I first visited Stonington, Maine, in the summer of 2003 to write a story for Yankee about the community’s proudly held identity as a fishing town. Even then, Stonington was an anomaly. While other main streets and harbors along the Maine coast had become the shiny domain of tourist shops and pleasure boats, here, on the rocky outermost tip of remote Deer Isle, lived just over 1,000 people whose lives were still largely built around what they hauled from the sea.

The challenges Stonington faced back then—tighter regulations, increasing costs, wild swings in the price of lobster—still confront the town more than two decades later. But now it’s increasingly feeling the threat of climate change, too. Early last year, two powerful storms slammed into the island, cutting off Stonington from the mainland, devastating businesses, and swamping the public pier. The Gulf of Maine’s warming waters, meanwhile, are putting the very survival of the state’s signature lobster industry at risk. Even for a community long accustomed to dealing with headwinds, these latest developments beg the question: What will it take for New England’s largest lobster port to endure?

Last June, I returned to Stonington to find out.   

* * * * *

Robbie Eaton is ready to get on the water.

It’s pushing 5:30 on a Thursday morning in early June, and for the past half hour the 24-year-old has been prepping his boat, the Legacy, a mint-green 35-footer docked at the Stonington Fish Pier. It’s not quite summer but it’s starting to feel like it, warming up even at this hour, and the surrounding harbor is quiet, a testament to just how early the workday starts around here. In Maine’s largest lobster port, many of its 350 boats motored off nearly two hours ago.

If Eaton were intent on chasing some of the season’s very earliest shedders, he would have joined them; however, his focus these past few weeks has been the state’s short halibut season. He’s licensed to catch 25 fish for the month, and with half of them already landed he’s determined to finish strong. The $12 a pound he’s fetching is decent, but the real value of the work is that it’s something different. When you lobster most of the year, it’s nice to break up the routine.

“I ain’t even got any of my traps set,” confesses Eaton, and takes a final swig from his can of Full Throttle energy drink. “I’ll start doing that next week.”

Eaton is a big guy who moves with the unrushed pace of someone who has spent most of his life working the ocean. Eatons have plied Stonington’s waters for generations, and in this tight-knit community of familiar names, theirs is one of the most well-known.

As Eaton prepares to launch his workday, his father, Mike, sits behind the wheel of his idling truck parked nearby, chatting with Casey Soper, a local bait dealer.

“I’ve not stopped this week,” Soper says. “Spruce Head three times. Rockland three more times. Boothbay. All over. I’m running bait everywhere.”

“At a high price,” says Mike, with a laugh.

“Goddamn right!”

Mike turns his attention to his son. “Hey, Robbie! Grab another fish box in the back of Casey’s truck.”

Eaton lifts out a final batch of bait and climbs down to his boat. Soon, he’s cruising the still waters of Stonington Harbor under a streak of sun that has finally broken the clouds. The two older men take in the moment.

“I’m staying put today,” Mike says, as his eight-week-old black Lab climbs over his lap. “I’m just going to play with her. I’m sort of semi-retired at this point.”

“More like just tired,” Soper cracks.

Even amid the men’s banter about this year’s incredible pogie run, and chopping it up over Mike’s father’s once-dominant lobster boat racing (“He had big horsepower and the balls to drive it,” Soper recalls), more serious topics can’t be avoided. A decade ago, Mike was regularly fishing six days a week, hauling 800 traps. Today, he’s reduced his schedule by a third and cut his trap load to 600.

“Honestly, I hate lobstering,” he says. “It’s become such a cutthroat business. The price of bait is high. Fuel is high. And the atmosphere around it has changed. People have gotten greedy.”

Soper jumps in. “How long have you been on your own?”

“Thirty-five years.”

“And how much has the price of lobster changed in those 35 years?” (Though the figure has, in fact, gone up and down over that time, Soper’s point is well taken: In 2023, the most recent year for Maine’s catch data, lobster averaged $4.95 a pound—a little over 30 cents more than what it fetched in 2005.)

“Everything else has gone through the roof,” Mike says. “We can’t set our own prices, because it’s considered price fixing. If you said, ‘I’m not selling my lobsters for that amount,’ the buyer would just say too bad and go on to the next boat. But then when the pandemic hit, it got to be $8 a pound. They showed their real hand.”

These are hard facts that complicate what Mike wants for his son, Robbie, and his older daughter, Sara. Both are committed to making their living on the water. But perhaps for the first time in the family’s long Stonington history, the older generation would prefer the younger one didn’t follow in its footsteps.

“It’s not like you get to really enjoy your time on the water,” Mike says. “You have to fish hard all summer and through the fall just to make it through the winter. When I look at the kind of future my kids may have, I’m not sure they have one.” He sighs. “But it’s all they want to do. There’s no sense in talking to them about doing something different.”

In one of the last working fishing ports left in the Northeast, the very identity of Stonington is being put to the test in both familiar ways and new ones. By a housing shortage and the increasing real estate prices it helps fuel. By wealthy second-home owners. By climate change. So, what becomes of a community when its core industry can no longer support the families that depend on it?

“I have nothing against a place like Boothbay, but when you go there it’s not even the same place that it used to be,” says Stonington’s longtime town manager, Kathleen Billings. “Same thing with southern Maine. Did [a tourist economy] really benefit Maine much? I just don’t think it did. When you start losing your natural-resource-based economies, you lose so many other things, whether that’s inland or on the ocean. I think Maine needs to take a really hard look at itself and decide if it still wants to be Maine or Vacationland.”

* * * * *

For much of its existence, Stonington’s remoteness has been more of a virtue than an impediment. This is not a town you just stumble across. Three hours north of Portland and 60 miles from I-95, Stonington sits on the southern half of Deer Isle, an island about two-thirds up the Maine coast and the gateway to Merchant’s Row, an expanse of water running five nautical miles long and one of the centerpieces of Maine’s $400-million-a-year lobster industry.

“Being nestled between Bar Harbor and Camden, we often get skipped over,” says Travis Fifield, a town selectperson and the fourth generation to run the family seafood dealer, Fifield Lobster Co. “You figure when it comes to a coastal town this pretty, you’re going to drive down a Main Street filled with gift shops and bright signs. But it’s really unexpectedly quiet and it feels manageable. At times, when you’re driving around, you’re on this remote stretch by the water and it can feel like you’re at the edge of the world.”

In recent years, though, that allure has reached a broader audience, and Stonington’s rising profile has affected who can now call it home. Median house prices, fueled by the weekly-rental market and second-home ownership, have shot up to over $400,000. The lack of affordable housing has gnawed at the community’s very ability to sustain itself: Contractors are starved for local plumbers, electricians, and carpenters. The local schools struggle to retain teachers. Meanwhile, the predawn hours bring a steady stream of commuting lobstermen from the mainland.

On a prime summer morning, often as early as 3 a.m., Richard Turner Jr. is a part of that commuter traffic. During my first visit to Stonington in 2003, I spent a full day on the water with Turner, then 36, and his father, with whom he’d worked since age 13. Turner spoke with awe of men like his father, hardworking captains who’d built successful lives and raised families doing the only thing they ever wanted to do. “All my heroes were fishermen,” he told me then. “Sometimes I wish I had done something else, but as a kid I couldn’t stay off the water.” He was skeptical, however, that the same life his father had forged would be accessible to him. “In 20 years, I don’t believe working people, normal people, will be able to afford to live here,” he said. 

He had no idea how right he’d be. He’s 56 now, and in the warmer months he lobsters with his cousin, Hilton, before hooking on with a scallop boat in the winter. For the past several years he and his girlfriend, Faye, have split their time between two locations: Stonington in winter, when rentals are less expensive, and a mobile home park in Orland, a good 50 miles from his hometown, in summer.

Orland is where I meet Turner on an early June afternoon. It’s been just a few days since he moved from Stonington, and he is still settling into his summer routine. We sit at a picnic table at the mobile home park, and as we talk, Turner, a gray baseball hat perched atop his head, picks away at a pack of Montego Reds.  

“I miss the salt, I miss seeing Isle au Haut,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty here. We can walk to a lake from where we are, but a lake doesn’t do much for me.” Turner raises his hands and holds them a foot apart. “I’m not interested in catching fish this big. I used to catch sharks as big as this table. You see these guys posting a pic of themselves on Instagram holding up a brook trout and I’m like, I’m proud of you, buddy, but to me that’s just not exciting.”

Health issues have slowed Turner down over the years, and he fears that he may only have another season or two in him. “I just can’t keep up with things the way I used to,” he says. “I’m getting slower. My reactions are slower. My eyesight isn’t what it was, so I miss things. You gotta be in your 20s to be doing what I’m doing. Every second counts—and if you step in the wrong spot with the rope, you’re in a mess.”

Turner has mixed feelings about what’s happened to his hometown. In part, he feels like a casualty of its success—that in missing out on the early years of a lobster boom that began to take off in 2009, he missed the opportunity to create his own nest egg. An influx of younger lobstermen and people “from away” means he also doesn’t recognize many of the faces in town.

But as Stonington has built and attracted fortunes, he also sees a town that looks prettier and more upscale than it used to. Main Street has a few new restaurants, the Opera House theater has been refurbished, and many of the homes don’t appear as tired as they once did.

“When I was a kid, a family would fight over who would get the house after someone died and it would sit empty for a bunch of years,” he says. “Now those houses are fixed up. I think it’s been pretty positive for the town.”

As someone who’s always called Stonington home but now can’t afford to live there, Turner is remarkably sanguine. He recalls a piece of fishing advice he received years ago from an old-timer.

“I had this place where I was catching a lot of scallops, and one day after I’d been off the water for a few days, I went back and didn’t catch a thing,” he says. Turns out, the few friends he’d told about the spot had gone and cleaned it out. “This guy just told me, ‘It’s eat or be eaten. Don’t take it personal.’ And it’s the same thing with this housing market. Hey, if I could have afforded [the houses in Stonington], I’d have bought them up, too. Maybe I’d have bought every last one of them. Who am I to complain?”

* * * * *

Latin pop music blares from a speaker as Tyler Cousins motors his boat, the Breezy Dawn, to the docks of Stonington’s largest seafood dealer, the Lobster Co-op. Waiting for him are three men from Puerto Rico who had traveled north for the $18.50-an-hour jobs that Maine twenty-somethings no longer want to fill. The trio includes a 32-year-old nurse named Luis, a new father who says the pay is better than anything he could earn back home at a hospital. “Maine is beautiful and I like the work,” he tells me. The men arrived in May, live in housing right on the dock, and will return home in December. 

Cousins bops his head to the music as he powers his boat down. It’s still early in the lobstering season, and the 36-year-old Stonington native is taking the day off after hauling in a few hundred pounds yesterday afternoon. Though his head is shaved, he sports a long beard, and he wears camo shorts, a red T-shirt, and a pair of sandals that do little to slow him as he moves briskly around the boat’s stern, offloading empty traps. At the same time, he’s coaching one of the dockworkers, John, who’s still learning how to use the motorized lift that transfers the traps onto a trailer.

Cousins watches one trap dangle in front of him. “You take my teeth out and I won’t be happy,” he tells John, and laughs.

Several minutes later, Cousins is back behind the wheel of his boat to make the slow, short motor through the harbor to fuel and bait up for tomorrow’s run. In a town where a lobster license is practically a birthright, Cousins learned his trade at the hands of his grandfather, Dick Bridges, who was running his first boat before the age of 10 and even now, at 80, still fishes every day.

Despite Cousins’s best efforts to leave lobstering behind, “I realized early on that living on land, getting a paycheck, dealing with people—that wasn’t for me,” he says. “I went to school for hydraulics and diesel mechanics and even moved out to San Diego at one point and worked at a marina: lived on a boat, had a great life, but I was bored. I came back.”

He slows as he approaches the bait dock. “I like the chaos of never knowing if the job is done. Everything is up in the air: the weather, the lobsters, the mechanics.”

Gliding to a stop, he looks up at the two men on the dock. Both are familiar faces. “You got anything special?” he barks.

They drop down six 40-pound bags of frozen redfish. “You sure you can lift those bags in front of your friend?” teases one of the workers. Cousins smiles, waves him off, then rumbles over to the fueling station. That’s $188 for the bait and another $667 in diesel.

“The expenses pile up fast,” says Cousins. “During the heat of the season, you can be up around a grand a day. But I haul alone, so the good days are really good. I can’t haul as much as I’d like, but I don’t have the headaches of teaching someone the system or the problems of just working with another person.”

He cocks a grin. “And to do the same job others do with two people, that makes me kind of a badass.”

Cousins is at an interesting point in his life. He’s not so old that he can’t just break off and start a new career. He’s watched friends leave lobstering for good and heard others talk about doing the same. But just as quickly as doubts begin to enter his mind, they go away.   

“I’m building a business,” he says. “And I’m getting better at it every year. There are lobsters out there. There are always lobsters out there. You just need to know where to look to find them.”

* * * * *

In mid-January of 2024, back-to-back nor’easters clobbered Stonington. High winds, heavy rain, and a rarely seen high tide wreaked havoc on the waterfront, pulling wharves from pilings, hurling debris out to sea and onto land, and flooding roads, businesses, and homes. Down at the town fish pier, assistant harbormaster Dana Webb watched as a four-foot wall of water rushed past his office building, flinging a boat onto the landing and relocating a pair of dumpsters. The pier’s main generator was swallowed whole by seawater.

Elsewhere in town, the waterfront’s electrical system was wiped out, while the Deer Isle Causeway was submerged by 18 inches of water, isolating islanders from the mainland. Private businesses also took a beating. At Fifield Lobster Co., a wharf that had been raised and rebuilt just two years earlier was overtaken by stormwater and had to be reset. Across Stonington it was much the same, with upgrades and rebuilds slated for the docks at both the Lobster Co-op and Isle au Haut Boat Services, all in the name of addressing what had happened and accounting for what could happen next. The uncertainties unleashed by climate change leave no other options. Unless, of course, Stonington ceases to be Stonington.

“People say, ‘Well, just retreat,’” Travis Fifield later told The New York Times. “We can’t retreat. We have to be here.”

Stonington town manager Kathleen Billings was at her home in North Deer Isle when the first and more powerful of the two storms rolled up early on the morning of January 10. “Everything got racked,” she says. “That surge came in and tore all the docks up. It was just devastating, but I also think it opened the eyes of a lot of people that these kinds of storms are real.”

Building resiliency is layered into every part of Billings’s job, and her office reflects the different projects that compete for her time. Desks and tables are stacked with blueprints, maps, and memos. There are grants to complete, project bids to pore over, and a schedule of meetings that at times can feel relentless. “It can be a lot,” says Billings, who has worked for Stonington since 1997 and been its town manager for the past 18 years.

Billings’s family were among Deer Isle’s original European settlers, and today their name is etched into various parts of its economy—notably Billings Diesel & Marine, one of the biggest full-service boatyards between Boston and Nova Scotia. But Billings’s perspective on her hometown isn’t colored by nostalgia. She speaks in meaty paragraphs about the toll that federal regulations have taken on the local fishing economy and the threats it also faces from climate change and cost of living.

Few Maine towns of this size have been as proactive around these issues as Stonington. Over the past year, Billings’s office has spearheaded town discussions about workforce housing, sea-level rise, land management, and aquaculture. A recently established town-administered resiliency fund uses donations from seasonal residents to purchase private waterfront and make it accessible to fishermen. Restrictions on short-term rentals earned voter approval in 2023, and even before last January’s storms, plans were drawn up to raise the fish pier.

With so much of Stonington’s income dependent on the sea, what’s at stake is not just a single industry, Billings says, but a community’s whole way of life. 

“We are a fishing town, and it’s important we maintain that—not just for the fishermen but for everyone else who benefits from it,” she says. “But we only have so much working waterfront, and with the sea-level rise and the storms, how many times do you think these guys can rebuild? Once that waterfront goes to hotels and restaurants, you’re never going to get it back. It’s gone forever.”

And what fills that void, says Billings, is not a one-for-one replacement. A viable Stonington, she argues, is not a tourist-heavy Stonington, whose harbor is stocked with pleasure boats and an economy that relies on a 12-week window to make most of its money.

“I’m all for diversity, but I don’t think a seasonal economy is the answer,” Billings says. “It’s really hard to have stable families, to have a school and other businesses that can subsist and spin off from that. I know some people don’t always see it that way. But if we are going to stay a strong community, we need to sink our teeth into year-round jobs that can help people.”

Whether those year-round jobs can reliably be built long-term off or around the lobster industry is another question. In 2021, Stonington pulled in a record-setting $76 million worth of lobster—nearly $21 million more than Maine’s next-largest port, Vinalhaven—undergirding the state’s record haul of just over $724 million. But those numbers are seen as an anomaly. A near-decade-long boom that began around 2009 has given way to a series of uneven years.

“We have seen a decrease, but I’m not sure you can say that’s a biological signal yet,” says Carla Guenther, chief scientist for the Maine Center for Coastal Fisheries in Stonington. “We’ve had a lot of demographic changes in the fishery and how the fishermen are participating [in studies]. But there’s definitely been a slowing of the catch. There was a time when you pretty much couldn’t avoid catching lobsters. You’d pull up a trap and it was full. But you talk to the experienced lobstermen and they’d say, ‘What goes up must come down.’ For others, the thought was, Let’s just ride this high.

“I wish we’d asked as a community if this boom was real,” she says, “because I think there may be a breaking point.”

* * * * *

Michael Joyce is hedging his bets against whether that breaking point might come. He’s 21 and, like Robbie Eaton, grew up here and hails from a long line of fishermen. But he hasn’t staked his future to the water. Instead, he completed an HVAC degree from Eastern Maine Community College, and over the past two years he’s been deep into a 4,000-hour apprenticeship to be an electrician. His mentor is Dana Webb, a veteran electrician as well as assistant harbormaster, and together they worked for much of last year to rebuild the fish pier’s electrical service. 

“I still want to fish, but slowly make it a hobby,” Joyce tells me as we sit in Webb’s office, a small building located at the head of the pier. “I want to keep it fun but still make the money. I look at guys I know, and I just see a lot of them just surviving, just making their payments. I don’t want to fall into that rabbit hole.”

For a time, Joyce thought he might have it in him to make fishing his life’s work. He started in the business at age 7 with his grandfather. A decade later, he had a 29-footer with an inboard engine large enough to haul 500 traps. “There’s a freedom to being on the water all day that is hard to beat,” he says.

Webb, 74, nods in agreement. He also grew up in Stonington, and while he worked 40 years as an electrician at the Bucksport paper mill, he always had a little boat with some traps to run on the side. “[Joyce] and I both talk about how nice it is,” he says. “Just to be out there, there ain’t nothin’ like it. But to do that job, you gotta have drive and you gotta love what you’re doing.”

“One hundred percent,” Joyce says.

Joyce lobstered most of 2021, when Maine shattered catch records. He talked to his parents about pursuing an offshore permit, but his family pushed back; his mom, in particular, lobbied him hard to create some options for himself. So, he enrolled in college and then watched as the lobster boom began to soften. In the time since, Joyce has straddled two versions of the future: one that is still “fully invested” in lobstering, and another that wants “protect” his years ahead.

“I really want to have [security] for my family and stuff, and I think [the electrician] trade is never going to go away,” he says.

Among Joyce’s buddies, “I have friends who are diehards,” he says. “They have the 40-foot boats and they’re all in. But I can tell they’re worried. I have [another] friend, he went to school for electrical engineering and he’s fishing, but he sees the same scenario [I do]. He’d like to start a business before long.”

Over the next several minutes, Joyce and Webb’s conversation becomes a highlight reel of the challenges that the fishing industry faces. But it’s still impossible for either man to shake his reverence for it. You can hear it in their voices. Joyce likes electrical work just fine—the order of it, the demand for precision, and, of course, the consistency of the paycheck—but something in him needs to be on the water. It’s who he is. It’s what he does. It’s where he truly prefers to be.

 “You’re your own boss,” he says. “You’re watching the sun rise, then you pull up these traps, and they’re full of lobsters. It’s really something special.”  

The post The Lobster Trap: Can Stonington, Maine, Survive the Tide of Change? appeared first on New England.

A few years ago, I hit the wall with winter. Actually, it was more like a full-on collision. I was hauling wood and clearing walkways for what seemed like the hundredth time that season. I wanted to throw my shovel into the woods. I was finished with feeling cold and moving snow. Even my son, Calvin, seemed done with it. He’d just shrug at the prospect of another chance to go sledding, as if to say, Are we really still doing this?

What to do? Escaping to Florida wasn’t an option—but as it turned out, there was a winter respite just a little south of our home in New Hampshire. And so began our pilgrimage to Magic Wings Butterfly Conservatory & Gardens in South Deerfield, Massachusetts.

On a late February day, stepping into an 80-degree environment can make all the difference. Heavy coats are shed. T-shirts emerge, along with arms that have rarely been bare in four months. You see flowers. You see turtles. And of course, you see thousands of butterflies. I felt as though I’d entered a time machine and been dropped right into an early summer day in New England. No more shovels. No more ice. No more winter.

We weren’t the only ones soaking all this in. Each year, more than 90,000 people visit Magic Wings, where curving paths lead visitors around and through an 8,000-square-foot glass conservatory. But where you stop and sit—a gazebo and a scattering of benches are among the options—is up to you. Maybe you’ll take a few minutes to gaze at the koi pond. Or perhaps it’s the orchids you’ll find most transfixing. Or maybe (and you wouldn’t be the first), you’ll just want to keep walking at a leisurely pace as butterflies dance and flutter around you.

Kathy Fiore understands the allure. In the late 1990s, her father, George Miller, a local contractor and military veteran, was hired for an unusual job: turning a tired restaurant space into a home for thousands of butterflies and tropical plants. Miller liked the challenge of the work but was even more intrigued by the business plan. When Magic Wings opened in 2000, he was a partner; a few years later, he owned it outright. After his passing in 2017, Fiore took over running Magic Wings alongside her brother, George Miller III.

“Winter is really the time when people find us,” says Fiore. “We have regulars who come here, take their coats and boots off, put on flip-flops, and a T-shirt, bring in a book and make an afternoon of it. I had one lady tell me she was paying $75 a week for therapy, then she decided to come here—and that became what she needed instead.

“If you think about it, the butterfly is this powerful symbol of change, a reminder that life is fleeting,” Fiore continues. “That really registers when you visit here, and I always find it remarkable how emotional some people are when they come here.”

In a region not exactly known for an abundance of butterfly conservatories, Magic Wings is one of the largest. More than 4,000 butterflies representing some 45 species make their home here; many of them you’d have to travel to places like Peru, Costa Rica, and the Philippines to see. The magic of this place, though, is that it’s not just about the butterflies: The conservatory is also base camp for all manner of life. There are over 100 varieties of tropical plants—plants that hang from high places, plants that droop, plants that flower, plants that burst with color. Red-footed tortoises from South America patrol the ponds, while teams of Chinese painted quail dart around the grounds. Look closely and you may spy a Vietnamese mossy frog or a stop-you-in-your-tracks Hercules beetle. 

At the center of the show is Akbar, a Senegal parrot who has resided at Magic Wings for nearly two decades. “He’s pretty convinced that this is a bird sanctuary with some butterflies in it,” quips Fiore, then adds, “But my staff is passionate about everything here, so what visitors find is a place where all our creatures live in harmony.” Magic Wings can feel like a place that shouldn’t exist. Not in New England. Not in the throes of deep winter. But it does—and on a late February day when it feels almost impossible that spring will ever arrive, Magic Wings serves up a hopeful forecast. magicwings.com 

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We could all use few more creature comforts in life, right? At these animal-centric destinations around New England, you can get an unforgettable up-close experience with wildlife (and tamer critters, too).

Mystic Aquarium | Mystic, CT

The 3½-hour “Trainer for a Day” program introduces you to Mystic Aquarium’s famous residents—from beluga whales to California sea lions—as you work side-by-side with the pros and learn what it takes to care for these special creatures.

Maine Wildlife Park | Gray, ME

More than 30 species of injured or orphaned wildlife that can’t be returned to their natural habitat make their home at this unique park. Which means you’re almost certain to get a rare close-up look at animals such as moose, red-tailed hawks, and black bears.

Vermont Icelandic Horse Farm | Fayston, VT

Easy to ride, the Icelandic horse is a breed known for its good nature and small stature. It was bred to carry riders over challenging terrain, and at this farm and inn, horse lovers can choose from rides of varying lengths, from hourlong jaunts to multiday excursions, that take them into the heart of the Mad River Valley.

Audubon Puffin Tours | New Harbor and Boothbay Harbor, ME

Get a new appreciation for Audubon’s success in rebuilding the puffin colony on Maine’s Eastern Egg Rock. Audubon naturalists provide narration on tours by two local operators, Hardy Boat Cruises and Cap’n Fish’s Cruises, that highlight the history of these adorable creatures and the work that it took to bring them back from near extinction. In addition to viewing the puffin colony,  you’ll take in other notable sights from the water, including lighthouses, seabirds, and possibly even a whale.

Wolf Hollow | Ipswich, MA

This unique sanctuary provides an intimate look at its resident gray wolves and how they interact with one another. Shutterbugs should take advantage of Wolf Hollow’s special “photographer’s session,” which lets you go between the two fences that separate the pack from the public in order to get that unobstructed, once-in-a-lifetime wildlife photo.

Monadnock Falconry | Temple, NH

Opened in 2022 by two master falconers, Martin Connolly and Henry Walters, this facility in New Hampshire’s beautiful Monadnock Region offers informative “hawk walks” as well as more in-depth falconry classes — all of which give you the chance to experience the thrill of having a magnificent bird of prey come to your gloved hand.

The post 6 Unforgettable New England Animal Encounters appeared first on New England.

Holiday spirit, in all its forms, burned bright. It was just after lunch on an early December day, and families were busy soaking up the sights and goodies in the gift shop at Santa’s Land USA, a 42-acre theme park in Putney, Vermont. The fireplace crackled, illuminated presents glowed, and a selection of Christmas tree ornaments spangled the walls. There were oversize multicolored lollipops to delight the eye, shelves of teddy bears to squeeze, and quite possibly more trimmed trees per square foot than anywhere else on the planet. 

As members of her family perused the shop, an overwhelmed grandmother plopped down in a lounger not far from the fire and opened a paperback. Nearby, a mother took a knee in front of her young daughter, who was attempting to negotiate the purchase of yet another stuffed animal. Did the girl truly need it for her collection? the mother asked gently. A couple of soon-to-be teenagers meandered and pointed, eyes wide with a kind of Christmas Eve wonder, as they strolled through a blue-lit tunnel of Christmas trees that led to—you guessed it—more trees. All this, before any of the visitors had even stepped out into the grounds, where a kid-sized train, whimsical animatronic figures, and holiday dioramas amid a grove of evergreens were primed to ratchet up the yuletide vibe even more.

Presiding over the scene was Santa’s Land owner David Haversat, who looked on with pride. He knows from deep personal experience the power of this place. When he was 8, Haversat had a vision of his future. It was summer, and his family had just arrived at Santa’s Land for their annual vacation visit from Connecticut. Catching sight of a teenager mowing the park’s lawn, he told his mom excitedly: “That’s what I want to do when I’m older!”

He wasn’t the first kid this place had inspired to dream. The brainchild of broadcast radio pioneer Jack Poppele, Santa’s Land opened in 1957 to the delight of families from across Vermont and beyond, who flocked here for an immersive Christmas experience that ran from summer through the holidays.

It may have seemed like an audacious idea—Christmas in July?—but it proved a successful one. Located just four miles from I-91, which would open in this part of the state in 1961, Santa’s Land flourished under Poppele and then his successors, the Brewer family, who owned the park from 1970 to 1998.

After that, however, changing owners and changing times took their toll on Santa’s Land, leading to its closing in 2014. Over the next three years, the decline accelerated: Walkways became overgrown, buildings vandalized. Locals feared the theme park might never reopen.

Enter Haversat. A magician and auction house co-owner by trade, he bought the property in 2017 and immediately got to work: fixing up the original 1950s structures, rebuilding the rides, adding a nine-hole miniature golf course, and even introducing an antique carousel from Coney Island. He reopened Santa’s Land in late 2017, the icon of his childhood restored. “I remember at one point mowing the very same lawn and thinking, I can’t believe this really happened,” he said.

In 2018, Haversat earned an award from the Preservation Trust of Vermont for his work in saving the park. “To many who have loved the place over the decades, the reopening was a thrill only matched by the delight of children seeing it for the first time,” said the trust in its presentation of the award to the park’s new owner.

While he was humbled by the honor, Haversat said, what means the most to him is hearing from visitors who are grateful to have Santa’s Land back in their lives. It’s not a fancy amusement park chock-full of high-thrill rides or Disney characters—but that’s kind of the charm of the place. From the scent of the nearby evergreens to the sound of the train rolling down the track, they find comfort in rediscovering something so familiar, he said.

“It’s a place from another time,” he said. “People who came here when they were kids will tell me it looks just like it did back then. And that means something. Because maybe their parents are gone now, but for a moment, they can go back to when they were all together. That’s pretty special.” santaslandusa.com

Santa Also Keeps a Home in New Hampshire

The story goes like this: One day in the early 1950s, Normand Dubois saw deer crossing the road and got to thinking about reindeer. He and his wife, Cecile, had been looking for a way to bring more attention to New Hampshire’s North Country region, where they lived, on the edge of the White Mountain National Forest. Normand’s thoughts of reindeer led him to thoughts of Santa, which prompted the couple to launch a Christmas-themed park in Jefferson called Santa’s Village. More than seven decades later, their family still keeps the holiday light on in the North Country, with 20 jolly amusement rides, yuletide decor, and of course, reindeer. santasvillage.com

The post Rediscover Retro Christmas Charm at Santa’s Land USA in Putney, Vermont appeared first on New England.

Tom Furrier wants to apologize for “the mess.” It’s a Friday morning in May, and Furrier is trying to explain the setup of his shop, Cambridge Typewriter, a tight, shotgun-style space in Arlington, Massachusetts. Metal shelves, tables, and even the floor are lined with typewriters of different vintages—some 300 in all. A narrow path between the stacks of machines leads to Furrier’s desk, which backs up to a cabinet of obscure parts and is itself a home to a rare Chinese typewriter holding 2,500 different characters.

A tall man with a thatch of brown hair that hangs over the tops of his ears and wearing a pair of square, dark-rimmed glasses, Furrier takes a seat at his desk and surveys the scene. “It’s not always like this, but”—he shakes his head—“we’ve been busy, and trying to keep up with everything has been a challenge.”

But today will be a quiet one—few calls, even fewer drop-ins—which will allow Furrier to anchor himself in the back workroom, where he hopes to finish reconditioning a 1950s Corona Zephyr. It’s a cramped space that Furrier has put to creative use. A back shelf overflows with boxes of rollers and other typewriter parts, including the carcasses of a few junked machines. In the adjoining bathroom, a stack of IBM Selectrics resides next to the toilet.

To call Cambridge Typewriter just a shop misses the point. In a metropolitan area that was once filled with businesses devoted to typewriter sales and repair, Furrier’s is the lone survivor, and one of the few of its kind left in the Northeast. After first coming to Cambridge Typewriter in 1980, when it still resided in Cambridge, Furrier took over as owner a decade later. And in one sense, he is a fix-it and sales guy: restoring treasured machines for some clients, finding obscure ones for others. (Even reminders of Furrier’s once-robust service calls still occasionally occur, thanks to the handful of government and law offices that continue to rely on typewriters.) 

But in another sense, Furrier is both a curator and the embodiment of an analog experience that thrives as a contrast to the touchscreen world outside Cambridge Typewriter’s walls. Furrier rarely uses a computer and only reluctantly began carrying a cellphone. A landline receives the shop calls, every one of which he logs with pen and paper. A record player, often playing jazz vinyl, provides a steady soundtrack, while the tools of Furrier’s trade are a collection of obscure mini flathead screwdrivers, scissors, and hooks.

“When people come here for the first time, they do kind of marvel at the place,” says Furrier. “What I do, how I operate, what this place looks like—it’s a throwback. But then as soon as someone gets their fingers on a typewriter, there’s something that also feels comforting. Young people, especially, tell me all the time: There are no distractions. You can’t multitask. You have to zero in and concentrate. And you have to carefully pick and choose what you write.

“And then you’ve got the sensory feedback from the typewriter itself,” he continues. “The rhythm of the typewriter kind of meshes with the speed of your thoughts coming out of your brain. They work together, and that’s something you’re never going to get from a computer.”

Furrier’s expertise in—and shared enthusiasm for—these old machines has led to close ties withtypewriter-loving authors such as Tayari Jones and the late David McCullough, as well as a collaboration with Errol Morris for his 2017 miniseries, Wormwood. Furrier himself has been the subject of a short documentary. He marvels at the worlds he’s entered. “I would carry Mr. McCullough’s typewriter around like I was holding a baby,” he says. “He wrote all of his books on it, and I kept thinking, If I do something to it, that’s going to be really bad.”

But now Furrier is ready to step aside. He turns 70 next year, and recent health issues have sped up his retirement plans. This past spring, a sale that had been three years in the making fell through, leaving Furrier scrambling to find a new buyer. He’s asking just $35,000, a price that includes his tools and not just all the machines he has on-site, but also the several hundred others he has at home. If he can’t sell the shop by the end of the year, he may simply close it for good.

“I love what I do, but I also don’t want to croak at my bench,” he says. “I’ve got stuff I want to do. My wife and I want to travel. We want to spend time with each other. But to just close it up and not see it continue would be the worst possible outcome. That would haunt me.”

* * * * *

Shortly before noon, a woman named Donna steps into the shop clutching an Underwood Five, a bulky machine that was the dominant typewriter for the first few decades of the 20th century. Furrier springs to his feet to clear out a space for it.

“I’m so glad I found you,” says Donna, who drove up from her home on the South Shore. “We spoke on the phone not that long ago.”

Furrier takes a seat in front of the machine and begins to look at it. “You wanted a tune-up, right?”

Donna nods. “This was my mother’s,” she explains. “She’s 98 now, and her parents gave her this when she was 16. They were living in Braintree and her father bought it in Boston. He carried it all the way home on the train. It’s so heavy—can you imagine?

“We’ve had it in my house, and my grandchildren thought it would be a fun thing to play with.” She shakes her head. “We’re not going to allow that anymore. I don’t want anything to happen to it. It’s so beautiful.”

Furrier runs his hands over the side panels. “This is all original,” he says admiringly. “It’s from before they went to a single panel.”

He looks up at Donna. “Give me about a month, and I’ll have this nice and shiny. Just like brand-new.”

About a half hour later, a longtime customer named Tom arrives to pick up a similar Underwood, built nearly a century ago, that Furrier has refurbished. “It’s going to have a home in our 1932 house in New Hampshire,” Tom says with pride. He rattles off the seven other machines he’s bought from Furrier over the years. “We’re using them, too—they’re not just showpieces,” he adds. “I have kids in high school and college and always tell them, ‘If you want to add an interesting touch to something, you can’t go wrong with a typed letter.’”

Furrier smiles. “That’s what I like to hear.”

The presence of a typewriter shop may seem like a minor luxury for a downtown. But something valuable is lost, says typewriter historian Richard Polt, when niche expertise is strictly relegated to chat rooms and YouTube. That’s especially true for anyone seeking refuge from the digital mayhem and the growing presence of artificial intelligence.

“You can still find typewriters online very easily, and you can find people online who you can send your typewriter to, and so on,” says Polt, a professor of philosophy at Xavier University in Cincinnati and author of the 2015 book The Typewriter Revolution: A Typist’s Companion for the 21st Century. “But having a physical spot like Cambridge Typewriter where somebody still practices this work, which just seems more and more magical every day—that’s irreplaceable.”

Others agree. Last year, Tom Hanks, whose collection of typewriters numbers north of 250, sent Furrier a signed machine as a thank-you for the commitment to his craft.

Furrier’s obsession with the mechanical began early. The oldest of seven kids, he grew up in Wakefield, Massachusetts, under the guidance of parents who encouraged his love of tinkering and learning how machines worked. Lawn mowers and other small engines held particular fascination for him. “I loved fixing stuff and bringing them back to life,” he says.

Furrier also loved the outdoors, and he would go on to study forestry at the University of New Hampshire, even working in the woods briefly after graduating. But in 1980, a family friend named Ed Vanderwalle, who’d opened Cambridge Typewriter 12 years earlier, asked Furrier if he’d like to work as a repairman.

“He said, ‘Come in for a week to try it out and we’ll see what you’ve got.’” Furrier laughs. “I never left. At the end of that first day, I bonded with it. There was this voice in my head that said, This is what I’m going to be doing. This is going to be my career. I just connected with it. I got the whole vibe of it, the laser focus you need to do the work. It all sunk in.”

Nobody knew it then, of course, but the typewriter era was in its waning days. By the mid-1980s the personal computer had taken hold, and in 1986 Vanderwalle laid off his entire team, even his son, except for one: Tom Furrier. Four years later the owner sold the shop to his protégé for $25,000, and Furrier relocated Cambridge Typewriter to Arlington.

Over the next decade, business only got leaner. By 1999, Furrier could barely keep the lights on. “I’d resigned myself to the fact that this was it,” he says. “I’d even started taking watch-repair classes, thinking that was something I could do. But, I don’t know, this feeling came over me. That I needed to hold on. Don’t close. Something is going to change. I didn’t know what, but I needed to stay open.”

A few years later, Furrier still had his doors open, just barely, when he started noticing a new kind of customer: high school kids. They’d ask questions about his machines and want to test them out. Furrier was baffled.

“There were these girls from Lexington High School who kept coming in to ask about a very specific model of machine. I finally said to them, ‘Why do you want that typewriter?’ One of them just looked at me and said, ‘That’s the machine Sylvia Plath typed her poetry on, silly.’ And it all clicked for me in that moment. There was going to be this resurgence of interest. This was how it was going to work for me.”

In a typical year, Furrier sells around 150 typewriters and repairs about 700 more. Plenty of them are the electric Smith Coronas and IBM Selectrics that were always a staple of his work, but many others are the antique manuals that have caught the attention not just of Furrier’s new generation of customers—a third of his buyers are under the age of 40—but also of the shop owner himself.

“Until then, I didn’t have any typewriters at home,” says Furrier. “It never even occurred to me to type on these things—I fix them all day, why would I want to use them when I’m not at work? I wasn’t working on these old manuals. But then everything changed and I had to learn about them. I’d practice, taking them apart on my bench and putting them back together again and again. They’re a different animal than the [electric machines] I was used to. They have a different vibe, and you kind of resonate with them. I quickly became a fan.” 

* * * * *

Furrier’s own admiration for these machines has grown alongside his customers’, and a walk-through of his shop is a tour of some of his favorites: the West German–made Olympia SM3 from the 1950s, the Swiss Hermes models from the 1960s, and the American-built Corona Fours.

“I love the clunkers from the 1920s and ’30s because they’re slower, they’re awkward, they’re noisy, and they have that classic clicky-clack sound,” he says.

In most cases, the machines find him. Long gone is the time when Furrier had to scour flea markets and yard sales to bolster his inventory. Now, on any given day he’ll receive up to six calls from people who are downsizing or cleaning out a parent’s estate and who have an old typewriter that needs a new home. Some simply donate it to Furrier; others he’ll pay as much as $100 for their machine—and the opportunity to spend a good half day stripping and reconditioning it back into working order.

In doing so, Furrier is also helping bring the stories of these typewriters back to life. The portable Royal that a World War I soldier carried into European battlefields to file his reports. The Folding Corona used by the late golfer and writer Francis Ouimet. The Underwood favored by journalist Paul Mowrer, who won the 1929 Pulitzer Prize for Correspondence.

On a few occasions, visitors to the shop have shared with Furrier how typewriters have touched their life—or even saved it. “One guy had tears in his eyes when he was telling this to me because most of the unit he was in [during World War II] got wiped out,” says Furrier. “But he’d been yanked at the last minute because he knew how to type and they needed him in the clerk’s office.”

Those stories may be what Furrier misses the most when he walks out of his shop for the final time. Which is why whoever the next owner of Cambridge Typewriter is, they must carry an appreciation for what those stories mean. Furrier says it’s as important to running the business as having the skills and patience to work on the machines themselves. 

“If you’re into typewriters even just a little bit, this is heaven,” he says. “The coolest people on earth use typewriters today. People who are doing really interesting things: artists and musicians and writers. They all have cool stories. You get to hear those stories, and that’s the best thing about this job. You could write a book about it all.”

Preferably on a typewriter.

To inquire about purchasing Cambridge Typewriter, call Tom Furrier at 781-643-7010 or email him at info@cambridgetypewriter.com.

The post Keys to the Past | How Tom Furrier Keeps the Typewriter Tradition Alive appeared first on New England.

Karl Thomsen has some stories about the power of Attean Lake Lodge. For nearly two decades, the Maine native and Registered Maine Guide has worked for this family-oriented wilderness retreat in Jackman, just north of Moosehead Lake. Specifically, it’s located on a 24-acre rocky outpost in Attean Pond called Birch Island—and it’s not a place you just stumble across. Up and up you go, three hours north of Portland, before you even find the township. There are dirt roads to navigate, followed by a boat ride to the lodge. It takes some effort to get here, says Thomsen, and then a change of mindset to really experience the place.

“People coming here for the first time aren’t sure what to expect,” he says. “All they know is that it’s remote, there’s no cell service, and the cabins don’t have electricity. So they get out of the car and they look stiff; they look anxious about what they’re about to experience.

“Then you see them a week later and they’re like completely different people. The tenseness is gone. Their socks don’t match. Their hair is messed up. They’re smiling.”

And more often than not, they come back. “They invite their friends or bring other family,” he says. 

It’s been like that almost from the beginning. The story of Attean Lake Lodge starts in the late 1800s, when Birch Island was opened to city-dwelling sportsmen seeking space and peace amid the Maine wilderness. In 1904, the sometimes faltering enterprise was rescued by the Holden family, whose roots trace back to Jackman’s earliest European settlers. The resort has remained in the family ever since, and today guests are greeted by fourth-generation owners Barrett Holden and his wife, Josie. 

As with the Holdens before him, Barrett’s life has been defined by the business. By the age of 10 he was working alongside his parents, running boats and delivering firewood to the guests. He was on site to watch his father erect a new lodge in the 1990s, a mammoth undertaking that required the elder Holden to truck 74 loads of lumber across the winter ice. It’s here where Barrett first met Josie, who’d come to work for the summer, and today the couple has integrated the flow of Attean life into the lives of their three young children.

“It was fun growing up here,” says Barrett. “It wasn’t all that unlike it is now. A lot of the same people would come back year after year. As a kid I’d look at the guest list before each season and get excited about who I’d see again.”

Attean’s strength comes from what it’s not. It’s not big—there are just 14 guest cabins. It’s not easy to get to. And outside the lodge, it’s not a place with Internet access. What it is, instead, is a direct connection to Maine’s woods and waters. There are boats and kayaks to use, and hiking trails that crisscross the nearby mainland. Guests can fish or lounge on the sandy beach. The days are bookended by big breakfasts and dinners in the lodge; in between, there are opportunities for serious porch-sitting.

The allegiance that many feel with this place is evident. Bookings can go two years out, and many returning families have been making Attean a summer destination for generations.

“We have a woman who’s been coming here for 80 years,” says Barrett, a fact that still manages to surprise even him. “But people find the flow of the place and they get into it. We’ll get calls from people asking if they’ll get bored here. Can you give me some ideas on what we can do to pass the time? But they don’t need much help. They quickly discover what this place is all about, and that’s pretty cool to see.” 

The Sporting Life | More Woodsy New England Lodges and Resorts

Stay and play in the great outdoors at these woodsy New England lodges and resorts.

Quimby Country | Averill, VT

One of the Northeast’s original family resorts, Quimby sprawls across more than 1,000 acres and includes two lakes. Private cabins, a big lodge, and a varied lineup of family programming add to the allure of this remote retreat. quimbycountry.com

Rockywold Deephaven Camps | Holderness, NH

There’s never a dull moment at this more-than-a-century-old Squam Lake destination, where the days brim with hiking, yoga, kayaking, nature walks, and other screen-free diversions. Participate as a family, or savor a little adult R&R by signing your kids up for things like play groups, island picnics, and scavenger hunts. rdcsquam.com

Quisisana Resort | Lovell, ME

At this all-inclusive, cottage-style family resort edging nine-mile-long Kezar Lake, diversions like swimming, sailing, kayaking, and hiking share the spotlight with the talented young staff, who stage nine live performances each week. So who knows? Your waiter might just be a future Broadway star. quisisanaresort.com

Deer Mountain Lodge & Wilderness Resort | Dummer, NH

On the doorstep of this refreshed 1920s-built sporting lodge is the 1,000-mile-plus Ride the Wilds trail network, ready to be explored by ATV or snowmobile; equally accessible are fishing spots on the Androscoggin. The resort’s rustic tavern is your place to swap North Country stories. deermountainlodge.com

Medawisla Lodge & Cabins | Greenville, ME

Rebuilt and reopened in 2017 with features that make a remote getaway handicapped-accessible, Medawisla (“loon” in Abenaki) carries on Maine sporting camp traditions deep in the heart of the state’s 100-Mile Wilderness. outdoors.org/destinations/maine/medawisla-lodge

The post Attean Lake Lodge & 5 More Outdoor Lodges in New England appeared first on New England.

The magic of exploring a place on two wheels instead of four comes into full focus on Vermont’s Island Line Trail, a bike ride that’s a lesson in the art of going slow. Sure, you could cover this relatively flat, relatively easy distance in a couple of hours, but why? This is a journey made for meandering and stopping. And then stopping again. The views, after all, include both Lake Champlain and the Adirondack Mountains, not to mention sailboats, lighthouses, and killer sunsets. And the sights are as varied as the terrain. You’re in a city. You’re on a paved path. You’re on an island. You’re on…the water? In a sense, yes.

Stretching from Burlington and along four miles of the city’s waterfront, Vermont’s Island Line Trail is made up in part by the Burlington Bike Path and the Allen Point Access Trail. But the stop-in-your-tracks photo op comes on the Colchester Causeway, a three-mile path flanked by huge marble boulders that extends into Lake Champlain, the largest lake east of the Great Lakes and the sixth-largest freshwater body in the country.

Some riders have described the causeway experience as gliding atop the water. You’re certainly crossing it, and come summer you can catch a lift to the final stretch of the trail, on the island of South Hero, via a seasonal ferry operated by the Burlington bike nonprofit Local Motion. As on the other Champlain islands, biking on South Hero isn’t merely a tolerated activity—it’s part of the culture. Signs for the Lake Champlain Bikeways, a 1,600-mile network that runs through Quebec and New York, are everywhere you look (as are patient drivers, even on busy main roads). If you’ve got the pedal power, you can muscle your way back to Burlington for proper adult refueling and some stunning end-of-day colors over New York’s Adirondacks.

For a map and ferry information, go to localmotion.org.

The post Vermont’s Island Line Trail | The Bike Ride That Has It All appeared first on New England.

The job of a Boston Freedom Trail interpreter isn’t for the faint of heart. Encompassing 16 nationally significant sites in an hour and a half, the tours can’t just be a dry history lesson. The work clothes—aka colonial costumes—are a complicated affair. And when tour groups can number nearly 100 at a time, expert guidance through Boston’s creative traffic patterns is essential.

Here are five who have answered the call.

1. Chris Joazard

AGE: 25 | FROM: Brockton, MA | YEARS ON THE JOB: 6 | PORTRAYS: Crispus Attucks, the first person killed in the Boston Massacre

“The minute I put on the costume and walk outside, I feel like I’m representing the city. When you’re wearing regular clothes people don’t notice you, but when you’re in this outfit people see you. And I embrace that, because when tourists come to Boston, they’re looking for that colonial history. I wave, I smile, I strut down the street. I walk around like I own the clothes, like I’m going out to a nice party.”

Josh Rudy

AGE: 49 |  FROM: Randolph, MA | YEARS ON THE JOB: 13 | PORTRAYS: Captain Daniel Malcolm, merchant and smuggler

“Your audience’s knowledge of American history really varies. Sometimes people know nothing. Others know quite a bit. But most fall in between, where things are fuzzy. Maybe they remember something about the Stamp Act or something called the Boston Massacre, but it’s all not connected. That’s what the tours do: They make those connections and give the events context. This event leads to the next event, and then what you get is revolution. History begins to click into place.”

Emily Pollock

AGE: 24 | FROM: Arlington, MA | YEARS ON THE JOB: 2 | PORTRAYS: Mercy Otis Warren, writer and historian

“Boston is unique because its historic sites and the modern day are really close together, and even integrated. One of my favorite tour stops is the Old Corner Bookstore, which is now home to a Chipotle. People don’t like to see that, but I’m like, No, this is what makes Boston special: It’s a city that people live in and it’s always changing. People have been building upon the past for hundreds of years…and I think that makes the history feel more relevant.”

John Paul Rivera

AGE: 40 | FROM: South Boston, MA | YEARS ON THE JOB: 7 | PORTRAYS: Henry Knox, Revolutionary War captain

“I’m, like, a fat guy and Knox was a historical fat guy, and so I commiserate with him that way. I can also say it’s the best job I’ve ever had. I’m outside, leading people around Boston, and I’m meeting folks from all around the world. It gives me a chance to learn about where they come from and what their cultures are like, and to see Boston through their eyes. That’s really special.”

Kelli Strong

AGE: 42 | FROM: Dorchester, MA | YEARS ON THE JOB: 7 | PORTRAYS: Phillis Wheatley, poet

“My favorite spot to point out on the tour? It’s actually the monument to Chevalier de Saint-Sauveur [a high-ranking French officer killed in a Boston riot in 1778]. City leaders had promised to build one but didn’t until the French ambassador comes in 1916 and asks to see it. They say, ‘Yeah, yeah, no problem—come back tomorrow.’ And they throw this thing up overnight. The cement is still wet when the ambassador is there, but everyone is like, Better late than never.” 

The post 5 Voices from New England’s Quintessential Historic Walking Tours appeared first on New England.

On the afternoon of January 14^th, a Sunday, Misha Pride, the mayor of South Portland, Maine, arrived at Willard Beach to get his eyes on what had quickly become the talk of his community. 

The day before a powerful surge of wind and water pushed into Casco Bay, creating a record 14.57-foot high tide in Portland Harbor. For two historic fishing shacks at Fisherman’s Point, a rocky ledge on the southern end of Willard Beach, the powerful East Coast storm proved too much and the wooden structures tumbled into the cove. Their loss had been a gut punch to the community and Pride wanted to see the damaged scene first-hand.

Only, there wasn’t much to witness. 

“The buildings were completely gone,” says Pride. “Debris had washed up on shore, but it was almost like they had never been there. They had vanished.”

For generations of residents, the buildings had been South Portland fixtures. Built in the late 1870s, the structures were relics from a time when Willard Beach and Simonton Cove had been home to a thriving fishing community from which a dozen or so schooners launched from. Wooden structures sprung up along the local coast line to store nets and fishing gear. 

But time and weather had dwindled their numbers. By the late 1970s, just five remained in South Portland. Then came the famous Blizzard of 1978. The nor’easter set a then water-level record of 14.17 feet, and wiped out three of the shingled shanties. Then January’s storm took out the remaining two.

“They were more than just buildings,” says Pride. “People have collective memories of those shacks. People got married down there, they had birthday celebrations, and other special moments. My own mother made a beautiful painting of them. They were important to so many people. And now those memories are all that’s left because there isn’t a physical trace of them anymore.”

But that may change. In 2022, following a series of powerful storms that endangered the fishing shacks, the South Portland Historical Society worked with architects on drawing up plans in the event the buildings were ever destroyed. Following January’s devastation, the organization began to consider putting those plans into action. 

“We have heard from [the architects] since the shacks washed away with another offer to help us, lending their services,” Kathy DiPhilippo, Executive Director of the South Portland Historical Society, told reporters. “We’ve also heard from carpenters willing to donate their time in a rebuild and people willing to donate to help pay for materials.”

Donations to the work can be made at the society’s website.

The post The Fishing Shacks of South Portland | Gone But Not Forgotten appeared first on New England.

Some hotels are little more than a base camp: You check in, drop off your luggage, and you’re out the door. Then there are places like The Chanler at Cliff Walk, where you could completely confine yourself for the weekend and still feel as if you got away. The in-house restaurant might just be the best in town, while the guest quarters are spacious and steeped in lavish touches fit for a Vanderbilt (e.g., a “bath butler” who will draw the water for you and your loved one and complement the experience with rose petals, candles, and champagne). In a city famous for its over-the-top mansions, The Chanler offers the kind of opulence most of us rarely know.

Like the Newport mansions themselves, The Chanler traces its history back to the Gilded Age. Built in 1873 as a home for a prominent New York congressman and his wife, a member of the Astor family, it once welcomed such summer guests as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and President Theodore Roosevelt. After falling out of the family’s hands and undergoing a few different iterations, the property opened as a hotel in the 1940s, and since extensive renovations were completed by new owners in 2003, it has stood out as one of Newport’s most polished stays.

The Chanler is situated at the starting point of the Cliff Walk (it’s the only hotel on the city’s famous pathway), and everything about it is oriented toward the sea. The building sits on a perch above the water, and nearly all of its 20 rooms and villas offer ocean views … from a king-size bed … from a private deck … from a bathtub. There’s even the opportunity to sit by an outdoor fire and sip a hot toddy or mug of boozy hot chocolate as you watch the waves roll in on nearby Easton’s Beach.

Bestowed with names such as Louis XVI, English Tudor, and Regency, the guest rooms have the kinds of luxury elements that warm the soul on cold winter nights: private fireplaces, heated bathroom floors, whirlpool tubs for two. Stay in the Renaissance Room, for one, and you’ll immerse yourself in a large Italian-and-French-inspired space anchored by a four-poster king bed, an enormous walk-in shower, and more living space than some apartments. 

But the little things also matter, and to stay at The Chanler is to be awash in personal touches that make you feel taken care of. You’ll come to look forward to the small box of “bedtime chocolates” left on your pillow, and you’ll marvel at how the housekeeping service discreetly tidied up your dangling computer and phone cords with Velcro ties. All this can make returning to The Chanler from your Newport adventures—like strolling to those other mansions on the Cliff Walk—so much the sweeter. —Ian Aldrich

Nightly rate for typical room option: $475 winter vs. $1,025 summer. thechanler.com

The Chanler at Cliff Walk: Beyond the Lobby

BREAKFAST SPOT: Russell Morin Catering’s cuisine is the talk of Newport’s most exclusive parties. Not invited? Be wowed by the flavors—and affordable prices—at the company’s casual eatery, Cru Café, where breakfast is served all day and the menus are brightened by local ingredients. Don’t miss the Bellevue-blend coffee from Rhode Island’s Custom House Coffee artisanal roasters. Newport; crucafenewport.com

NATURE OUTING: New England’s most celebrated seaside pathway, the Newport Cliff Walk, is a 3½-mile trail that threads between Gilded Age mansions and the tumbling Atlantic. Much of the path is moderate; some is even easy. (Certain stretches do require basic caution, though, since erosion has taken a toll, and wet rocks in spots will require careful navigation.) The walk comes with gifts bestowed equally to all: waves scudding off rocks, boats skimming the water, and a camaraderie with fellow walkers who, like you, feel lucky to be there. Newport; cliffwalk.com

RETAIL THERAPY: From glassware etched with compass roses at the Newport Mansions Store to modern preppy clothing and accessories at Kiel James Patrick, you’ll be filling your bags with post-holiday presents for friends and family (and, OK, yourself) at the enticing shops clustered on Newport’s Bowen’s Wharf (bowenswharf.com) and nearby Bannister’s Wharf (bannistersnewport.com).

DINING PICK: What makes the classic New England–style chowder at The Mooring a standout? It’s perfectly creamy, spattered with paprika, and so loaded with potato cubes and tender, buttery bites of clam that your spoon faces a veritable obstacle course—in a word, perfection. But a dilemma awaits: Herby-sweet corn chowder swimming with scallops is also on offer, and it has just the right hint of lemon for dunking salty fritters embedded with lobster and shrimp. Newport; mooringrestaurant.com

CULTURE HIT: Book and library lovers will want to stop by the Redwood Library & Athenaeum, which is considered to be the oldest continuously running lending library in the country, founded in 1747. The architecture is so impressive that Thomas Jefferson himself is said to have used the library as a model for public buildings elsewhere in the young country. Newport; redwoodlibrary.org

DON’T-MISS STOP: Lose yourself in bygone luxury with a tour of one or more of the Newport Mansions, which include The Breakers and Marble House (both former residences of the Vanderbilt family), Rosecliff (based on the fabled French Grand Trianon at Versailles), and The Elms (a copy of a lavish French estate called Château d’Asnières). Newport; newportmansions.org

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For visitors to New Hampshire’s Monadnock Region, there’s one bucket list destination that literally rises above all the others: hiking the area’s namesake mountain. A climb up Mt. Monadnock is a two-hour adventure that culminates with the only peak in New England that offers views of all six states. Each year some 100,000 visitors take to its trails, making Monadnock one of the most climbed mountains in the world. 

The mountain’s popularity is explained in part by its accessibility. Nestled in southwest New Hampshire, Monadnock offers an outdoor outing that is relatively close to New England’s major population centers like Boston and Providence, while its understated ruggedness appeals to bothyoung families and hard-core adventurers alike.  

“I just love the feelings in the different zones as you go up the mountain, from the basic eastern woodland feel at the start of the trail to the scrub spruce sections to the bare rocks towardstreeline,” says Will Kirkpatrick, Park Manager at Monadnock State Park. “And then the summit itself is like being on another planet, with its vast expansive, open rock. There’s always something new to see and explore. And I love that the mountain is so many different things to so many different people.” 

But that doesn’t mean it should be taken lightly, says Kirkpatrick, whose team typically responds to around 40 different hiking incidents a year, many of which involve tending to a twisted ankle or assistance navigating the trails after the sun down. Like New Hampshire’s taller peaks up north, a great day on Monadnock begins long before you ever set foot on the trail. Preparation is everything, says Kirkpatrick. Read on for his expert advice on how to safely hike Mt. Monadnock.  

Make a Reservation

Like many outdoor destinations, Mt. Monadnock’s popularity soared during the pandemic. So much so that the park system introduced a reservation system for the first time in its history. Today, Monadnock State Park has kept in place its cap of 250 cars at any one time. Kirkpatrick’s advice: Even on a day when you don’t think you need to make a reservation, you should make one. “I get it,” he says. “Who thinks that they have to make a reservation to hike a mountain? But we’ve had to turn people back and that’s something we hate to do.” Reservations can be made at nhparks.org.

The Right Kicks

“I’ve seen people show up prepared to hike the mountain in flip-flops,” says Kirkpatrick. “That’s not recommended.” Instead, says the park manager, hikers should come prepared with footwear that offers good traction, whether that means old-school leather hiking boots, or more nimble trail runners. “The trails here are steep and rocky and not everyone is expecting that,” says Kirkpatrick. 

Wet Weather. It Happens

Kirkpatrick says you can never go wrong with packing a set of rain gear, including a pair ofpants. “Sometimes the mountain has different ideas than what the weatherman is forecasting,” he says. Another gear essential: A good headlamp with batteries that you’ve tested before you’ve begun your hike. 

Layer it On

Preparing for a bout of chilly weather is also s must because what’s happening at the base doesn’t portend what you may experience above treeline. Even a pristine summer day may offer up a strong wind, says Kirkpatrick, who recommends good merino or synthetic wools for your base layers, along with a windbreaker. “The temperatures will drop and if you end up taking more time than expected to get back down the last thing you want to be is cold,” says the park manager. 

Hydrate, Hydrate, Hydrate

Along with all those extra clothes, your pack should also include an ample supply of water.Kirkpatrick suggests two quarts per person. “It’s rare that anyone will need that much, but it is a rugged hike, and especially on a hot day, you’re going to go through a lot of water,” he says. “And one of the first things to go as you start getting dehydrated is your coordination, which increases your chances of stumbling and slipping.” Both water and food can be purchased at the Monadnock State Park store. 

The Right Trail

Asking a park manager to pick their favorite trail is like asking a parent to pick their favorite child. They all have their great qualities and Monadnock is adorned with an assortment of options, including several outside the park grounds. But for newbies, Kirkpatrick recommends beginning at the park headquarters and following the White Dot-White Cross loop. The four-mile roundtrip route is the mountain’s most direct, steepest hike, but it comes with an assortment of photo-ops along the way. “Even at the halfway point there are some really great views so if you don’t make it to the top, you haven’t been totally shortchanged,” says Kirkpatrick. Another important tip: Stay in the middle of the trail. “Our trails are wide and eroded already,” says the park manager. “And when people hike off the side or get into the woods, they crush plants and cause more erosion, making the trails even wider.”

Share Your Plans

One quick act of preparation that often gets overlooked, says Kirkpatrick, is the simple act of letting others back home of your plans. “Sharing your route and when you’re expected back is just a good practice,” says Kirkpatrick. “Because even if you have done a lot of hiking or spent a lot of time on Monadnock, sometimes things don’t go as planned.” 

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It could be argued that no region embraces winter like New Hampshire’s White Mountains. The region is a snowy playground for kids of any age and for families especially, there are endless options to let you take the season at your own speed. 

Omni Mt. Washington Hotel | Bretton Woods, New Hampshire

You’re going to need a place to stay so why not make sure your base camp is a grand one? The truth is, you could build an entire winter vacation solely around a stay at the Mt. Washington. On its staff are expert ice climbing and winter hiking guides. Snowshoe and Nordic trails venture around the property, while neighboring Bretton Woods offers scenic downhill trails to rival any in the Northeast. When you’re ready to take a break from all the action (or even need a little help to recover from your big day), the hotel’s large wellness center and spa, as well as a cocktail by a roaring fire in the main sitting room, await. Omnihotels.com

Polly’s Pancake Parlor | Sugar Hill, New Hampshire

Pancakes, views, and most especially views of pancakes: You’ll be in blueberry buckwheat heaven at this family-owned institution, which has been flipping delectable discs for more than three quarters of a century. Polly’s has come a long way from its humble beginnings in a woodshed, and inaugurated a new building in 2015 to accommodate the 58,000 pilgrims who make the trek to tiny, aptly named Sugar Hill each year. Poillyspancakeparlor.com

Living Shores Aquarium | Glen, New Hampshire

New Hampshire’s first aquarium-it opened in late 2019–features more than 32,000 square feet of interactive tide pools, immersive activities, and exhibit. Visitors can also check out the otters, touch sting rays, and interact with tropical birds. Livingshores.com

Cranmore Mountain Resort | North Conway, New Hampshire

Though New England is populated with many fine skiing regions, nothing quite matches the diversity of terrain found among the many ski areas in the White Mountain region. These mountains garner the kind of loyalty usually reserved for sports teams. Maybe no more so than Cranmore, one of the first ski resorts in the country. The robust terrain park will get even newbies up and thinking about longer green runs before the day is out, while the rest of the mountain, including a pretty awesome tubing park, is winter fun at its best. Best of all, you’re just minutes from downtown North Conway for all the seasonal fun its restaurants and bars serve up come sundown. Cranmore.com

Jackson Ski Touring Foundation | Jackson

The Mount Washington Valley alone features 450-plus kilometers of Nordic trails that slice through the region. More than a quarter of them crisscross Jackson, an 800-resident village that has become one of the cross-country power centers of the Northeast. The central hub is a short walk from the inn, and on a winter weekend as many as 1,200 skiers set off on trails that peel off from four main branch heads. There’s terrain for all abilities, including a lovely glide around the grounds of the Wentworth Golf Club, where the foundation makes its home, while a little deeper into the woods awaits a warming hut that serves hot chocolate. If you and your little partners have the skill and the time, the hardest of the hard-core is a 17-kilometer descent off the back side of Wildcat Mountain, which you can reach by chairlift from the Alpine center.Jacksonxc.org

Muddy Paw Sled Dog Kennel | Jefferson

Hurtle through snowy scenes of the White Mountains behind a team of rescue dogs at Muddy Paw Sled Dog Kennel in Jefferson. There’s a variety of tour options, and guests are given the opportunity to harness and hitch the team — and maybe even help drive the sled. Dogslednh.com

Ice Castles Woodstock | North Woodstock

If you’re in the Woodstock area and are up for a chilling but delightful experience, Ice Castles is a magical place where you can wander through towering ice structures or play on ice slides. Since all the attractions here are carved from approximately 25,000 pounds of ice, the start and end dates each year are weather-dependent, but recent seasons have run from mid-January until early March. icecastles.com/new-hampshire

Bretton Woods Canopy Tour | Carroll

There’s quiet in them thar trees. Take flight and take in the views surrounding Bretton Woods at the ski resort’s Canopy Tour, a year-round, multi-hour zipline experience that brings visitors down the mountain via thick cables and some securing hitches. The reward: a through-the-forest experience with spectacular sights of the western Whites. Brettonwoods.com

New England Ski Museum | North Conway

A small museum shouldn’t be this good. Walking through it, you follow skiing’s wild evolution via a trove of early videos, posters, ski equipment, and clothing—but it also isn’t afraid to delve into the personal. America’s early skiing industry was built by men and women who brought a nothing-to-lose attitude to their endeavors. Here, you can find stories of the pioneers who carved out or rebooted their legacies in the Whites, including the so-called father of modern skiing, Austrian native Hannes Schneider, who landed in New Hampshire after imprisonment by the Nazis and who oversaw the development of Cranmore. Newenglandskimuseum.org

Mt. Washington Auto Road | Glen

New England’s most famous mountain route stays open for tours even after the snow flies. Built in 1861, the privately owned and operated road isn’t so much plowed in winter as it is flattened. The snowpack can build so high that it’s not uncommon for the road “surface” to be at treetop level in places. Aboard SnowCoach vans outfitted with special tracks, visitors are transported to treeline, at about 4,200 feet. Tours are narrated by expert guides and while the subarctic world outside may look a little frosty, the vehicles stay toasty warm on the inside. mt-washington.com

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