Two weeks in the Maine woods, and my morning commute is remarkable: I walk down a short gravel road to a pathway, then amble a mile to work through tall hemlocks and oaks. Mid-way, I mosey slowly across a long wooden bridge — the product of 20 years effort, I’m told. I have to stop and watch Sandy Stream as it meanders down to the great green Atlantic, reflecting my world like a lady with a liquid mirror.
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