Journals of a soggy Maine vacation -- part two

(Monday, June 26 — about 11am)

It's another soggy morning and we're sitting outside the laundromat in Freeport waiting for our clothes to finish drying. Unlike last year when we got rained out, this is a planned event for the sake of cleanliness rather than an impromptu response to a tent filled with water. The jumbo alien tarp has turned out to be an enormous boon: with rain at least part of every day we've been here, the ground is saturated. Standing water surrounds the tent, several inches deep in spots, but under the tarp it's mostly dry except for light moisture left over from the first day's storm. Inside the tent, there's none of the condensation that normally beads on the fabric overnight. Hooray.



Driving off the site was briefly heart stopping, especially when we came to a low marshy patch that our neighbors had churned up with their trailer the day before. Hannah had ventured to the washroom early in the morning and returned with a report of widespread flooding; she went back to sleep while I laid awake listening to the frogs and worrying about getting the Santa Fe stuck in the mud. The worry was well founded, but the traction control kicked in and we made our way out, but not without leaving more ruts in the ooze.

The park lady at the entrance booth was remarkably chipper for such a gray day, and when I asked about parking on the road rather than on our soupy site, said she was surprised that we had lasted this long in a tent. By all means, park where you want: they really appreciate our not tearing up the grass. Neighboring site 21 is now officially declared wet, and won't be given out until things dry out. I pointed out that on our other side, site 23 is just as wet and is accessible only through the marsh... so 23 has been given the status of wet, too. The park lady grinned as she observed that we now have our own quiet area. A haven of silver polyethelene dry in the midst of official wetness. The mists are starting to grow on me, and there are some pretty flowers near the shore.



The folks in site 21 pulled out yesterday in a flurry of grumpy ineptitude, prompting a fellow from another trailer to help. We listened to the commotion from our sleeping bags while the neighbor lady whined about how useless the trailer's manual was; her husband griped that the dealer had sent them out without knowing how to work it, though she reminded him that there had been a two-hour course when they took delivery. "But how are we supposed to remember all that?" The problem with being in a tent is that you can't laugh at things that deserve it, without people hearing. By now they are probably setting up at Old Orchard Beach, entertaining other campers and trying to figure out how to turn on the heat.

This laundromat is an anomaly for Freeport — a town in which nearly everything from L. L. Bean on down complies with a studied down-east look. Even the McDonald's across the street occupies a restored historic house, its drivethrough lacking the usual unintelligible intercom lest it spoil the ambience. The laundromat, on the other hand, is like laundromats everywhere with an air of mild disrepair and a bit too much fabric softener.



Time to stop writing: I think the clothes are dry.