right) and AT thru-hiker "Just Gene", a Lewiston native.

The sandy beach at Easy Carry Pond on "my" section of trail.

There we jettisoned the gear and went for a cooling swim before finishing up and doubling back to the truck to have a beer and refill on gas and oil.

Southbound now, the bridges across Arnold Bog were still askew from the heavy rains this year. But we managed to shore them up well enough so it wasn't so much of a funhouse-style experience, with shaky planks ready to dump hikers and their heavy packs into the swamp.

We continued on, me sawing away with my trusty Husky and D-man going hard cleaning out those those water bars.

It was all good honest fun until I got my saw pinched in a downed beech tree and the afternoon rains let loose.

It took some chopping with a hand ax and some grunting and groaning, but we finally got my saw free.

Time to call it a day. And we did (after getting my saw unstuck, of course).

Dana headed home while I headed up to the river. The Kennebec River, that is. For a weekend of whitewater rafting and general river debauchery in The Forks.

More on that to come...

It's Friday, what can I say?!

I have weekend on the brain. Or maybe a weak brain.

In any case the silly gene is dominant this morning.

Given that, a bit of goofing around on the net produced yet another cool, new outdoor gear item: the Carbonated Backpack.

Yes, you too can now carry enough of the 'nectar of the gods' into the woods for an entire weekend of delicious and refreshing camping pleasure!

Let the others in your group carry your gear while you tote in the important stuff: the beer!

Trail-ho!

Your plans for the weekend my dear Trail Head friends?

There was big talking going on last night at Sugarloaf about the proposed wind turbine project to be located just a few miles to the west on the crest of the Redington Mountains.

The folks at LURC, who will ultimately give the thumbs up or down to the project, apparently got quite an earful from both sides.

The issue has caused many of us who care deeply about Maine's environment while recognizing our need for cleaner domestic energy to do some heavy thinking and soul searching.

At what price do we give the nod to wind towers on mountaintops in sight of the Appalachian Trail?

At what point do we seriously say "enough" to OPEC and steer a new path toward renewable energy sources?

At the very least, the matter is forcing us to confront reality. Our choices are here. Now. Amid global energy instability in an increasingly uncertain world.

Scott Cowger is right. This will be a "watershed event" for us in Maine.

But I don't believe for a moment that its all or nothing. If it doesn't happen at Redington it's not the end for wind power in Maine.

Will there be wind power in Maine? Maybe. But where?Your backyard? Mine? Who's?

I no longer support this project.

But I do support wind power development in other areas of Maine. Along the coast. In blueberry barrens. On farms. In more developed areas.

There are other options besides our western mountains, where wind turbines would cause enormous and unacceptable visual pollution.

But then, there's going to be visual effects regardless of the location. And that will have to be debated.

Hopefully, we can and will agree on acceptable sites and make the bold move of developing wind energy here in Maine. Sooner rather than later.

But unfortunately, Redington isn't the place.

What are your thoughts?

A week or so ago, Trail Head reader Pancho empathized along with me as I described the atrocious heat and humidity while on the trail hiking in Baxter State Park.

It was brain-baking brutal that weekend, no doubt.

Sensing that my fried synapses needed some serious cooling off, Pancho kindly sent me a copy of his book Day Trips with a Splash: Northeastern Swimming Holes.

A fine humanitarian gesture, my friend. Indeed.

On this, the hottest day of the summer with temperatures everywhere in the northeastern US a wilting 90 degrees plus, the arrival of the book was also timely.

I'm sure ready for a good swim.

For us Mainers, Day Trips with a Splash: Northeastern Swimming Holes describes 18 cool swimming holes around the state, from Niagara Falls in Baxter to Coos Canyon in Byron to Rattlesnake Pool in Stoneham. Topo maps, lats and longs, and detailed directions are included for each, as well as excellent descriptions of what you're going to find at the falls or pool upon arrival.

Beyond Maine, the book lists great swimming holes from New Hampshire all the way south to Virginia, a varitable lifetime of swimming holes!

Pancho Doll (yep, that's his real name) has actually written a series of books on swimming holes, from California to the Southwest. A fourth book is due out on Southeastern swimming holes.

What fun! Searching out pools and falls and creeks, streams and lakes, and then writing about them. Damn, why didn't I think of that?!

Anyway, pick up a copy and head for swimming hole nearest you. With a few cold ones in tow, of course.

Enjoy! And thanks Pancho!

The Time & Temperature Building in Downtown Portland said it all at 3:00 this afternoon.

Jeez, even my toenails are sweating.

Hmmm.

Towel, sunscreen, swim trunks, cooler.

Check.

OK, I'm outta here...

Just behind my house there's a footpath leading into the dark hemlock groves of Baxter Woods. When I want a little bit of "woods time" to relax, clear my head, and get some exercise, it's an easy decision to just head out there.

Most times I'm gone a lot longer than planned. Winding through the pleasant forest and imagining myself in some far off place. That's the real beauty and benefit of urban green spaces.

Baxter's Woods connects to Evergreen Cemetery, just across Stevens Avenue. For an extended walk (and most are as I said) I will head that way, meandering through the mounded graves on the gravel paths, pausing now and then to read a particular headstone that has caught my eye.

Invariably I end up at the duck pond in a quiet corner of Evergreen. Seems that many other folks do the same. And why not? It's beautiful spot. But more so, we all have many friends there: The ducks and geese.

I can lay in the pondside grass for hours (and often have) watching our feathered friends swim and splash about, honk and squawk, shuffling from pond to shore and back, preening, feeding, socializing. It's pure and natural therapy for the human soul, it is.

Sadly, today's news tells of a city plan to demolish the shed that houses our duck and goose friends through the winter. And then to move them to another location where they can be cared for.

The pond will be a decidedly empty place without them.

Our fine feathered friends at Evergreen Cemetery in Portland may soon be gone.

A new shed will be constructed, but it doesn't include a lean-to addition where the birds can shelter themselves. I'm not sure why. Seems an easy and relatively inexpensive fix.

But dig a bit further and you find that the city can't afford to pony up the money--some $5,000 to $8,000 annually--to care for the birds. That seems a real shame. I know municipal funds are tight, but I suspect Portland wastes that much money on less important stuff on a regular basis.

So what to do?

Scream and yell at the city? Take up a collection among local residents? Find a private donor or two with a big heart and pocketbook?

Dunno.

You got any ideas?